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“They’re brothers,” Guillaume pointed out.
“They’re grown men and they love each other, but it’s not cool to make them share a goddamn bed,” Remy bit back. “If I had two grown daughters, I wouldn’t ask them to share a bed either. If there’s space to have, I’d want them to have their own space. And there’s space to have. Right now, would you share a bed with Uncle Luc?”
“Of course not,” Guillaume hissed.
“Well?” Remy asked.
A muscle rippled up Guillaume’s cheek as father and son went into staredown, and I looked on, realizing something else I never quite understood.
Remy and Guillaume had these clashes often.
I had read it as an alpha father who had born an alpha son battling, the elder refusing to graciously relinquish control.
The reason it always irritated me was that I’d met Remy when he was an adult, and in some way or other this always happened, so I didn’t understand why Guillaume continued to test my man in irrelevant ways. I thought Guillaume should just be happy he’d raised such a strong, accomplished son, rather than constantly doing insignificant things that would remind him of his place.
Now I understood why Guillaume needed to establish his role with Remy.
My home, my marriage, my wife, my son—keep yourself in line.
I knew now the most important parts of that were his wife and his son, and regardless of what his wife had done to his son, it was Remy’s place to keep things as they needed to be for Colette.
From the stories Remy told me, even before he walked away from the family business to go to school to be an architect, he rarely stayed in his father’s line.
Now I knew he’d been so beaten down as a child, his inherent need was not to be held down by either of them ever again.
And even if Guillaume made the attempt, he knew that.
Therefore, as usual, it was not surprising when Guillaume gave in.
But I had to get a handle on how much it infuriated me, having learned what I’d learned, that the man still tried.
“I’ll ask Melisande to prepare the Gold Room for Yves.”
“Fantastic,” Remy clipped.
I opened my arms to encompass us all. “Let’s go in. I need to change out of these airplane clothes, and I’d love a glass of wine.”
“When you come down, I shall have one waiting for you, chérie,” Guillaume said immediately.
“I’d love that, Guillaume, thank you,” I replied, smiling maybe a hint too beatifically at him, as Remy clamped an arm around my waist and hustled me to the steps.
The arm fell from around me, but his grip on my hand was tight as he pulled me inside, up the stairs and into a room that had matching silk jacquard in pale sage on the duvet covers as well as panels in the white walls.
This was not the pièce de résistance.
The gold and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room was.
This was their guest suite, and it included a heavenly bathroom and a charming breakfast table in the corner by one of the windows that faced the street. And since those windows faced the street, this was the room with the balcony.
“You okay?” I asked just as my phone rang.
“I’m going into town tomorrow to buy a hip flask,” he muttered.
He was joking, which meant he might not be having the time of his life, but he was fine.
I tried not to smile.
Sabre came in shouldering Remy’s bag and rolling mine on its wheels across a possibly priceless rug. He did this bumping it into one of the two cream, button-backed, gold-framed regency chairs that flanked the fireplace. Likely equally priceless.
“Me and Yves are raiding the bar, what do you want?” he asked his father.
I burst out laughing.
My phone had stopped ringing, but it started again.
I pulled my purse off my shoulder to dig it out.
“Whatever looks the most expensive, pour me a huge glass of it,” Remy ordered.
“Gotcha,” Sabre said, dumping Remy’s beat-up leather bag on silk jacquard.
I winced at the sight before I looked to my phone.
“Noel,” I said to Remy.
“Take it,” he replied.
I took it.
“Hey there.”
“You are Satan,” Noel stated. “First, the feathered de la Renta, that can happen in exchange for Fiona during awards season.”
“Fiona makes her own choices. Though I will present her with Oscar.”
“Do you want to be remarried in de la Renta?” he screeched so loud, I had to take the phone from my ear.
Remy’s brows went up.
I put it back and said soothingly, “I’ll talk to Fi.”
“Fine. But there is not a fucking venue in this fucking city that is not fucking taken on Christmas Fucking Eve.”
“Maybe we can do it in the backyard,” I suggested.
“Are you high?” Noel demanded. “Give me January first. I have an insane spot open on the first. It’s like, a miracle.”
