That had seemed more than reasonable at the time. All of us wanted Jacques healthy and safe, and we were willing to give up a modicum of personal freedom to ensure it. But then “for the time being” had become five years, and Jacques’ insistence that we all remained by his side seemed more of a compulsion than a real need. I sometimes wondered if he was afraid that if we left, we wouldn’t come back. Over the years, Jacques had convinced himself that he needed all of us by his side in order to stay sober. I wasn’t convinced, but Jacques’ sobriety was too precious to risk.
Still, there were aspects of the outside world that I missed, and I suspected, deep down, that Jacques missed them too. He was just too scared to admit it, but I wasn’t about to give up on him. Jacques would be hesitant, but I knew he needed this more than any of us.
I thought back on my phone call with Bonita, about her young writer. Isabel Perez. I did a quick Google search and found a few of her recent articles. Under her byline, a headshot of a young Latina woman gazed back at me from my screen, and my heart beat faster as I examined her. She really was beautiful, much more so than Bridget. Milky brown skin, heart-shaped face, high eyebrows arching over intelligent eyes. But it was her lips that drew most of my attention. Full and pouty, they practically begged to be kissed. I imagined those lips closing around my cock and groaned. Five years was a long time to remain celibate.
I pushed the image away. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I needed to make sure she was the right fit. I couldn’t let the wrong person in, not again. I settled in to do my research. If I was going to convince Bernard and, more importantly, Jacques that this was right, I needed to be sure.
An hour or so later, I shut my laptop, confident that this time, we had found the right girl. It was time to bring in the rest of the group.
Dinnertime in the castle was a generally pleasant affair. All of us men gathered together after a long day of work and enjoyed each other’s company, not to mention Isiah’s excellent cooking. Our conversations shifted easily between French and English, almost without our noticing.
This particular night was no different than any other, but I knew that everyone else could sense that I had something to discuss. An air of breathless anticipation hung over us.
Alexandre, whose work in the garden left him ravenous most days, tucked into his potatoes with great appreciation. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Isiah,” he said. The rest of us murmured our agreement. Isiah beamed at our praise, his dark eyes sparkling.
When everyone was served, I cleared my throat. “It’s starting to get colder these days.” The men around the table turned to me, brows raised. Certainly we weren’t so stumped for conversation that I would resort to something as banal as the weather? Undeterred, I went on: “I always thought that a good woman was the best way to keep warm through the cold winter nights.”
Understanding dawned on five faces, and we all turned as a group to gauge Jacques’ reaction. He continued eating, as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s interesting,” he said finally. “I’ve always found a goose down duvet more than serviceable.”
Raphael, the youngest of the six of us, joined in tentatively. “Étienne is right,” he said. “It may lack the romanticism of spring, but winter is by far the best time for love.”
Jacques snorted. “Are you a poet now, Raf?” he asked. Raphael flushed to the roots of his wavy brown hair.
“Jacques, listen, s’il vou plaît,” I glanced around the table at my friends, willing them to have my back. “I know it didn’t work out before.”
Jacques snorted. “That’s quite an understatement,” he said.
“But an opportunity has come up,” I continued, ignoring him. “One that I think deserves our serious consideration. Adjust Magazine wants to do a story on you, and they’re willing to send a journalist to stay with us for some time. A female journalist.” Jacques was already shaking his head, but I pushed forward. “Before you say anything, just hear me out. I’ve researched this writer, Isabel Perez, and I believe she’s perfect for us. She’s smart, sexy—and recently separated from her husband, so we don’t have to worry about her growing too attached to any one of us.”
At this, Raphael stared down at the table, flushing. Bridget’s obvious preference for him had been no small part of why that arrangement had failed so spectacularly. Next to him, Alexandre patted him on the back comfortingly.
“Here,” I said, reaching for my phone. “Let me show you her picture. Then you’ll see—”