the past few years, he’s been working on a book. Earlier this year, a publisher picked it up.”
“What kind of book?” I ask, making conversation.
Julia sips her champagne, looking to the ceiling. “Something about how all humans are predisposed to live out the underlying themes found in various myths. Heroism. Fate. Pride. Justice. Revenge. He’s obsessed with Greek mythology. Taught several classes about it.”
I choke on my champagne, the effervescent liquid burning my throat and nose as I struggle to breathe.
“Are you okay?” Wes asks, fixating his eyes on mine, patting my back.
I blink as I cough, momentarily stunned speechless. Who cares if Jay studied literature and was also obsessed with Greek mythology? That he was also extremely persuasive and a good writer? The idea is completely irrational. There are hundreds, even thousands of men who fit that description. Plus, Julia’s husband’s name is Nicholas Prescott. Not Domenic Jaskulski, or Professor Jay around campus.
I shake it off, blaming the ridiculous notion on my surroundings, and offer Wes a reassuring smile, clearing my throat. “Of course.”
“Good. Then why don’t we dance.”
“Dance?”
“You don’t expect to look as gorgeous as you do and me not want to show you off, do you?”
“Always the charmer, aren’t you?”
He leans toward me, feathering a kiss against my cheek. “Always.” He lingers there for a moment before addressing Julia. “Will you be okay for a bit?”
She lifts her glass. “There’s an open bar and overflowing champagne. I’ll be more than okay.”
“I knew I could count on you, Jules.” He laughs as he steers me toward the center of the dance floor, the familiar Sinatra tune the band had been playing coming to an end.
When the pianist plays the opening lines of “La Vie en Rose”, memories of my mother singing this song flash before me.
“Care to dance?” Wes murmurs into my ear, the heat of his breath warming my neck.
I face him, placing my hand in his. And just like earlier in the suite, he twirls me around before pulling me against his chest. He places a hand on my hip, the other one still entwined with mine, and begins moving in time with the lazy, rhythmic beat of the classic French tune.
“My mother used to sing this,” I reminisce as I drape my free arm along his shoulder, toying with the few tendrils of hair falling over his collar. “One night, when I couldn’t have been more than five or six, I’d gotten out of bed to get a glass of water. As I walked past the living room, I saw my parents dancing. My mother was singing this song. In that moment, I could physically feel how much they loved each other. It was so beautiful. After she died, I would always listen to this song, clinging to the memory of her singing it. Clinging to the man my father was when she was still alive.” I swallow hard, my heart squeezing at everything I lost when that gunman burst into the church.
“Do you know what the lyrics mean?” Wes asks in an effort to distract me.
“It’s about seeing the world through rose-colored glasses now that she’s found the love of her life.” I sigh as Wes pulls me even closer. “All he has to do is take her in his arms, speak words of love, and she’s home. Happy. Secure.”
I tilt my head back, no longer sure if I’m talking about the story in the song, or my own with Wes.
“You for me, me for you, for the rest of my life,” I murmur.
“I knew I liked this song for a reason,” he whispers as he buries his head in my neck, inhaling deeply as we sway to the tune.
When the singer starts the second chorus, Wes attempts to sing along with her, completely butchering the French language. But I don’t care. It makes me laugh, reminding me how easy it was to fall in love with him. I fought it, did everything to keep my distance. Somewhere along the way, though, I fell. It wasn’t a quick descent into madness as you often read about or see in the movies. This wasn’t love at first sight. Our journey to this point was gradual, each day causing me to sever another tie binding me to my past until I barely remember any of it.
“That’s the mark of true love,” I say through my laughter as the song fades.
“What’s that?”
“That even though you can’t speak French worth a lick and eviscerated a song very near