Beautiful Bitch (Beautiful Bastard, #1.5)(22)
“Well, I meant it. And you can show me your appreciation when you get that hot little ass to France. Deal?”
I rolled my eyes. “Deal.”
I didn’t get to France the next day. Or the day after that. And by day three I was actually trying to remember why hitching a ride on a boat had seemed like such a bad idea in the first place.
It’s possible I called Bennett more in those three days than in the entirety of our relationship, but it wasn’t enough, and did nothing to ease the hollow ache that had taken up permanent residence inside my chest.
I kept myself busy, but there was no denying I was homesick. I wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but at some point, Bennett had become it for me. As in it it. The One.
And it was f*cking terrifying.
I’d come to this realization while out for a walk. My assistant had called, saying she’d been able to get me on an Air France flight later that night. My first thought had been of Bennett, and how I couldn’t wait to tell him I was on my way. I’d nearly sprinted to my hotel room.
But then I’d stopped, heart racing and lungs on fire. When had this happened, when had he become my everything? And I wondered, was it possible he was trying to tell me he felt the same way? I packed in a daze, throwing clothes aimlessly into my bag and collecting my things around the room. I thought back on how much he’d changed in the last year. The quiet moments at night, the way he looked at me sometimes as if I were the only woman on the planet. I wanted to be with him—always. And not just in the same apartment or bed, but for good.
It was then that I was struck by an idea so crazy, so insane, that I literally burst out laughing. I’d never been the type of woman to sit back and wait for the things I wanted to appear, so why should this be any different? And that was it.
Bennett Ryan had no idea what was about to hit him.
EIGHT
As impossible as it seemed, I was bored out of my f*cking mind in this beautiful, enormous French villa. The place required no cleaning or handyman work, my VPN connection was so slow I couldn’t get on the RMG server to conduct actual business, and—perhaps most strangely—I felt like there were certain things I shouldn’t do until Chloe got here.
It felt wrong to dive into the infinity pool knowing she was stuck in New York. I didn’t want to walk through the vineyards bordering the house, because it seemed like something we should discover at the same time. Max’s housekeeper had put out some bottles of wine for us to enjoy, but surely only a giant * would drink them alone. My claim to this house was hers, too. I’d still only opened one bedroom door, and slept there, not wanting to go through our options until she’d arrived. Together we would pick out where we would spend our nights.
Of course, if I said any of this to her she would laugh at me and tell me I was being dramatic. But that’s why I wanted her here. Something monumental happened to me the other day when I used the bat signal, and that sense of urgency hadn’t diminished, and probably wouldn’t until she was here and had heard what I had to say.
I walked through the gardens, stared out at the ocean in the distance, and checked my phone again, reading Chloe’s most recent text for the hundredth time:
Looks like Air France might have an open seat.
She’d sent this one three hours ago. Although it seemed promising, her previous three texts had been similar, and ultimately she’d been bumped from those flights. Even if she had left three hours ago, she wouldn’t make it to Marseille until tomorrow morning, at best.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure emerge from the back of the house and place a platter of food on the table closest to the pool. Another peek at the clock on my phone told me that I’d managed to kill a few hours, and it was finally time for lunch. The house had come with a cook, a fifty-something woman named Dominique, who baked bread every morning, and, so far, served some variety of fish, fresh garden greens, and figs at lunch. Dessert was handmade macarons or tiny cookies with jam thumbprints. If Chloe didn’t get here soon, Dominique would have to roll me to the door to greet my lady friend.
Beside my plate was a large glass of wine, and when I looked over at Dominique, she’d stopped at the threshold of the back door, pointed to the wine, and said, “Le boire. Vous vous ennuyez, et solitaire.”
Well, shit. I was bored, and I was lonely. One glass of wine couldn’t hurt. I wasn’t celebrating—I was surviving, right? I thanked Dominique for lunch, and sat down at the table, trying to ignore the perfect breeze, the perfect temperature, the sound of the ocean not even a half mile in the distance, the feel of the warm tile beneath my bare feet. I wouldn’t enjoy a single second until Chloe was here.
Bennett, you are one pathetic navel-gazer.
As usual, the fish was incredible, and the salad with tiny tart onions and little cubes of a sharp, white cheese packed so much flavor that before I knew it, my wineglass was empty and Dominique was at my side, quietly refilling it.
I began to stop her, telling her I needed no more wine. “Je vais bien, je n’ai pas besoin de plus.”
She winked at me. “Puis l’ignorer.”
Then ignore it.
One bottle of wine down and I began wondering why I hadn’t bought a villa in France myself. I had lived in the country before, after all, and while the memories were bittersweet—time away from friends and family, a grueling work schedule—I’d lived here in a time of my life that felt so short in hindsight. I was still young. I was still starting out, really. Thank f*ck Chloe and I had found each other when we still had our whole lives ahead of us.