Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(62)

I chuckle. “No, he’s not lying. I’ve been in them. He’s the real deal.”

“Olivier what? What’s his last name?”

I hesitate to give it because of all the news around him lately, and there’s no doubt that she’s going to immediately Google him. “It’s Dumont.”

“Dumont . . . Dumont,” she muses. “Wait, I know that name. It’s like Chanel but for French people.”

“Mom, Chanel is French.”

“Yeah, but I mean, Chanel is everywhere, and Dumont, that’s just in France.”

“Well, they’re everywhere too,” I say. At least they will be after Gautier is done with them. “But, yeah, it’s mainly known here in Europe, and also the Middle East, Singapore, Japan, China . . .”

“You sound like you work for them now . . . Is he going to get you a job?”

“Uh . . .” I mean, it had crossed my mind, until I realized I would be working for his evil uncle, the very person I’m supposed to avoid, but I don’t feel right telling my mom that Olivier is my sugar daddy either. “Maybe. I might just get a job at a bookstore or something. Under the table, but I think Olivier can pull some strings.”

“Bookstore? Darling, he’s a hotelier. Work at one of his hotels.”

“I’m sure something will work out,” I reassure her. “So you’re not mad that I’m staying?”

“Mad? Not at all.”

“But I’m still throwing away a year of school for a guy I’ve only known three weeks. And I’m abandoning you.”

“Listen,” she says rather sharply, “we both know what it’s like to be abandoned, and this isn’t it. This is just you being a twenty-three-year-old student. Some do all their years in one go. Others quit. Others go back to it. What can you expect? You’re young and you’re discovering who you are and you’ve fallen in love.”

“I didn’t say I love him,” I tell her quietly.

“Oh, come on. You do. I can tell. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

“I barely know him.”

“You know him far more than you think you do. Sadie, dear, embrace it. Don’t worry about school, and certainly don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ve been doing great. I started going to that free counseling again, and I’ve made some friends at work. I think you going to Europe was the push I needed, and I think you needed it too.”

Tears spring to my eyes, teasing at the corners. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, and I’ll always miss you, but you need to do this. You’re a good kid, Sadie, and you’re smart, and you just have to trust yourself. I trust you.”

I’m about to turn into a blubbering mess when suddenly there’s a knock at the door.

“Uh, hold on, Mom, there’s someone at the door,” I tell her, and my heart is starting to race, the hair on my arms standing straight up.

“I better let you go then—”

“No,” I say sharply. “No, no, it’s okay. It might be Olivier. Maybe he forgot his key.”

Please let it be Olivier, please let it be Olivier.

I go to the door and look through the peephole, fully expecting to see Pascal standing there. If I let my imagination run away any further, he’ll be holding a gun.

But it’s not Pascal.

It’s not Olivier either.

It’s Seraphine.

Oh shit.

“Uh, Mom,” I say into the phone, “I’ve got to go. I love you, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I love you too.”

I hang up and then try to come up with some sort of story as I’m opening the door.

But the moment Seraphine looks me up and down, the story goes out the window.

I wasn’t kidding when I said Seraphine was gorgeous.

She’s tall, like nearly six feet, with long limbs and thick, lush hair and the biggest, most beguiling eyes. If I hadn’t known she’d been adopted by the Dumonts, I would now, since they’re all very white and French, and she’s of Indian or Pakistani descent, her accent a mix of Parisian and posh British.

“Who are you?” she says to me, brushing her heavy bangs out of her eyes.

Again, someone addressing me in English.

“How did you know I speak English?” I ask her.

She eyes me up and down. “Well, you certainly don’t look French. Is Olivier here?”

I shake my head. “He went out to the office.”

She sighs. “I was just there.”

“Not . . . that office. A hotel.” It’s then that I notice underneath her thick eyelashes and the bright-red lipstick, she looks ashen and worn. The poor girl. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

Her lip quivers, and she nods. “Thank you.” She tilts her head. “You were at the funeral. I saw you.”

“Just wanted to pay my respects.” I step back and gesture to the apartment. “He might be back soon. Do you want to come in? I know how to use the espresso machine now and wouldn’t mind the extra practice.”

She stares at me for a moment, looking lost, then she manages a smile. “Okay. Merci.”

She steps inside and closes the door behind her, and I go over to the espresso machine to try to tame the beast. It’s a bit awkward and nerve-racking to have her here, especially when I don’t know what to say about myself, but at least she’s got a rather gentle, calming way about her.