for you, and I say you stay in France.”
“I’m not staying in bloody France, all right?” St. Clair bursts out in English. “I’m not staying here with you! Breathing down my neck all the time!”
And that’s when it hits me. I’ve been fol owing their entire conversation. In French.
Oh. Holy. Crap.
“How dare you talk to me like this?” His father is enraged. “And in public!You need a smack in the head—”
St. Clair switches back to French. “I’d like to see you try. Here, in front of everyone.” He points at his cheek. “Why don’t you, Father?”
“Why, you—”
“Monsieur St. Clair!” A friendly woman in a low-cut dress cal s from across the boulevard, and St. Clair and his father both turn in surprise.
Monsieur St. Clair. She’s talking to his dad. That’s so weird.
She strol s over and kisses his father on both cheeks. His father returns les bises, smiling graciously. His whole manner is transformed as he
introduces her to his son. She looks surprised at the mention of a son, and St. Clair—Étienne—scowls. His father and the woman chat, and St. Clair is
forgotten. He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Kicks his boots. Puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out.
A lump rises in my throat.
His father keeps flirting with the woman. She touches his shoulder and leans into him. He flashes a bril iant grin, a dazzling grin—St. Clair’s grin—and
it’s odd to see it on another person’s face. And that’s when I realize what Mer and Josh said is true. His father is charming. He has that natural charisma, just like his son. The woman continues to flirt, and St. Clair trudges away. They don’t notice. Is he crying? I lean forward for a better look and find him staring right at me.
Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh NO.
He stops. “Anna?”
“Um. Hi.” My face is on fire. I want to rewind this reel, shut it off, destroy it.
His expression runs from confusion to anger. “Were you listening to that?”
“I’m sorry—”
“I can’t believe you were eavesdropping!”
“It was an accident. I was passing by, and . . . you were there. And I’ve heard so much about your father, and I was curious. I’m sorry.”
“Wel ,” he says, “I hope what you saw met your grandest expectations.” He stalks past me, but I grab his arm.
“Wait! I don’t even speak French, remember?”
“Do you promise,” he says slowly, “that you didn’t understand a single word of our conversation?”
I let go of him. “No. I heard you. I heard the whole thing.”
St. Clair doesn’t move. He glares at the sidewalk, but he’s not mad. He’s embarrassed.
“Hey.” I touch his hand. “It’s okay.”
“Anna, there’s nothing ‘okay’ about that.” He jerks his head toward his father, who is stil flirting with the woman. Who stil hasn’t noticed his son has disappeared.
“No,” I say, thinking quickly. “But you once told me no one chooses their family. It’s true for you too, you know.”