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“I live my life under the gaze of others. Every photograph, every headline, every careless rumor becomes ammunition.”

She finally nods, then waves a hand toward the seating area. It’s a quiet invitation, as if she’s decided it’s safe to share the space with me. I sink into an armchair while she settles on the couch across from me.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks politely.

I regard her with quiet consideration. She has no reason to talk to me, and yet she is. This is a generous, big-hearted woman. “No, thank you.”

She jerks her chin in acknowledgment. “I didn’t know who you were. I swear.”

I’m a fucking idiot for putting her through that, for treating her that way. “I know. I know. It was I who pursued you that night. I was…it was…how do you Americans say it, a…knee-jerk reaction.”

She gives me a small smile. “And from what I have gathered, you are popular with the tabloids.”

I grimace. “Yes and…my divorce…Iamdivorced.”

“I heard about that, too.AfterI met your wife.” Something flashes in her eyes. “I, for a moment, thought you were married.”

“Non,” I deny quickly. “Non. That’s not who I am.”

No. I’m a man who has a wonderful night with a woman, and then calls her a slut. Putain!

“Écoute?*…the divorce was hell, especially because my son was affected.”

“You have a son?” Now, her eyes are warm. “How old? What does he do?”

She’s forgotten she’s angry with me, I think, amused.

I’m getting an idea of what kind of person thismademoisellefrom America is. She’s not one who holds a grudge…unlike Simone, who holdsallthe grudges,allthe time, since timeimmemorial.

“Aubert is eighteen. He’s finishing hisbac…ah…baccalauréat,” I explain. “Like your high school.”

“I know whatbaccalauréatis, Gustave.” Her eyes twinkle.

She’s making this apology way too easy for me.

“Aubert paid a heavy price with people asking him questions, and journalists snapping photos. My parents…they were affected and upset. It’s been a family scandal.”

She nestles into the sofa like she’s comfortable now. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Look, I’m not going to pretend I understand a world where you have to worry about paparazzi. I grew up in Boyle Heights, and the closest I came to a celebrity was once when Javier Bardem came to my father’s restaurant.”

I’m immediately intrigued. “Your father has a restaurant?”

“Mexican. It’s a restaurant and a rum bar. We serve the bestmolein town.”

There’s pride in her voice.

“I appreciate a goodmole.”

I’m still as fascinated with her as I was at the bar. Then she’d dressed up. Now she was in some overalls with flowers on them. She’d looked like a woman that night; now, there was somethinggirlishabout her. I had looked up her file, finally, and I knew she was twenty-eight. I have fourteenyears on her.

I never thought I was one of those men, like my friend Phillippe, who were interested in women so young, but here I was, and wanting to add, if cornered, like an old fool, “But she’s a mature twenty-eight.”

“You’d love my father’smole,” she insists.

“I’m sure.” I sit up. “Iamsorry, Tara, for talking to you the way I did at the Pyramid. I had no right…and I was…I come from a family that prioritizes reputation, which has taught me to be defensive. Too much so, perhaps.”