“If I’m taking it,” he said just as stubbornly, “I’m putting it towards the studio.”
“Bastien—I doubt I need to remind you, but we are talking about you being disowned over this money.”
His lips parted at whatever thought entered his mind, but he casually brushed it off. “Grandfather never gave me a deadline for paying him back. You don’t have to feel responsible for it just because we didn’t win. The disownment…it is not a big deal. And if you can make a name for yourself, so can I,” he decided. “I shall be Bastien the Magnificent.”
A most graceless snort escaped Celine’s lips and she genuinely wished there was a way she could slap some sense into him.
“Celine,” he said, suddenly turning somber as he folded the cheque between their hands. “There is nothing more important to me now than working to bring our dream to life. I can’t accept this money. And if you are intent on spending it on something, let it be the studio.” Opening the door for her, Bastien waited until she was seated before adding, “As for Grandfather…” Hescrunched his nose, considering the thought. “How hard do you reckon it is to find a job?”
Celine gave up her attempts at convincing him—for now—and secured the cheque inside her purse.
“I suppose it depends on the type of skillset you offer,” she supplied.
Quickly, Bastien settled himself in front of the wheel. “Does being charming beyond comprehension count?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Huh.” The sun touched their skin the moment the car pulled out of the shade and they started driving down the avenue. “What about my wit?” he said. “I can even get you to smile, and you’re my toughest audience. Does that count?”
“Maybe,” Celine relented with an upward curl of her lips. “We might be able to find you a job solely based on your wit.”
Epilogue
July 1921
July found Paris quickly, bringing about the tanning heat of summer days and the alleviating showers of the evening. They were a rare treat, but appreciated by those who hadn’t already driven down to the Riviera and were instead still strolling through the busy city streets.
Celine LeBeau was part of the latter, as she tilted her cheek towards the mellow rays the afternoon sun provided, patiently waiting at the entrance of Avenue Montaigne. Activity had died down since morning, but a few socialites were still prowling the shops, heaping bag after bag of purchases on their drivers’ arms. Celine smiled at them; she missed the evenings when she dragged poor Charles along every store at Place Vendôme and offered encouragement when the car doors wouldn’t close because of the shopping boxes.
She had been too busy recently to make time for that. Requests for custom pieces had come pouring in the moment word had come out that Celine LeBeau was opening her own fashion house. If the girls in her social circle had once copied her style, now they wanted to own something Celine had made, and Celine had merely been too eager to start working on each booking, even while the renovations on Maison Reneau were still ongoing.
Recalling why she was standing there, waiting, Celine redirected her attention to the sound of bike tires screeching in the distance.
Monsieur Ménard had confiscated the Cadillac after Bastien had failed to pay him back, although he had forgiven his grandson, surprisingly proud that Bastien was working towards something that truly mattered to him. (Considering he had been fired from the ten jobs Juliana had tried to find him.) So once his accounts were opened again, Bastien had immediately purchased a bike. And if she were honest, Celine preferred it to the car.
It pulled up now in front of her, along with a furious gust that ruffled the pleats of her skirt. She looked askance at him as she scrambled to keep her dress down.
“Will you ever stop doing that?”
“Why?” he asked, sauntering up to her, a smirk on his lips. “I’ve already seen everything there is to see and oh, if I recall it correctly I’ve done more than that—Ouch!”
That last part left his lips when Celine started beating him with her clutch.
“Hey, hey!” Bastien cried out. “I thought I was allowed now.”
“You, yes,” she huffed. “The rest of the city… I’d rather not give them that privilege.”
He only grinned, seizing her wrists to stop her from bruising him like a peach.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Celine demanded.
“Because I like you.”
“Only like?”
“Love,” he corrected. “I love you, Celine.”
She hummed, skeptically, then returned the sentiment in Farsi, “Asheghetam, Bastien.”
