Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Will I ever really be ready?
Fifty minutes and counting—three thousand seconds between now and the moment I see him again. The start of the night of my life. Unless anticipation can actually make a person spontaneously combust.
Still in my underwear—the cream satin that’s almost glass-like—I retrieve my earrings from a dish before finagling them into the tiny holes. No smutty internal commentary, please. We’ve already discovered we fit beautifully. My insides throb with the thought.
I turn back to the mirror, almost surprised to find myself staring back. Maybe because I feel altered somehow. I put on lipstick, then blot. Then consider wiping it off for obvious reasons. But the thought sends a rush of heat through me as I imagine myself leaving lipstick rings on a certain part of his anatomy.
“Oh, grow up, Primrose.”
My reflection remains flushed and unrepentant.
I brush my hair until it shines, then muss it slightly, just because: try hard. I’m being ridiculous, I know, selecting and abandoning clothes according to how Luc might view, touch, or remove them. But it’s not just about him, and the woman staring back at me in the mirror is well aware of that. She wears silken underwear and perfume because she understands anticipation is part of the thrill. She’s bold and a little reckless, and she doesn’t wonder if she’ll need a cardigan tonight.
I feel somewhat changed, the girl who was told she was frigid. The woman who grew to trust it was true. The doctor who could discuss the intimate functions of the human body but couldn’t trust herself to tell a man what she needed. The lover who now has some understanding of her own power.
“You’ve brought spring to places that I thought were stuck in winter.”
Those treasured truths he spills in French. It’s in French he gives himself away. With his mouth against my skin, he whispers the tender, desperate things he can’t bring himself to say.
It’s a spell I won’t break.
At ten past seven, because it doesn’t do to look too eager, I leave my room to make my way down the grand staircase in something other than my little black dress. I picked out this blue summer number imagining myself wearing it in Paris. It’s girly and flirty with ties at the shoulders and a frill at the short hem. It’s the kind of dress you should avoid on a breezy day. Cartwheels and twirling in circles are also a bad idea. Unless the plan is to flash your knickers, I suppose.
Down the staircase I go, serene and sedate on the outside while, internally, it feels like my organs have turned part jumping beans. I’m barely a quarter of the way down when quite suddenly and very clearly, the sound of a woman’s laughter drifts up through the hall. My hand tightens on the banister, and while Luc’s answering murmur is too quiet to catch, it’s warm enough to make my next step trepidatious.
I spot them, framed by the entrance to the great room, slightly obscured by the chandelier. Luc is dressed for the sultry Spanish evening in pale pants and a dark shirt, his back to me. There’s a Chanel handbag abandoned on a nearby chair that perfectly matches the woman wrapped around him.
Wrapped. Around. Him.
This isn’t a hug between friends or a platonic embrace. Her arms are looped about his neck, her body pressed close, one elegantly manicured hand buried in the thick of his hair. Meanwhile, Luc’s arms circle her waist with such familiarity that I get the insane and intense desire to snap them off from his shoulder socket.
She draws her head back, and I get a good look at her. She’s beautiful. And smiling—mouth and eyes. Her chestnut-colored hair is perfectly styled, her makeup flawless and her posture poised. She laughs, then tucks her face against his cheek. And there is no way to misinterpret the sight of him bending his head close as his lips glance her hairline.
My heart thuds to the base of my stomach as she pulls just far enough away to cradle his face between her hands.
“You look exhausted,” she says softly, her accent marking her as Parisienne.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” Her thumb passes over his cheek with such practiced affection. “You should have called me.”
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“That doesn’t matter, Luc.” Her expression softens. “For you? I will always come.”
Something small and fragile cracks behind my ribs.
I’ve no idea what’s going on. Why she’s touching him with the confidence of someone who’s no stranger to him. Why his arms are looped around her waist or why she’s looking at him as though she adores him. But I do know she looks like she belongs. In this gleaming hall, and in his arms. In the parts of his life I know nothing of.
She looks like she knows him. Meanwhile, I know fuck all. I’m a summer diversion.