Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(73)

“Not every businessman or -woman is like your father. I just think that maybe you should . . . consider other uses for your degree. You don’t have to follow his path.”


THE WALK HOME is quiet, and I know it’s because I haven’t responded to what he’s said and he doesn’t want to push. He’s not wrong; people use business degrees for all kinds of interesting things. The problem is I don’t know yet what my interesting thing is.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask.

He hums, looking down at me.

“You took the job at the firm even though it’s not really what you want to do.”

Nodding, he waits for me to finish.

“You don’t really like your job.”

“No.”

“So what is your dream job?”

“To teach,” he says, shrugging. “I think corporate law is fascinating. I think law in general is fascinating. How we organize morals and the vague cloud of ethics into rules, and especially how we build these things when new technology comes up. But I won’t be a very good teacher unless I’ve practiced, and after this position, I’ll be able to find a faculty spot nearly anywhere.”

Ansel holds my hand the few blocks to our apartment, pausing once or twice to bring my fingers to his lips and kiss them. The headlight from a passing scooter glints off the gold of his wedding band, and I feel my stomach contract in on itself, a feeling of dread settling heavily there. It’s not that I don’t want to stay in Paris—I love it here—but I can’t deny I miss the familiarity of home, speaking to people in a language I understand, my friends, the ocean. Yet I’m beginning to realize I don’t want to leave him, either.

He insists we tuck into the little bistro on the corner for a coffee. I’ve grown used to what Europeans refer to as coffee—intense, small pours of the most delicious espresso—and other than Ansel, I’m sure this is the one thing I will miss most about the city.

We sit at a tiny table outside and under the stars. Ansel slides his chair so close to mine his arm has nowhere to rest but around my shoulders.

“Do you want to meet some of my friends this week?” he asks.

I look at him in surprise. “What?”

“Christophe and Marie, two of my oldest friends, are having a dinner party to celebrate her new promotion. She works for one of the larger firms in my building, and I thought maybe you’d like to come. They’d love to meet my wife.”

“That sounds good.” I nod, smiling. “I’ve been hoping to meet some of your friends.”

“I realize I should have done this earlier but . . . I admit that I was being selfish. We have so little time together and I didn’t want to share that with anyone.”

“You’ve been working,” I say on an exhale as he basically repeats my conversation with Harlow back to me.

He reaches for my hand, kisses the back of my knuckles, my ring, before twisting his fingers with mine. “I want to show you off.”

Okay. Meeting friends. Being introduced as his wife. This is real life. This is what married couples do. “Okay,” I say lamely. “That sounds fun.”

He grins and leans forward, placing a kiss against my lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillaume.” And wow, the dimple, too. I am toast.

The waitress stops at our table and I sit back in my seat while Ansel orders our coffee. There’s a group of young girls—around eight or nine years old—dancing to a man playing the guitar just outside. Their laughter bounces off the cramped buildings, above the sound of occasional cars or the fountain splashing just across the street.

One of them is spinning and tips over, landing just below the small deck we’re sitting on.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping down to help her.

“Oui,” she says, brushing the dirt from the front of her checkered dress. Her friend crosses to us, and though I’m not sure what she says, the way she stretches her arms to the side, and speaks to her in a scolding tone, I think she’s telling her she did her turn wrong.

“Are you trying to turn?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond, merely watches me with a confused expression. “Pirouette?”

At this she lights up. “Oui,” she says excitedly. “Pirouette. Tourner.”

“Spin,” Ansel offers.

She straightens her arms to the side, points her toe, and spins, so quickly she almost falls down again.

“Whoa,” I say, both of us laughing as I catch her. “Maybe if you . . . um.” Straightening, I pat my stomach. “Tighten.”

I turn to Ansel, who translates, “Contracte tes abdominaux.” The little girl makes a face of concentration, one I can only imagine means she’s clenching her stomach muscles.

More of the girls have gathered to listen and so I take a second, moving them so they’ll have enough room. “Fourth position,” I say, holding up four fingers. I point my left foot out, my right foot next to and behind. “Arms up, one to the side, one out front. Good. Now plié? Bend?” They each bend at the knees and I nod, subtly guiding their posture. “Yes! Good!” I point to my eyes and then to a spot off in the distance, partially aware of Ansel translating behind me.

“You have to spot. Find one place and don’t look away. So when you turn”—I straighten, bend at the knees, and then push up off the ball of my foot before spinning, landing on plié—“you’re back where you started.” It’s such a familiar movement, one I haven’t felt my body do for so long that I almost miss the sound of cheering, the loudest of them coming from Ansel. The girls are practically giddy and taking turns, encouraging each other and asking me for help.