Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

“Ça va,” she forced out trying not to show she was forcing it out. “Et toi?”

“Bien, ma chérie. Surtout maintenant que tu es là,” he replied. (Good, my darling. Especially now that you’re here.) Then he turned to the boys. “Mes beaux petit-fils!” he cried.

“Pépé,” Yves greeted, coming forward to get his brief hug before popping back.

“Granddad,” Sabre said, and Guillaume’s head ticked because he was stringent about being Pépé, or if necessary, but it was not preferred, Grand-père.

Their hug was swift and awkward, and Guillaume’s gaze was on Remy when it was over.

“We’ve had a long flight. We need to get in and settled, Dad,” Remy made a pass at explaining his son’s behavior.

But now I had an understanding why Guillaume demanded his grandchildren use his native language, one that was not native to them, when they referred to him, and Remy steadfastly called him “Dad.”

It was the same insolence that Sabre just demonstrated.

I wondered if Remy ever called him Père or Papa.

“Bien sûr,” Guillaume murmured. “There are no surprises. The boys are in Velvet. You and Wyn are in Silk. And you, my darling,” he turned to Manon, “are in Matelassé.”

I clenched my teeth because the Velvet Room was a large room with a king-sized bed, and it was the only dark, clearly masculine room in the house.

It had been Remy’s, and the painstakingly treated walls that were awash in violet and shimmering champagne were gorgeous, as were the drapes, which were acres of iridescent purple satin with a green sheen. The armchairs were covered in a bright blue-purple velvet, with the bed covered in black of the same fabric.

But there was one bed.

And my sons were no longer boys. They were grown men who hadn’t slept in the same bed since they were, if memory served, in single digits.

They probably wouldn’t mind.

But they weren’t children anymore and shouldn’t be treated like they were.

“Thanks, Pépé,” Manon replied.

“Boys, get the bags, yeah?” Remy ordered, hitting the button on the fob to open the back of the truck.

The boys moved to the car and Guillaume looked to Remy.

“It’s getting late, and your mother isn’t feeling sprightly. But she wishes to see you, and once you refresh, she’s waiting for you in the mural room.”

Remy nodded, and as Sabre and Yves got close, he said, “One of you take the Gold Room.”

“Remy, this room hasn’t been prepared,” Guillaume stated.

“If it isn’t, I can put sheets on a bed, Dad. So can my boys. But my sons are grown and they’re not sharing a bed.”

“They’re brothers,” Guillaume pointed out.

“They’re grown men and they love each other, but it’s not cool to make them share a goddamn bed,” Remy bit back. “If I had two grown daughters, I wouldn’t ask them to share a bed either. If there’s space to have, I’d want them to have their own space. And there’s space to have. Right now, would you share a bed with Uncle Luc?”

“Of course not,” Guillaume hissed.

“Well?” Remy asked.

A muscle rippled up Guillaume’s cheek as father and son went into staredown, and I looked on, realizing something else I never quite understood.

Remy and Guillaume had these clashes often.

I had read it as an alpha father who had born an alpha son battling, the elder refusing to graciously relinquish control.

The reason it always irritated me was that I’d met Remy when he was an adult, and in some way or other this always happened, so I didn’t understand why Guillaume continued to test my man in irrelevant ways. I thought Guillaume should just be happy he’d raised such a strong, accomplished son, rather than constantly doing insignificant things that would remind him of his place.

Now I understood why Guillaume needed to establish his role with Remy.

My home, my marriage, my wife, my son—keep yourself in line.

I knew now the most important parts of that were his wife and his son, and regardless of what his wife had done to his son, it was Remy’s place to keep things as they needed to be for Colette.

From the stories Remy told me, even before he walked away from the family business to go to school to be an architect, he rarely stayed in his father’s line.

Now I knew he’d been so beaten down as a child, his inherent need was not to be held down by either of them ever again.

And even if Guillaume made the attempt, he knew that.

Therefore, as usual, it was not surprising when Guillaume gave in.

But I had to get a handle on how much it infuriated me, having learned what I’d learned, that the man still tried.

“I’ll ask Melisande to prepare the Gold Room for Yves.”

“Fantastic,” Remy clipped.

I opened my arms to encompass us all. “Let’s go in. I need to change out of these airplane clothes, and I’d love a glass of wine.”

“When you come down, I shall have one waiting for you, chérie,” Guillaume said immediately.

“I’d love that, Guillaume, thank you,” I replied, smiling maybe a hint too beatifically at him, as Remy clamped an arm around my waist and hustled me to the steps.