Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(38)

I push this bit of information and the twisting, dark curiosity out of my head and thank her for her company. Ansel is gorgeous and successful and charming; of course he had a life before I followed him to the airport, a life that no doubt included women. It doesn’t surprise me to know someone was with him before. It’s just that I realize I’m still waiting to learn anything about him, other than what he looks like with no clothes on.


I SPEND MOST of the day looking around our neighborhood and making a mental map of the area. Streets go on endlessly, shop after shop, tiny alley after tiny alley. It’s a bit like diving down the rabbit hole, but here I know I’ll find my way out; I simply need to find the telltale M of the Métropolitain and will be able to get back to Ansel’s street easily.

My street, I remind myself. Ours. Together.

Thinking of his home as mine is a little like pretending a movie set is home or learning that euros are real money. And every time I look down at my wedding ring, it only feels more surreal.

I like this view of the street at dusk. The sky is bright high above me, but beginning to fade where the sun has started to slip low on the horizon. Long shadows cut across the sidewalk, and colors somehow seem richer, more saturated than I’ve ever seen before. Buildings crowd the narrow road and the cracked, uneven sidewalk feels like a path to an adventure. In daylight, Ansel’s building looks a little shabby, touched with dust and wind and exhaust. But at night it seems to brighten. I like that our home is a night owl.

As I follow the crooked sidewalk, I realize this is the first time I’ve walked all the way from Rue St.-Honoré to the métro, gotten off at the right stop, and then made it all the way home without needing to check the app on my phone.

Behind me I hear cars on the road, motorcycles, a bicycle bell. Someone laughs from an open window. All the windows are open here, balcony doors and shutters thrown wide to catch the cooler evening air, curtains billowing out into the breeze.

There’s a lightness in my chest as I near our building, followed by a distinct jump in my pulse when I spot Ansel’s motorcycle parked on the sidewalk just out front.

I fill my lungs as I step into the tiny lobby and walk toward the elevator. My hand shakes as I press the button for our floor and I remind myself to breathe. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Keep it together. This will be the first time Ansel has arrived home before me; the first time we’ll actually be in the apartment together without one of us half asleep or vomiting or working into the early hours of the morning. My cheeks burn as I remember him growling, “Don’t take it back,” only this morning after I got myself off with his hand.

Oh dear God.

My stomach erupts into butterflies, and a mix of nerves and adrenaline propels me out of the elevator. I fit my key into the lock, take a deep breath, and swing open the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” I bounce into the entryway and stop at the sound of Ansel’s voice.

He’s in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and speaking in such rapid-fire French I’m not sure how the person on the other end of the line can possibly understand him. He’s clearly agitated, and repeats the same phrase, louder and more irritated each time.

He hasn’t noticed me yet and although I have no idea what he’s saying or who he’s talking to, I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding. His annoyance is like another person in the room and I quietly set my key on the table and wonder if I should step back into the hall or maybe excuse myself to the bathroom. I see the moment he catches my reflection in the living room window: he stiffens and his eyes go wide.

Ansel turns, tight smile in place, and I lift my hand, offering a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

He waves back, and with another apologetic smile holds up a finger signaling for me to wait. I nod, thinking he means for me to wait while he ends his call . . . but he doesn’t. Instead he nods toward the back of the flat and then moves across the floor and into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

I can only stare, blinking at the simple white door. His voice filters out into the living room and, if possible, is even louder than it was before.

Deflating, I let my bag slip from my shoulder to land in a heap on the couch.

There are groceries on the counter: a bag of fresh pasta, some herbs, and a wedge of cheese. A baguette wrapped in brown paper sits next to a pot of water that’s just starting to boil. The simple wooden table is set in bright red dishes, a bouquet of purple flowers spilling from a small vase in the center. He was making us dinner.

I open a few of the cupboard doors, searching for a wineglass, and try to ignore the words I can still hear in the other room. To a person I don’t know. In a language I don’t speak.

I also try to tamp down the thread of uneasiness that’s begun winding tightly in my gut. I remember Ansel telling me his boss was concerned he’d become distracted, and wonder if that’s who he’s talking to. It could be one of the guys—Finn or Oliver—or Perry, the one who couldn’t make it to Vegas. But would he sound this frustrated speaking to his boss, or a friend?

My eyes dart to the bedroom just as the door opens, and I jump, startling slightly before trying to look busy. I reach for a bunch of basil and search in the drawer nearest my hip for a knife.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I wave him off, and my voice comes out a little reedy: “Don’t worry! You don’t have to explain anything to me. You had a life before I got here.”