Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(40)

So I decided having a picnic inside is one way of making up for it. I hope she’ll at least find it charming.

After I park, I head into the building, nodding hello to the concierge, then take the elevator up to the fourth floor, which is entirely my apartment.

The building is about one hundred years old, and I like to think it was being built at the same time that my grandfather, Alex Dumont, was coming up with the idea about a handbag. I appreciate the history of it all, the understated elegance, the old-world ideas that seem to meld seamlessly with the present.

Sadie, of course, was beyond impressed. Not just by the size of the place, but by the way I’ve turned the apartment into a gallery of sorts. As I was getting started in the hotelier business, I spent some time learning about art. I traveled and studied, really getting into the idea of having galleries in my hotels. That didn’t quite happen, though most of my hotels do have an artistic slant to things.

But my apartment is where everything I admire comes to life.

Some may call it cluttered. My brother, Renaud, often says it’s a sight for sore eyes, and Seraphine jokes that I’ve got a hoarding issue for expensive art. My father understands it, though. I guess I like to collect beautiful things as much as he likes to create them.

I quickly unlock the door and step inside while carrying the bag of groceries, looking for the most beautiful thing of all.

There she is, sitting on the velvet couch, sipping from a mug of tea.

“Honey, I’m home,” I tell her in my best Ricky Ricardo impression.

She grins at me. “And you brought things!”

“I did, fresh from the streets of Paris,” I tell her as she sets her tea down and comes over to me, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a kiss.

God, she tastes so fucking good. I hadn’t realized how needy and starved I was for her all day until this very moment.

“I missed you,” she whispers against my lips, and I have to adjust myself before I drop the groceries.

“I missed you too,” I say, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Remind me to never leave you again.”

“That would be nice.”

I pull away and put the bag on the kitchen counter before everything falls. “So what did you do all day?”

“Not much,” she says with a shrug, doing a tiny pirouette on the tile floor. “Well, I attempted to learn the piano.” She points to the white grand piano in the middle of the sitting area. It was once owned by Liberace. “But the ghost of Liberace did me no favors. Then I attempted to read up on all the art in your apartment.”

She eyes a stack of art books on the coffee table. “Unfortunately, I fell asleep once I got to Monet. I don’t know what it is about him, but he bores me to tears.”

“Apparently,” I comment. But secretly I am thrilled that she’s taken an interest in it.

“So what’s all this?” she asks, peering at the bags.

“I figured you’d be hungry,” I tell her, starting to sort through them. “I also know how much you wanted that picnic under the Eiffel Tower. So I thought the best thing for me to do was to bring the Eiffel Tower here.”

I take out a foot-high replica of the tower, the kind you find on every street corner, and place it in the living area by the window. Then I grab a thick red blanket from the linen closet and spread it out on the floor. I gesture to it. “Voilà. Have a seat.”

She gives me a disbelieving look. “We’re having a picnic inside?”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed, lapin. Now sit, and I will do the rest.”

She takes a tentative seat on the floor, crossing her legs, and then watches me with interest as I start laying the items out in front of her. I start with a bottle of Dumont red wine because I know that’s the key to her heart. After she has her glass, I lay out the cheeses, meats, and baguettes.

“You really shouldn’t have,” she says, eyeing it all in awe.

“Actually, this is the least I can do,” I admit, sitting down beside her. “I feel terrible that I’ve been leaving you alone like this.”

“Olivier, please,” she says as she sips her wine. “I knew what coming to Paris would mean. I knew you’d be working. Okay, so maybe I didn’t know about the whole hiding me thing, but hey, I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

“I’m not hiding you,” I tell her, wishing I could just tell her the truth. But then what would she think of me? Sadie, I don’t want my cousin or uncle to know I have someone like you in my life, or they’ll make it their mission to break us apart. Because Pascal and my uncle have it out for me, because of something I’ve done, because my side and their side have always been at odds.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m just happy you’re here now. I mean, don’t you have friends you need to see too?”

I shrug. “I have friends, sure. Some from university, most from the hotel business. But they’re just as busy as I am.”

And to be honest, I’ve kept myself guarded over these last ten years. It’s hard to be open with people and make true friends and lay your soul bare when you know you’re hiding something from them, from the world. Sometimes I feel it’s all or nothing with me.

That’s how I feel with Sadie. I want to give her my all, but I don’t know how I can, and I don’t know what future we can have, even if I tell her my truth.