I let out a disbelieving scoff. “Okay, now I know you’re fucking with me. You have not been to the Louvre.” “Of course I have,” he shrugs. “My family likes to summer in Europe. My mother usually drags me there at least once a year.” Well, I can’t argue with that logic. If I’ve learned anything at Lionswood, it’s that summer becomes a verb once you enter a certain tax bracket.