Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(31)
The pants are deep blue, the shirt a crisp white, and he stands in front of a slim mirror, knotting a beautiful silk blue and green tie.
“Eat something today, hmm?” he says, smoothing his hand down his front before reaching for a blue suit jacket hanging on a small stand in the corner.
For once, I want to be the woman who climbs up on her knees, beckons him to the bed, and pretends his tie needs to be fixed before using it to pull him back under the covers.
Unfortunately for this seduction plan, I was already slim but I feel skeletal now. My legs are shaky and weak when I push myself out of bed. Not sexy. Not even a little. And before I shower, before I even approach a mirror—and definitely before I attempt to seduce this hot husband/stranger/person-I’d-like-to-be-naked-with-again—I do need something to eat. I smell bread, and fruit, and the sweet nectar of the gods: I haven’t had coffee in days.
Ansel walks back over and his eyes make the circuit of my face and down over my entire body, hidden to mid-thigh beneath one of his Tshirts. I forgot to pack pajamas, apparently. He confirms my suspicion that I look like death barely warmed over when he says, “There’s food in the kitchen.”
I nod and hold on to the lapels of his jacket, needing him to linger just a second longer. Other than Ansel, I know no one here, and I’ve barely been able to process my decision to get on that plane nearly four days ago. I’m struck with a confusing mix of elation and panic. “This is the weirdest situation of my life.”
His laugh is deep, and he bends so it rumbles past my ear as he kisses my neck. “I know. It’s easy to do, harder to follow through. But it’s fine, okay, Mia?”
Well, that was cryptic.
When I let him go, he turns to pack his computer into a leather messenger tote. I follow him out of the bedroom, freezing as I watch him grab a motorcycle helmet from where it rested on a table near the door.
“You drive a motorcycle?” I ask.
His smile stretches from one side of his face to the other as he nods, slowly. I’ve seen how cars drive in this city. I’m really not all that confident he’ll return in one piece.
“Don’t make that face,” he says, lips pouting out the quiet words and then curling into a panty-dropping smile. “Once you ride with me, you’ll never get in a car again.”
I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life—never wanted to—and I’ve sworn off two-wheeled vehicles forever in general. But something about the way he says it, the way he comfortably tucks the helmet under his arm and hitches his bag over his shoulder, makes me think maybe he’s right. With a wink, he turns and leaves. The door closes with a quiet, perfunctory click.
And that’s it. I’ve been in a haze of stomach flu for days, and now that I’m better, Ansel is gone and it’s not even eight in the morning.
Outside the bedroom the apartment spreads before me with a continuous kitchen, living room, and dining room. Everything feels so European. The furniture is sparse—a black leather couch, two armless, modern red chairs, a low coffee table. On the other side of the room is a dining room table with four matching seats. The walls bear an eclectic mix of framed photographs and colorful paintings. For a bachelor pad, the apartment is impressive.
The space is open, but not very big, and the same slanted ceiling is present here. But instead of French doors, the far wall is lined with windows. I walk to the one closest to me, press my hands to the glass, and look down. On the street, I watch Ansel climb onto a shiny black bike, put on his helmet, kick the bike into gear, and pull away from the curb. Even from this vantage, he looks ridiculously hot. I wait until I can no longer see him in the blur of traffic before looking away.
My breath catches and I close my eyes, weaving a little. It isn’t the residual memory of the gripping nausea or even the hunger that makes me a tiny bit dizzy. It’s the fact that I’m here, and I can’t just walk a few blocks and get home. I can’t just pick up the phone and make everything okay with a quick call to my family. I can’t find an apartment or a job in Boston while I’m living in Paris.
I can’t call my best friends.
I find my purse across the room and frantically dig around in it for my phone. Stuck to the screen is a sticky note with Ansel’s neat script telling me he’s set me up on his international cellular plan. It actually makes me laugh—maybe a little maniacally in my relief—because that really was the thought that sent my heart hammering into near-panic mode: How will I call my girls from France? I mean, it’s so indicative of my absurd priorities. Who cares if I don’t speak French, I’m married, I’m going to have to dip into my savings, and my stranger-husband seems to work constantly? At least I won’t get charged my firstborn child in AT&T minutes.
I wander the flat as Harlow’s phone rings thousands of miles away through the line. In the kitchen, I see Ansel has left me breakfast: a fresh baguette, butter, jam, and fruit. A carafe of coffee sits on the stove. He is a saint and deserves some kind of ridiculous award for the past few days. Maybe just a constant offering of blowjobs and beer. He’s apologizing for working, when I really should be apologizing that he had to clean up my vomit and go buy me tampons.
The lingering memory is so horrifying that I’m pretty sure I can never let him see me naked again without wanting to throw up.
The phone rings and rings. I do a blurry calculation, knowing only that when it’s mid-morning here, it must be really late there. Finally, Harlow answers with only a groan.