Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(29)

“What?” I blink, my heart pounding so fast I’m terrified that I’m going to have some sort of cardiac event. “Dad, no.”

“Who other than a druggie flies to France with no warning, Mia? Are you doing something illegal?”

“No, Dad. I—”

“You’re unreal, Mia Rose. Unbelievable. Your mother and I have been worried sick, calling constantly for the last two days!” The rage in his voice comes through as clear as if he’s in the next room. I can just imagine how red his face is, lips wet with spittle, hand shaking where he grips the phone.

“You’ll never get it. You’ll never get it. I just hope your brothers do better when they’re your age.”

I close my mouth, close my eyes, close my thoughts. I have the vague sense of Ansel sitting down beside me on the bed, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. My father’s voice is booming, always authoritative. Even if I pressed the phone flat to my ear I know Ansel would be able to hear every word. I can only imagine what he said to Ansel before I got on the line.

In the background, I can hear my mother’s pleading voice murmuring, “David, honey, don’t,” and know she’s carefully trying to pry the phone away. And then her voice is gone, muffled voices behind his hand over the receiver.

Don’t, Mom, I think. Don’t do this for me. Defending me right now isn’t worth the days of silent treatment followed by more days of snide, underhanded insults.

Dad returns to the line, his voice heated and sharp as a knife. “You do realize, Mia, that you are in a world of trouble. Do you hear me? A world. If you think I’m going to help you move to Boston after this, you’re delusional.”

I drop my phone on the mattress, Dad’s voice still hurtling through the line, but the glass of water I’ve had doesn’t want to stay down. The bathroom opens off Ansel’s bedroom, and I’m tripping across the room, falling onto my knees in front of the toilet, and now not only do I have to suffer the humiliation of having Ansel hear my father berate me on the phone, but he gets to watch me throw up. Again.

I try to pull myself up so I can go wash my face, fumbling to find where I’m supposed to push to flush the toilet and failing, falling to the side in exhaustion and landing on the cool tile.

“Mia,” Ansel says, bending one knee beside me, rubbing my arm.

“I’ll just sleep here until I die. I’m pretty sure Harlow will send one of her manservants to retrieve my body.”

Laughing, he lifts me into a sitting position and then tugs his shirt up and over my head. “Come on, Cerise,” he murmurs, kissing just behind my ear. “You are burning up. Let me put you in the shower and then we are going to the doctor. I worry. You are making me worry.”


THE DOCTOR IS younger than I expect: a female in her thirties with an easy smile and reassuring competency with eye contact. While a nurse takes my vitals, the doctor speaks to Ansel and, presumably, he explains what’s going on with me. I catch only when he says my name, but otherwise have to trust that he’s relaying everything accurately. I imagine it goes something like, “The sex was great and then we got married and now she’s here! Help me! She won’t stop throwing up, it’s incredibly awkward. Her name is MIA HOLLAND. Is there a service by which we ship wayward American girls back to the States? Merci!”

Turning to me, the doctor asks me some basic questions in broken English. “What are the symptom?”

“Fever,” I tell her. “And I can’t keep any food down.”

“What is your highest, ah . . . temperature before you come here?”

I shrug, looking at Ansel. He says, “Environ, ah, trente-neuf ? Trente-neuf et demi?” I laugh, not because I have any idea what he’s just said, but because I still have no idea what my temperature is.

“Is it possible you are pregnant?”

“Um,” I say, and both Ansel and I laugh. “No.”

“Do you mind if we do an exam and take some blood?”

“To see if I’m pregnant?”

“No,” she clarifies with a smile. “For tests.”

I stop short when she says this, my pulse hauling off in a full sprint. “Do you think I have something I need a blood test for?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Sorry, no, I am thinking you just have a stomach virus. The blood is . . . ah . . .” She searches for the word for several seconds before looking up at Ansel for help. “?a n’a aucun rapport?”

“Unrelated,” he translates. “I thought . . .” he begins and then smiles at the doctor. I gape at this shy version of Ansel. “I thought since we are already here we can do the standard tests for, ah . . . sexually—”

“Oh,” I mumble, understanding. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay?” he asks. “She will do my tests at the same time.”

I’m not sure what surprises me more: that he looks nervous about my answer or that he’s asking the doctor to test us for STDs in case someday I stop throwing up and we actually have sex again. I nod, numbly, and hold out my arm when the nurse pulls out a rubber strip to tie below my bicep. If this was any other day, and I hadn’t just vomited up half of my body weight, I’m certain I’d have something smart to say. But right now? I’d probably promise her my firstborn if she could make my stomach settle for just ten blessed minutes.