Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(57)

But that’s not me.

I’m not that person who leaves. At least, I don’t want to be that person.

I want to stay.

I want to make sure Olivier is okay.

I want to be that shoulder for him to lean on, the same way he lets me lean on him.

I don’t want to be the person who turns around because a situation gets difficult.

That’s not what he would do for me.

If this situation were reversed, he would give it all up to make sure I was okay, that I was taken care of.

It’s one thing for him to tell me to go.

But even if he did, I won’t.

It’s scary to decide this, right here, right now.

But I’m deciding it.

I’ll have to defer my studies for another year, but at least they’ll still be there when I get back (an added bonus is that Tom won’t be in my classes anymore, but who gives a fuck about Tom).

And I won’t be with my mom.

That’s the worst thing. That’s the only real thing that keeps me tied to Seattle. I don’t want to let go of her. But the more I’ve been talking to my mom lately, the more I’ve realized that her dream wasn’t just about me spreading my wings and learning to fly—it was about her. She’s relied on me, and it was that reliance that made me rely on her. Now she’s better. Slowly, but surely, she’s becoming a better, more independent person.

I’ll still have to call her and explain the truth and hope to God that she understands. If there’s any tremor at all in her voice, the kind that tells me that her life will collapse without me there, then I’m getting on the first plane back.

But if that doesn’t happen, if she’s convinced she’ll be fine on her own, and if she can bring herself not to worry too much about me, then I’ll stay.

I have to say, my decision scares me.

But it’s not just about our relationship—yes, I’m afraid of whether Olivier even wants me around (it wasn’t what we agreed upon)—and about what it means to take it to the next level, to turn this from a vacation fling into a full-blown relationship.

But it scares me because . . .

His family scares me.

And Ludovic was the kind, smart, gentle soul holding everything that they are together.

Now he’s gone, and the threads are going to start unraveling.

And like it or not, now I know that, somehow, I’m going to be tangled up in those very same threads.

It might not be pretty.

I’m slowly walking away from the gravesite with the crowd, lingering by the trees at the cemetery, when I feel a rush of a cold breeze pass over my arms and then hear, “There you are again.” The voice comes from behind me, but I’m not even surprised.

A little scared but not surprised.

I stop and turn to face Pascal.

His face is stoic, no charming crooked smile, no coldness or heat in his eyes. It gives me nothing and prepares me for nothing.

“How did you recognize me without the mask?” I ask, and I’m grateful that my voice isn’t shaking. I’m immediately taking on the power pose with him—chin up, shoulders squared, and just a hint of contempt in my eyes.

His lips twitch. “Who says you aren’t wearing a mask right now?”

I can only stare at him, wanting him to lay out his cards, the reason for this conversation. His interest in me.

“I trust my driver got you to Bordeaux safely?” Pascal asks. “You are here in one piece, not in a body bag on the side of the road.”

I purse my mouth briefly. “Yes, thank you for that. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

“You could have spent a night in a castle. Wasn’t that always the plan?”

My heart starts to climb up my throat. “Plan? I never knew the ball was also a sleepover.”

“Sleepover. Oh, you Americans do have funny words for things. So what are you doing at the funeral?”

“Ludovic was a great man.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“Did anyone here really know him?”

“Yes. I did. He was my uncle.”

An uncle you didn’t see eye to eye with, an uncle you seem so unmoved over.

“I just wanted to pay my respects,” I say. “I should get going.”

I turn, but he reaches out and grabs my wrist, his grip strong and hot.

“No. Don’t. I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“What?” I ask, subtly trying to get my wrist out of his grip but failing. His fingers only tighten, and I don’t want to cause a scene.

“For one, I know you know who I am.”

“Of course I do.”

“No,” he says softly and gives my hand a squeeze. “No, not like that. More than that. You’ve seen me around. Don’t pretend.”

“I’m not pretending,” I say haughtily. “I’ve seen your face in the ads. I told you—that doesn’t impress me, and the perfume smells like ass.”

Another twitch of his lips. “You’re trying to be funny again. Worked on me the first time, but I don’t think it’ll work the second time. Sadie Reynolds, the American. A student doing her communications degree at the University of Washington who is backpacking around Europe.”

Holy. Shit.