Page 91 of Red Flagged
The sharp precision of our father, Augustin Dubois’s, legacy. The graceful restraint of our mother, Geneviève’s, strength.
Étienne had gotten the charm. Emilie had gotten the blade. And I had gotten the hunger, the restlessness, the part that couldn’t stay put.
Étienne opened the back of Emilie’s car and grabbed a cardboard box from the trunk, his muscles flexing just slightlybeneath the short sleeves of his shirt. Meanwhile, Emilie leaned into the passenger seat and emerged with a woven basket looped over one arm and a dark glass bottle of wine tucked in the crook of the other. A soft rust-colored dish towel was wrapped around the neck of it like a bow.
I opened the door before they could reach the porch. “If you’re here to judge my assembly skills, turn around now.”
“Ray.” Étienne’s voice was quiet but full, colored with something like relief. The nickname landed deep in my chest—like home, like childhood, like everything I’d run from and missed at the same time.
“Bonjour,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Bonjour,” I echoed, managing one of my own. It wobbled.
Emilie didn’t say anything at first, didn’t smile. Just looked at me like she already knew everything I hadn’t said. And I swore her keen green eyes knew all my secrets.
She and I were never close, not really. Both too independent and protective in our own ways. The lavender product line had been the only thing we’d truly built together. Outside of that, we didn’t talk. Not about the things that mattered, yet somehow she always knew when I was bleeding. Even if I hadn’t said a word.
For a heartbeat, none of us moved. We all stood there awkwardly on the porch. Then Emilie stepped forward, slipping an arm briefly around my shoulders and pressing a kiss to my cheek.
“Bienvenue à ta maison,” she murmured, holding up the basket. “Housewarming gifts.”
Up close, I could see it was full of my favorite things from home. A bottle of Soleil d’Or—our vineyard’s golden chardonnay—and a bottle of our lavender pét-nat, the one we only sold at the estate. Candles and lotion. My favorite perfume. The shampoo and conditioner Callum was addicted to.
Even our family salve, the one we didn’t sell to the public. Strictly bloodline only. And I guess Callum, too. He swore by it now, and attributed it to his quick recovery.
I spotted my favorite French roast coffee, loose-leaf teas, two wheels of cheese, a tiny jar of fig preserves, and half a dozen household staples I’d forgotten to pick up.
It was over the top. It was everything.
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “You didn’t have to?—”
“We wanted to,” Étienne interrupted quietly. “It’s about time you had a place that feels like yours. And hopefully this makes it feel a little more like home.”
I ushered them inside, and they both paused just past the entryway, taking in the house. The scent of lavender drifted through the cracked windows, mixing with the smell of my candles. Emilie exhaled softly, eyes sweeping the space. “It’s beautiful. I can see why you picked it.”
“Thank you,” I said, voice barely there. “It’s… everything.”
She smiled faintly, and I could tell she wanted to ask if I was okay, but didn’t. It was in the way her brows pinched for half a second. How she lingered a moment too long on my face, like she was searching for cracks in the veneer.
I knew she’d seen the headlines; everyone had. The “crash couple” narrative unraveling in real-time. Feral speculation online.France’s Thirty Under Thirtyarticle going live with pictures of Callum’s handprints on my skin. My ongoing fight with the FIA.
Even Emilie wasn’t immune to gossip, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer.
I cleared my throat. “Set those down on the kitchen island? I’ll follow you out. I want to help bring everything in.”
They nodded, and I trailed after them down the porch steps, the scent of lavender stronger now as the breeze picked up from the east.
Étienne glanced toward the long gravel path outside, where my navy Alpine sat. “You want me to take that off your hands?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Keep dreaming, trouduc.”Asshole. Then I nodded toward my other car. “She drive okay?”
His lips twitched into a faint smirk, the one that had gotten him through every podium interview since we were kids. “I gave her a quick check. Oil’s fresh and tires are good. She drives like a dream and has been waiting for you.”
We crossed the driveway together, and there she was—my car, my first real love. The vintage Porsche 911.
She sat gleaming in the soft coastal light, Dolphin Gray paint catching faint streaks of gold through the parting clouds. Chrome accents glinted like jewelry. I ran a hand along the hood, the metal warm beneath my fingertips.
This wasn’t just a car. It was a piece of history.Myhistory. Every bolt, every seam had passed through my hands. I’d rebuilt her from scrap and rust, just like I’d rebuilt myself.
