Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(61)

“And I’m yours, Sadie. More than you know.” He kisses me softly at the corner of my mouth, and suddenly I’m aching for this man, this broken and bruised man who not only lost his father but lost ten years of his life due to a lie he can’t shake. “But they will try to break us apart. And when it doesn’t work . . . I shudder to think what they might try next.”

I refuse to even entertain that thought. “You say they. So you think Pascal knows.”

“I’d never known for sure but . . . Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this earlier, but I saw Pascal at the hotel in Cannes.”

I blink at him, my heart sinking deeper. “He was there?”

“I ran into him in the lobby. He wouldn’t tell me why he was there or how long he’d been there. I knew he just wanted to fuck with me. I didn’t know why, since he’s not someone I run into that often. I make fucking sure of that. But he was there, and . . . I had a feeling it may have had something to do with you.”

“I never saw him,” I say.

But that’s not quite true, is it?

The man at the window.

That hadn’t been an illusion. That had been him.

Tell him, my words cut across my head. Tell him about Pascal. At the ball, now at the funeral. Tell him.

But I can’t. I will, but not right now. He’s already dealing with too much. The fact that I know the truth is enough. Now I know what I’m facing, what and who I am up against.

It doesn’t scare me, as long as I’m with him.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SADIE

Guilt is a tricky thing. Even when you have no reason to feel it, even when it has no purpose in your life, it finds a way to burrow into your heart, like a lost but determined worm. It just wants you to feel it, and once it’s lodged in there, it’s nearly impossible to get out.

Case in point: I’ve been warming up to calling my mother about the fact that I’m not getting on a plane out of Madrid today like I had planned. All this time, whatever guilt I felt about deferring my studies and not coming home was pushed to the side. I had more important and pressing things to focus on—basically, everything to do with Olivier. I felt good about the decision, strong on my feet.

But now that I’ve dialed her number and the phone is ringing, it’s like guilt is punching me in the stomach with every single ring.

You’re abandoning her.

She needs you.

You’re selfish.

She’s your mother.

I’m just about to hang up in panic when my mother finally answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Sadie? What’s wrong? You never call me.”

“Nothing is wrong,” I say quickly, not wanting her mind to run away with her. “I’m good. Really. Did I catch you at a bad time?” It’s so hard to know with her wonky work schedule and the time difference. It’s the early evening here, which means it’s the morning over there. Olivier stepped out to one of his hotels, so I figured this was a good time to call.

“No, I woke up a few hours ago. Been getting up with the sunrise. Always getting those extra hours before everything turns dark here in the Pacific Northwest. I really do think sunshine is medicine for the soul.”

Well, at least my mother sounds far more positive than I expected.

“So why are you calling, darling? What’s really going on?”

I take a deep breath through my nose and steady myself. Why is it that mothers are so strangely terrifying sometimes?

“I have some news.”

“You decided to stay.”

“What? How did you know that?”

She sighs. “Oh, a mother knows. She has feelings. She has a connection. She has dreams. And you were supposed to be on your flight a few hours ago, so . . .”

“Right. Well then, yeah. That’s the news. I’ve decided to stay in France.”

“You’re not even in Spain?”

“I never made it to Spain,” I say quietly.

“Okay. Who is he?”

“Wow, you are on a roll today.”

“I’m telling you, the sunshine sharpens my brain. So tell me who he is. I know you’re not skipping school on account of just wanting more time to lie around in the sun. That’s not like you. That’s not my daughter. You wouldn’t even think about staying if there wasn’t someone else involved, and I’m going to just assume it’s a man—though if it’s not, no judgment here.”

I laugh and look around Olivier’s apartment, so happy that I can finally share the truth of where I am and who I’m with.

Who has my heart.

“It’s definitely a man. His name is Olivier. He’s French.”

“Is he nice?”

“He is very nice. An old-school gentleman. You would really like him.”

“And so you’re with him where?”

“In Paris. In his apartment.”

“I see. And what does this Olivier do?”

“He owns hotels.”

A long pause over the line. My mother is obviously in shock. “Come again?”

“I said he owns hotels.”

“And he’s not lying to you?”