Page 75 of Omega Artist
So far, their only interaction was a formal introduction after our scorching kiss sparked whispers, applause, and whistles. And to think that I tried to keep from stealing the spotlight from Sybil. Another one of my epic failures that I’m proud to fully embrace. Owning my mistakes, I hunted down Raphaël to come clean; thankfully, he’d missed the action.
Ironically, my sister reached Tig to scheme our unlikely reunion via the hookup app.
Convincing him to take the trip was a piece of engagement cake, Sybil confessed, after Troy and Soraya talked some sense into him. Father obviously approved of her grand scheme. My man asserts that he didn’t need the extra push because, you see, he’s “older, wiser, and in love with his alpha girl.” At least that’s what he’s repeated since we dashed to the nearest bathroom to make up for lost time. Trust me, we did our best to be as discreet as possible, but he quickly covered my sailor mouth when expletives threatened to escape as he restlessly pounded into me and I got reacquainted with my belovedAlbert.
“You should have seen your face when you realized Tig was there…” Sybil taunts, which dumbfounds me. She’s been nothing but quietly supportive when it comes to my relationship with her former fling.
“Zip it,” I warn, tired of being the focus of yet another Sunday.
“Langua—”
A sudden din interrupts Father, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. Someone’s honking directly below our cracked windows, but our neighborhood is usually peaceful. Someone’s yelling directly below our cracked windows, but the loud voice remains indistinct. Someone’s blasting opera music directly below our cracked windows, but it’s too muffled to be recognizable.
Without apologizing for leaving the table, all the girls sprint in the direction of the disturbance that reached the fourth floor. As Sybil flings open the window, the classical music floats inside and everyone goes silent.
Wait a minute, I know this song.
Voi Che SapetefromThe Marriage of Figaro. My favorite! I’m the first one to step on the balcony, gape over the railing, and indulge in the view. My less than romantic heart somersaults.
Tig’s gloriously hot upper body is popping through the sunroof of a Mini-Cooper; he must be standing on the backseat of Sybil’s precious new car. I rack my brain to remember if we texted or discussed operas and wonder who’s to thank: Greer, Sybil or Father?
The lucky cat that we won at the karaoke joint months ago is held triumphantly over Tig’s head, his stare burning into mine. I can’t believe that he traveled withourcat!
Despite the oddity of the situation, this song is incredibly fitting for the rollercoaster of emotions that Tig evokes in me. At once, the opera ceases as a guy donning a chauffeur hat emerges from the car. I chuckle when he looks up and I spot Sybil’s fiancé.
I feel the weight of my sisters’ stares, but I ignore them as I wave at the men.
“Aliénor, Princess Aliénor, come down.” Tig’s velvety voice is booming now.
Oh, shit! This can’t be happening, right?
I can’t believe that he’s recreating the final scene from my all-time number-one rom-comPretty Woman. The chauffeur. The open sunroof. The opera music…
How did he know? The anti-romantic that I am never would have confessed my obsession for this classic that all of us watched with Mother!
I glance at Sybil, who shrugs. Then, I catch Father’s shit-eating grin. They plotted more than I imagined, though some details differ!
Yup, it’s too bad that drop-down fire escape ladders aren’t a thing in France, but he does jump to the car roof and yell that he’s coming up—no doubt with the assistance of the regular stairs.
The music returns. My sisters go into hysterics, and I can’t hear myself think with their raucous rounds of applause.
Dumbstruck, it takes me a moment to get my bearings and saunter to the front door, where Father is already shaking Tig’s hand, then pulls him into a hug, welcoming the new addition to the family. This is so not French. This is so surreal. This is so unlike my father.
“Occasionally, timeless institutions, ancient rules, and noble missions are meant to be bent to ensure the pursuit of happiness.”
As Father releases Tig from his arms, the only sound in the apartment is my ragged gasps and the opera still drifting up from the street.
Without further ado, Tig strides to meet me, the cat cradled in one arm. I let out the breath I’ve been holding since he appeared downstairs. Unabashed, he approaches—near enough to dizzy me with his intoxicating scent but far enough to remain out of reach, which drives me insane. Is this a dream?
I run my tongue across my lips and watch him expectantly.
“So, what happened after…” he begins, improvising the finale. “She catches the lucky cat that he throws her way after climbing up the tower and rescues him.”
“He rescues her right back.”
With my statement, he takes another step toward me and I wrongly believe that he’s going to pull me in for a kiss. Instead, he asks, “Who wants to catch it?” as he sends the cat flying my way, concluding, “And marry me?”
As I extend my arms to catch the lucky cat, my eyes widen at the enticing thought and unexpected proposal. As it turns out, I don’t have impossible standards. They’re simply no longer applicable. Tig de Luca encompasses everything that makes me tick in his own unique way. He respects my boundaries. He brings out the best in me. He loves me unconditionally. And let’s not forget our astonishing compatibility—on so many levels—that defies common sense. With a shit-eating grin plastered on my flushed face, I tuck the animal snugly, and reply short-breathed,
