And yet…the way she was looking at him right now? Like maybe, through the almost-insurmountable terrain of his father’s legacy of betrayal and his mother’s pain, he could someway, somehow, find his way to her? It made his heart swell with hope and wonder in a way he’d never experienced before. And though he didn’t feel it coming, suddenly he was smiling back at her like she hung the moon and all the stars, and to save his life, he couldn’t stop the rush of endorphins that made him feel like anything—anything—was possible if this woman wouldn’t give up on him.
He’d realized, in the days following étienne’s wedding, that the emotion he’d felt watching Libitz with her prep-school friends at the reception had been jealousy. Before that moment, he’d never felt that sort of true, primal jealousy over a woman—never known it, never wanted a woman to belong to him the way he wanted Libitz. Without that feeling of possession, jealousy had never kicked in. But he’d felt it then, and he felt it now as he considered her phone conversation with Nice Neil. And it fucking killed him to think of her choosing Neil because he, Jean-Christian, was unable to best his rival for her heart.
Confident that he was at least as wealthy and well educated as Neil, he had an edge physically, because he already knew that Lib’s attraction to him was stronger than her attraction to her so-called boyfriend. Where he lost—where he would always lose—was that she was looking for a “meaningful forever,” which no doubt Neil could offer, while the concepts of both “meaningful” and “forever” still scared the shit out of Jean-Christian. They scared him so much, he almost doubted he could change into a person who would consider either “meaningful” or “forever.” Was it even possible for a thirtysomething man who’d lived most of his life in the shadow of his father’s blatant and abusive infidelity to figure out how to offer a woman something real?
He sighed with frustration, turning away from her and shifting the car into “Drive.” “We have a cradle to pick up.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
“No matter who I am or what I’ve done,” he said, almost more to himself than to her, “I’ll always be there for Noelle. She’s…I mean, I’ll never let her down. Never. I want you to know that.”
“You already love her.”
He did. He had from the moment étienne and Kate had told him about her. That was a fact.
She chuckled softly, as though pleased. “You know what? Being a godparent looks good on you, Jean-Christian Rousseau.”
“And on you, Mademoiselle Feingold,” he responded, grinning at her as the complex thoughts in his head were whisked away by the sound of her husky laughter. “Hey…you know the way you just said my name? Your accent isn’t half bad.”
“My genes thank you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“I’m French,” she answered. “A quarter, I think. My mother’s mother, my bubbe, is French.”
“A hundred percent?” he asked, merging back onto the highway.
“I…hmm…you know? I think so, but I’m not sure.” She twitched her lips in thought. “I never met my great-grandparents, and my bubbe doesn’t speak French. She’s a proud American, and my grandfather was born and raised in Brooklyn by fourth-generation Russian Jews. But every year, at Chanukah, my grandmother makes ‘madeleines.’ They’re these little—”
“—scalloped-shaped butter cakes.”
Libitz nodded. “Uh-huh. You know them?” She scoffed at herself. “Of course you know them. You’re French French.”
Jean-Christian, like his siblings, had been born in Paris, and he had called it home for the first twelve years of his life. Even now, twenty-two years later, he still retained French citizenship, spoke the language perfectly, watched Les Bleus kick ass on the soccer field religiously, and preferred reading books in his native language whenever possible. So something about the possibility that Libitz was also ethnically French felt like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into place, and he shamelessly reveled in it the same way flowers bathed in sunshine. It just felt…good.
“I had no idea you were French,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’m also Russian, Polish…and I’m sure there’s some other stuff in there.”
“But your grandmother makes madeleines at Chanukah?” he asked, eager to focus on what they had in common.
“Yes. It’s tradition. When I was a kid, I was surprised when I realized that none of the other kids had madeleines at Chanukah. Just us. When I asked my bubbe about it, she didn’t know why she made them every year, just that her mother had done the same. In Israel, they make donuts called sufganiyot at Chanukah. She guessed that maybe madeleines were the French version.” She shrugged.
“We have them year-round, but my mother puts candied orange peel into the batter at Christmastime,” said J.C., “then dips them in chocolate.”
Libitz gasped, then turned to face him. “I think I just had an orgasm.”
“Merde.”
“They sound amazing.”
“They are,” he said, wondering if Jax had his mother’s recipe tucked into some drawer at Le Chateau. Maybe he could find out and try making them for Lib as a surprise. “Do you know where your great-grandmother was from?”
“No clue,” said Libitz. “I really don’t know very much about her.”
“And you never knew her?”