I lock up with her keys, then sweep her into my arms, making her squeal and throw her arms around my neck on a happy laugh as I hurry down the steps. “Because if I spend one more minute with you, that dress, and your bedroom just down the hallway, there’s no way in hell we’d make it out the door.”

—

The limo is an exercise in restraint, a constant battle not to picture all the ways I could take Bea: bent over, on her back, legs spread, hands in my hair, hands on the glass, making her writhe and pant and come again and again.

I will temptation away by remembering we’ve already had one rushed, frenzied sexual experience. Next time, I want all the time in the world.

There’s also the fact that I’d wreck her gown, and then I’d tell the driver to turn around, at which point we’d miss the party. Not that I’m dying to go. I’m just resigned. This is what I do—placate my mother, appease my father, smile, be all politeness and propriety, then disappear until the next time I’m drafted to show my face and pretend like my father isn’t a heartless bastard and my mother’s content to stay by his side.

Tonight, though, there’s a faint kernel of joy inside me. This is going to be terrible in many ways, surrounding myself with my family and the parts of my upbringing that I loathe, and yet Bea’s here, beside me in the limo, smelling like her sultry perfume, her legs stretched across my lap. When we walk in, she’ll be on my arm. Smiling, curious, her unbridled self. That makes it bearable.

The driver opens my door, and I let myself out, smooth myself down, then hold out a hand for Beatrice; when she straightens from the car and her eyes widen like saucers as she takes in my family home, I feel happier, more hopeful, than I have in a long time.

“Okay.” She threads her arm through mine and squeezes. “So your family home makes my parents’ place look like a gingerbread house.”

I laugh quietly. “I like your parents’ ‘gingerbread house.’ It felt homey.”

“It is,” she admits. “I like their house, too. Oh Lordy. That’s your mom, isn’t it?”

I glance up to where my mother stands, serene and stately, in the doorway, greeting guests with continental kisses on cheeks. “Yes.”

“She’s . . . intimidating.” Bea says. “And tall.”

“We’re all tall. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you can reach the appetizers.”

She elbows me, but she’s grinning. “Very funny.”

“James,” my mother says in her thick French accent, wrapping me in her arms. “You’re late. At least you look handsome, mon biquet.” She turns, facing Bea. “And who is this magical creature?”