Chapter 13
Elena
"To become part of the Beaumont family, obviously." She was already pulling out her phone. "Let me see what we're working with. Okay, his profile picture is an Alpine sunset? Very 'sophisticated businessman with depth.'"
"That's just the default for corporate types," I said. "He's twenty-nine. They all have landscape photos."
"Twenty-nine," Chloé breathed. "The perfect age." She clicked into his profile, scrolling through exactly what I'd expected—Beaumont Group press releases, corporate event photos, occasional architectural shots. Nothing personal. "This is very professional. And boring. Where are the beach photos? The casual pics?"
"He doesn't really do hobbies. Unless you count reading financial reports."
"That's so sad. He needs someone to teach him how to have fun." She finally pocketed her phone. "Unlike you, who apparently has a hot study date waiting. Maxime, right?"
My stomach flipped. "It's not a date. It's just studying."
"Sure. And I'm just casually interested in your uncle." She squeezed my arm. "Elena, I've seen his Instagram. The guy posts surfing and rock climbing pictures. He's outdoorsy, athletic, clearly hot—"
"I didn't say he was hot."
"You didn't have to. Your face says it all." She grinned. "This is good. This is healthy. You need someone age-appropriate who doesn't make you feel like you're walking on eggshells."
"I don't—" I started, then stopped. Because she wasn't wrong. Being around Étienne lately felt like navigating a minefield. "It's complicated."
"It doesn't have to be. Maxime is uncomplicated. He's a normal guy who likes a normal girl. You could have something easy for once."
Easy. The word felt foreign.
We reached the library entrance and Chloé gave me a little push. "Go. Have your study date. Try to relax for once."
"It's not a date," I repeated, but she was already walking away.
I took a deep breath and pushed through the doors.
---
I spotted Maxime immediately—table by the windows like he'd promised, backpack saving me a seat, two coffee cups waiting.
He saw me and his whole face transformed—from worried concentration to pure relief to something that looked like happiness. He half-stood, then settled for a wave that came off as endearingly awkward.
By the time I reached him, my heart was beating fast enough I wondered if he could hear it.
"I thought you weren't coming," he said, pushing a cup toward me. "I was starting to compose my tragic text about being stood up."
"Sorry. Chloé runs late for everything." I slid into the chair, grateful to sit before my legs gave me away. "I had to wait."
"The one from the beach?" He'd positioned himself so we'd be side by side. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something fresh and spicy, nothing like Étienne's expensive subtlety. "She seems fun."
"She's exhausting in the best way." I pulled out my materials. "She'll probably text in ten minutes asking how this is going."
"No pressure then." He grinned, pulling out a notebook bristling with sticky notes. "I should mention I'm terrible at helping people study. I go off on tangents about obscure details that won't be on the exam."
"That's okay. I'm terrible at studying period." My textbook felt too heavy. "I keep reading the same paragraph five times and still not understanding."
"That's normal though." He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel warmth radiating off him, could see a small scar above his left eyebrow. "Your brain is wired for what you do. Years of training it for movement and spatial awareness. Of course it resists abstract theory."
The casual way he said it, like my struggles were reasonable rather than evidence of inadequacy, made something loosen in my chest.
"You really think so?"
"I know so." He flipped open my textbook. "This section on EU eastward expansion—what part is confusing?"
"All of it?" I tried to laugh. "I understand the basic concept. But then it gets into acquis communautaire and Copenhagen criteria and I just lose the thread."
"Right, okay." He grabbed blank paper and started sketching. "Think of it like this. The EU is like an exclusive club, right? To join, you have to prove you meet certain standards—democracy, human rights, functioning market economy. That's Copenhagen criteria. And acquis communautaire is basically all the rules you agree to follow once you're in."
He kept talking, breaking down complex concepts, his enthusiasm evident in how his hands moved, how his voice picked up speed. And I found myself actually understanding, actually following logic that had seemed impossible.
But more than that, I found myself watching him—the way sunlight caught in his hair, the small furrow between his brows when thinking, the way he'd pause mid-sentence, eyes going distant before snapping back to focus.
Time slipped past. The library filled and emptied around us, and still we sat there, Maxime patiently explaining until concepts finally clicked.
"—and that's why the timing was so politically sensitive," he was saying.
He stopped mid-sentence. I'd been watching his mouth, and when I looked up I found him staring at me.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing. You just—" He swallowed. "The light's hitting your face and you look..."
He didn't finish. The air between us had suddenly become charged with something I could feel in every nerve.
"How do the Eastern European countries respond?" I asked quickly, desperate to break the tension.
"Right." He cleared his throat, looked back at his notes, but I could see color rising in his cheeks.
Something had shifted. Every time he leaned closer, I felt the proximity like physical touch. Every accidental brush of hands echoed through my body.
This was dangerous. This pull toward someone who wasn't Étienne, who didn't come with years of complicated history. This was exactly what I should want—someone age-appropriate, someone available, someone who looked at me like I was more than a responsibility.
So why did it feel like betrayal?
"You're doing it again," Maxime said softly. "Going somewhere else."
"Sorry." I forced myself to focus. "I'm here. I'm listening."
He studied my face, like he was trying to read something there. Then he nodded and returned to his explanation.
We studied for another hour before Chloé materialized at our table, grinning.
"How's it going?"
"Good," Maxime said, gathering his notes. "I think Elena's got a better handle on the material now."
"I definitely do," I agreed. "Thank you for being so patient."
"Anytime." He smiled. "Maybe we could do this again? Study together. If you want."
"That would be great."
"Actually," Chloé interjected, "I was thinking—we should all do something fun this weekend. What about Disneyland?"
"Disneyland?" I repeated.
"Yes! When was the last time you did something just for fun?" She turned to Maxime. "You should come too."
"I'd love to," Maxime said, looking at me. "If Elena wants to?"
They were both watching me. This was just Disneyland. Just a day out. There was no reason it should feel so significant.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Yes. Let's do it."