Stepbrother Thief(80)

“Well, that Rosetta Stone program we got was the best thing that ever happened to me. Even after living in Toulouse with Gilleon's mom, I had yet to pick up more than a few words of French.” He chuckles again and sets his coffee down, trading it out for one of the colorful macaroons that are sitting pretty in the center of the table. “It's not easy to learn via immersion when everyone around you speaks English.”

“And interrupts your French like it's the most painful thing they've ever heard in their life,” I say with a laugh, copying Cliff and going for a goodie. “I could barely get a 'bonjour' out before there were raised brows and cringes all around.” I smile at the memory and take a bite of my food, closing my eyes in bliss. Pierre Hermé makes the best freaking macaroons in the city. I make a mental note to order a box of them for my sister, Anika; her birthday's coming up.

“Your mother spoke the most beautiful French,” Cliff says with a sigh, his eyes getting faraway like they always do when he reminiscences about Elena. They weren't together long, but he claims that she was his soul mate, that he'll never date again. I hope that's not true—I want my stepdad to be happy—but the sentiment is sweet. Holding onto lost loves … it's not worth it.

I swallow down my bite of macaroon and pick up my coffee again. No way am I letting my mind go down that particular route. It's too beautiful this morning, too sunny, the streets too bustling. I won't think about Gilleon right now.

“On pourra aller au parc tout à l'heure? Je sens que j'ai besoin de sortir aujourd'hui. Je déteste être enfermée dans cet appartement,” Solène says, appearing in the entrance to the kitchen with her dark hair in ringlets, a white and yellow dress flouncing around as she twists from side to side and rolls her eyes dramatically. Can we go to the park later? I feel like I need to get out today. I hate being cooped up in this apartment.

“Oui, we can go out together, just me and you. It'll be a girls' day,” I say, responding in English so Solène can get some practice in. She takes English in school, too, but it never hurts to hear more than one language at home.

“Oh, Regina, you're so lovely,” she tells me in a tone that's far too mature for her age. I should stop letting her and Cliff watch all those old movies together. Solène bounces into the kitchen, kisses me on the cheek, and steals a macaroon. I watch her skip away, my heart twisting at how much like Gilleon she is—fair skinned, dark haired, blue-eyed, full of wry humor. I wish he could've known her growing up. I've given up on that dream though. Hell, I gave up on that one a long, long time ago. I've resigned myself to the idea that my daughter might never known I'm her mother and not just her way older sister.

Cliff reaches out and pats my hand before withdrawing it with a sad smile. I give him a tight one back.

“I'm proud of you, Regina. You've come so far in the last ten years. For a while there, I was afraid I'd lose you.” I brush away the sad feelings inside, push them back, and let my smile get a little more real, a little brighter. I try to stay positive at all times—it's the only way to truly live.

“Thanks, Papa,” I say, looking down into my coffee.

“Enough of that,” Cliff says, waving his hand dismissively as I glance up. “What we were talking about again?”

“How your French is still clipped and barbaric, even after all these years.” My stepdad laughs as I grin at him. “Don't worry—another ten years in Paris and I think you'll be able to converse with the locals without them cringing in disgust.”

“Dad.”

Cliff and I both startle, chairs sliding across the hardwood floors. I manage to spill coffee all over my own lap. It drips down my legs, staining my white Herve Leger pencil skirt and splattering my new black suede booties.

But I don't notice any of that—not my ruined clothes or the stinging burns on my fingers from the hot liquid. All I can see right now is him.

Gilleon Marchal.

My stepbrother, long lost love, and the father of my daughter—all wrapped up into one tall, sexy package. A package I haven't seen in over a decade. Over. A. Decade.

I choke on my own saliva, stumbling to the sink and leaning over as I try to breathe in through my nose.

“Gilleon?” Cliff sounds almost as shocked as I feel, and he's seen his son a handful of times over the last few years. Plus, they chat on the phone every now and then. For me, though, this is like seeing a ghost. “How did you get in here? Isn't the front door …”

“I picked the lock,” Gill says, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice and the quirk of his lips. It fades as quick as it came, leaving that gorgeous face of his a blank slate.