“Of course, of course!” she says, wiping her eyes. “Anything else you’d like me to do with the money?”

  “I trust you. Take care of the children, take care of your staff . . . the way you always have. Just with a bit more funds.”

  She nods enthusiastically, sniffing as she goes over to the old, beat up safe in the corner and opens it, placing the check inside. That done, she smiles. “You are a blessing from God, Simon Corbin. Genuinely one of his angels. I cannot . . . thank you.”

  The praise is unwarranted. I’m only doing my part, something we should all do.

  I feel Autumn’s eyes on me, and when I look to her, I can see that she is proud of me. That does mean something to me. I want her to see me as more than one of the rich, apathetic assholes who were at the gala. Sure, they gave money, as did I, but there are more important ways to give too. Supporting our fellow humans should be an automatic priority for everyone.

  To that end . . .

  “Madame Brittanie, is Tristan on campus, by chance? Or is he at school today?” I ask.

  She frowns, her eyes troubled. “He is supposed to be at school. Which likely means he’s out on the basketball court.”

  “Ah, I see. Would you mind if I went out to visit with him?”

  “Of course not!”

  Autumn stands to accompany me, but I shake my head. “I think Tristan and I need to handle this, just the two of us.”

  She quirks her brow, questioning my intentions, but when she sees nothing other than honesty in my gaze, she agrees. “Okay. Is there something I could do to help, then?” she asks Brittanie.

  I think Brittanie is feeling like she’s won the lottery today—first, with the check, and now, with Autumn offering on-the-spot help. “Yes, actually! Could you read a book to our pre-school group? They’re little, and the teachers there don’t get much down time. Even a few minutes would be precious for them, and I’m sure the students would be thrilled by a new face.”

  “I’d love to,” Autumn replies, sounding like storytime with little ones is the best idea she’s ever heard.

  As they wander down the hall to a classroom, I head for the basketball court. And a hard conversation.

  Walking up, I see Tristan laid out on the cracked, peeling paint concrete of the court. His feet are propped up on a ball, and he’s smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air. I imagine from his vantage, it looks like clouds in the sky. He doesn’t move as I approach, not until I squat down and say, “Hey, man.”

  He opens his eyes in shock, and seeing me, he flinches away as though I’m going to sucker punch him. “What the fuck?”

  I hold my hands out, showing him I mean no harm. “Just came out here to talk.”

  His eyes scan me, looking for any lie, any tension, any tell that this is a trick. Finding none, he resorts to tough-guy swagger. “Whatever. Talk if you want.”

  He closes his eyes again, as if he’s ignoring me, but I sense he’s on high alert.

  “The other day was . . .” I don’t know what to say to describe what happened. I settle with, “Unacceptable. On my part, and on yours. I can’t speak for you, but I want to offer you my apology for how rough I got with you. I was . . . scared.”

  “Of me?” Tristan says, one eye peeking open.

  I consider that carefully before answering. “No. I was scared for Autumn.” I sigh heavily, speaking as the thoughts come to me, even though they’re not fully formed. “Have you ever been in love? I haven’t, not until . . . now. And it feels so good, like my heart is going to burst with happiness.” I thump my fist over my heart.

  Tristan scoffs. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  I ignore the commentary and keep talking, hoping this will make sense to him. “I don’t trust it. It’s too good to be true, you know? I want to surround everything about it, about Autumn, with this big bubble of protection so it doesn’t get spoiled. Because I’m afraid it will. And if I have to go back to a life without her now, I don’t think I could do it.”

  “Yeah, poor you. You’ve got everything now, even the girl.” Tristan rolls his eyes and takes a heavy drag, blowing the smoke directly at me.

  “I’m very fortunate,” I admit. There’s no arguing that fact, and I remember how Autumn compared my life at eighteen with Tristan being on the verge of the scariest moment of his life. “But that doesn’t mean I have everything. I’m not hungry, cold, homeless . . . those basics of life have been well provided to me. Beyond that, I’m lucky I’ve got a pretty face. It opened a lot of doors that would’ve otherwise never opened. But the important things? Love, a family, friends . . . I’ve been humbly underprivileged there.”

  Tristan glares at me for even daring to use the word ‘underprivileged’ about a thing in my life, and I can understand why from his perspective.

  I hold up a staying hand. “Have you seen my Aunt Jacqueline? Heard anything about her?”

  Tristan shrugs, casually spitting out his judgment. “Rich bitch. I met her the other night.” He wants me to defend my aunt’s honor, tell him not to speak of her that way, but the truth is . . . she can be.

  “Yeah, and do you know how she got that way?” When he stays quiet, I offer, “She worked her ass off. She never wanted children. Her company is her baby, all she wanted, all she wants. I was . . . am . . . an albatross around her neck in a lot of ways. She did well by me, the best she could. But I didn’t grow up with the family you dream about. I didn’t have friends like you do with the other guys. Hell, you guys are basically my best friends! But Autumn is the first time I’ve felt love, and I will do anything to keep it. Even if it means going a bit feral and possessive, which rest assured, she already discussed with me.”

  He snorts out a laugh. “Wish I could’ve seen that. She’s a fireball when she’s mad.”

  I grit my teeth, not liking the familiarity he’s expressing about Autumn.

  He notices and grins. “She handed both of us our asses when we got out of hand after the basketball game?” The reminder settles me a bit. He’s not talking about Autumn in that hallway.

  I nod slowly and chuckle. “Yeah. She’s amazing.”

  Tristan is quiet for a long time, so long that I try to find something else to say.

  “You’re about to age-out here, and I know you’re scared about what’s out there for you. But I’m here to help you navigate that. A job, a place to live, school? Whatever you want, I’ll help you research, find resources, fill out applications. That’s what friends do for each other.”

  “You’d still do that for me?” he asks quietly. There’s a hitch in his voice, and it hits me full in the chest that Autumn was so right. Tristan is still, in some ways, a boy . . . a scared one who once lost his family and is now on the verge of losing the only other stability he’s ever known. Including me. Or at least he thinks so.

  I slug his shoulder, brotherly-like. “Of course, man.”

  He ducks his head, putting out his cigarette on the concrete. Using the sleeve of his T-shirt, he wipes his brow, his upper lip . . . his eyes. I think he’s tearing up a bit but trying to maintain an appearance of toughness.

  “I was in love, you know,” he says finally. I raise my brows, encouraging him to say more. “She found out where I live, called me a bunch of names I won’t repeat.”

  “I can guess. I’ve heard them before too.”

  Tristan looks at me, his dark eyes full of pain and for the first time realizing that it’s true, even for me. “Yeah. She said a bunch of shit and then dumped me. Then told everyone at school it was because I was rough with her.”

  I want to stay calm, but my voice is a growl as I ask, “Were you?”

  Tristan shakes his head emphatically. “No, I never even kissed her properly. Just hugs and holding hands. She wanted to . . . do more, but I wasn’t . . .”

  “It’s okay. There’s no rush. Learning to trust someone takes time—especially with your body, but also with your heart.”

  He sighs. “It happened a few weeks ago at school, and by last weekend, my social media was blowing up with people saying I was . . .” He trails off, and I can see that he’s replaying whatever hurtful things he read about himself. “Anyway, that’s when we went to the gala. I had some champagne, and you were up on stage, holding us up like puppets for everyone to look at and pity. I was . . . mad. I wanted . . . want . . . what you have.”

  “Autumn? You can’t have her,” I say evenly.

  His laugh is mirthless. “No, not Autumn. But a girlfriend, a life, a career, a purpose. I feel like there’s this big black void inside me.” He grips his shirt right over his chest as if he can feel the nothingness inside. “Other kids at school are talking about university, trips, stupid shit like that. And I’m worried about where I’m going to live and how I’m going to survive.”

  “You’ll survive with help. You don’t have to do it alone, Tristan. Nobody does. I will help you.” I’m making a promise to him, one that carries a heavy meaning to us both.

  “Thanks, Simon.” He clears his throat and then does it again as though what he wants to say is stuck there like a frog. “Uh, I’m sorry to Autumn, but I’m sorry to you too. I said some shit.”

  “I know. It’s already forgiven.” I hold out a fist, and he bumps it with his own. “If it means anything, I brought the fundraising check to Madame Brittanie today. She’ll be able to help a lot of kids here, make their lives better.”

  He presses his lips together, nodding in acceptance. “That’s good. Good for them.”

  I stand, and he does the same. “Is this where we hug?” I ask, grinning. “Big back slapping hugs like on television?”

  “Fuck no,” he answers, a smile of his own brightening his dark eyes. He taps on my shoulder, my chest, and I do the same to him . . . not fighting but play-fighting in a bro way of affection. Finally, I catch him and grab around his shoulders, patting his back hard.

  He does the same, arms wrapped around me and slapping my back.

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  “No problem, man.”

  For two orphans who haven’t known love, acceptance, or affection, I’d say we’re doing pretty damn good.

  We walk up toward the main building and I remember one more thing, “Hey, make sure you go to school tomorrow too. Walk in there, hold your head up high, and ignore what anyone says about you.”

  Tristan scoffs. “Yeah, right. Is that what you’d do? Hell, I bet you’d work your way down the hall . . . bop, bop . . . pow, pow . . .” He feigns throwing punches to invisible taunters.

  I chuckle. “Yeah, no, they tend to frown on that sort of thing at board meetings.”

  “Huh, yeah, I guess they would.” Tristan shrugs like that thought had never occurred to him before, and I can’t help but smile. “Okay, no fighting. And ignore the shit-stirring girl.”

  CHAPTER 23

  AUTUMN

  As we drive back into Paris, Simon is smiling. I don’t think he even realizes it, but I’m enjoying seeing the joy radiate from him.

  “How’d it go with Tristan?” I ask carefully.

  He tilts his head, one way then the other, thinking. “Really well, I think. I punched him in the nose and jaw, and he got me in the kidney with a killer knee.”

  I look at him in wide-eyed horror, and then, realizing that he’s kidding, I swat at his shoulder. “You ass!”

  He laughs. “I shared some stuff. He shared some stuff. We slapped each other on the back. It was your basic bro emotional breakdown.”

  I scan his face, seeing whether he’s serious this time, and it seems he is. “That’s good?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to help him figure out some next steps, and I gave him some advice for dealing with some stuff at school.”

  The anger from Saturday night is completely gone, and while the possessive fuck in a closet was sexy as hell, I don’t want Simon to feel like we’re ever in jeopardy or I’m in danger.

  “I’m proud of you. Handling Tristan with kid gloves couldn’t have been easy.”

  Simon shrugs, feigning ease. “So, where to now? What adventure awaits?”

  He’s changing the subject, intentionally moving the conversation away from Tristan. Whether it’s because he wants to keep Tristan’s secrets private or doesn’t want the praise, I don’t know. But if he’s satisfied with where the two of them left things and is going to help Tristan moving forward, then I’ll let it go too and not be my nosy self that wants all the details of their conversation.

  “I’m up for anything. Take me places and show me things. Show me more of the real Paris!” I say delightedly.

  It’s a risk, one I know we’re both taking. Going to the Sun Orphanage was too, but being seen together in public is an entirely different level of danger. We’ve been carefully avoiding it, but today, I desperately want to be ourselves. Simon and Autumn, with no restrictions, no worries, out to proudly celebrate a great donation to the orphanage and the progress Simon made with Tristan.

  For such a simple desire, it’s majorly complicated. I choose to pretend otherwise though.

  Simon nods and does just that. He finds a parking spot in the heart of Paris, on a side street. “We can explore away from the usual tourist places. Shall we?”

  He helps me from the car and offers me his elbow. I take it, feeling quite enamored with his gentlemanliness. And we walk.

  We share choux cremes at a little bakery that’s mere blocks away from the Latin Quarter, close enough to have the youthful, energetic vibe, but quiet enough that unless you know what you’re looking for, you’ll never see the small shop with wooden shutters over the windows.

  We stop at a little boutique in an alleyway off the Champs-Elysees, where Simon waits patiently while I run my fingers over some of the most luxurious fabrics that grace Paris, oohing and ahhing over every one of them.

  But the final stop is along the Champs itself, along a block that sports brand-name stores like Gucci, Fendi, and more. But those stores aren’t where Simon takes me. Instead, he approaches a glass door and presses a buzzer. The glass is frosted over, so I can’t see inside, but the name sounds vaguely familiar.

  When the door cracks opens, a man in a black suit looks Simon up and down and then does the same to me. He must see whatever he’s looking for because he opens the door further, inviting us in.

  Inside, I stop in my tracks, my eyes open wide. “Holy shit!” I whisper. This feels like the sort of place you need to be quiet . . . and probably shouldn’t curse, but it’s too late for that now.

  Simon chuckles. “Beautiful, non?”

  I look around at the U-shape of glass cases, each lit with bright light to show off the sparkly contents. There must be millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry in here.

  “What are we doing here?” I whisper again.

  “Bonjour! Puis-je vous aider?” a woman says from behind one of the cases. She’s wearing a black silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, a bun high on her head, and red lipstick. She could look like a severe school teacher, but rather, she looks quintessentially and classically French.

  “We’d like to look around, if you don’t mind,” Simon answers.

  The woman looks Simon and me over much like the man at the door did. I think her reasoning is quite different, though, because she drops her chin deferentially, saying, “Of course. Perhaps something in this area?”

  We step to the case she’s indicating to see it’s full of huge solitaire engagement rings and bedazzled wedding bands.

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “I don’t think so.” I look to Simon in shock. He’s not proposing . . . is he?

  “Perhaps not quite yet,” he agrees. “A necklace might be nice, though?”

  I gawk at him. “Why are you asking me? The fanciest piece of jewelry I own is my Grandma Daisy’s ring, and it’s in a lockbox at home because I’m too chickenshit to wear it out. Not because it’s expensive, but because I would die if I lost it.”

  The woman smiles serenely, obviously understanding English but not commenting on my lack of riches and jewels.

  “I’m asking you because I’d like to buy you something, Princesse,” Simon says earnestly.

  I want to refuse. Not because I don’t want his affection but because I don’t need some flashy outward show of it. I know how he feels and how I feel.

  “Simon—” I start.

  Sensing her sale is slipping off the hook, the saleswoman interjects. “Ah, I have just the thing!” she tells Simon, winking like they’re a team against the crazy woman who wants to turn down a piece of jewelry.

  I slip my hand into Simon’s, holding him a little tighter, and he grins, knowing I’m feeling a bit possessive myself.

  The saleswoman opens a case, pulling out a beautiful, intricate diamond and ruby necklace that would be the centerpiece of any red-carpet event. In the center is an at least one-carat ruby crafted into a heart shape, interlaced with a series of diamonds that tie the heart in a knot.

  Simon takes the piece from the saleswoman, standing behind me to put it around my neck. I look in the mirror . . . at the necklace on my neck and Simon behind me.

  “This looks fantastic with your hair. It’s yours, if you’d like,” Simon murmurs in my ear.

  I touch the magnificent ruby, feeling the coolness of the stone. “No. It’s beautiful, but it’s too much. And where are the rubies from?”

  The saleswoman tilts her head, giving me a new look. Respect, perhaps? “They are Burmese,” she admits regretfully, and I shake my head.

  Burmese rubies come from Myanmar . . . one of the worst countries in the world for the disadvantaged. Many people talk about so-called ‘blood diamonds’, but almost all Burmese rubies are so soaked in blood that you’d think that’s where the color comes from.

  Simon removes the necklace from me, handing it back to the saleswoman, who puts it away as we continue down the case.

  So many gorgeous stones and beautifully delicate pieces, but none of them speak to me. And then I see it . . .