Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
I dove right back to doing what appeared to be working best for me and my wife—me driving her to the edge of orgasm without actually taking her to her destination point, and her giggling and pulling at my hair until I went bald.
When the plane landed an hour later, Dallas’s chest was red, raw, and full of marks. It was also covered by my MIT hoodie and a coat I threw on her, just in case. Overall, not the best flight I’d had by a long mile. But at least, unlike the one we’d shared from Georgia, I didn’t nearly kill anyone.
Which reminded me … I hoped, wherever Scott was, he remembered his new life motto.
Never touch what belonged to Romeo Costa Jr.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dallas
I didn’t have many expectations for my Parisian honeymoon. And still, my husband managed to disappoint me. After we landed in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, Romeo and I checked in to the extravagant honeymoon suite at Le Bristol Paris.
What I should’ve done was tear off his hoodie and rinse away the flush from our earlier encounter on the plane. Instead, I twirled my suitcase by its handle, admiring Montmartre through the open terrace doors. “Do you want to do brunch, then hit some tourist spots?”
Already, Romeo stripped off his tux jacket, laying another crisp suit on our bed. “I have back-to-back meetings with some clients and an old university friend.” He was leaving me to fend for myself on our honeymoon?
Since trying to appeal to his MIA conscience proved futile, I settled on another approach. The whipped cream tactic. “Sounds good.” I shrugged, unzipping my suitcase by the foot of the bed. Cara had packed me enough lingerie to seduce the entire French nation. “I’ll see you around when I see you around, I guess.”
He stalled in front of the bathroom, scars peeking past his unbuttoned dress shirt, and produced his phone, tossing it into my hands. “Put your number in here. The last thing I need is for you to get lost.”
With any luck, I’d be kidnapped for ransom à la Taken. Surely, the kidnappers would be better company. I punched in my number, volleying his phone back.
He pressed dial and killed the call when my ringtone pierced the air. Such trust issues. “Good girl.”
“Bad husband.”
“Stop pretending you want to spend time with me any more than I want to spend time with you.”
Pathetically, I did want to spend time with him. I missed human interaction. I wouldn’t exactly define him as human, but he came close … ish.
Once he sprung into the shower, I shimmied into a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and sheer black pantyhose with a red line in front. Then I trotted to the nightstand, flipping open his wallet. He’d never offered a substitute to the credit card he’d canceled, so I interpreted his wallet laying out as an open invitation to help myself. And help myself I did. By the time he finished showering, I was long gone, my phone turned off, his Centurion Card in tow.
First, I treated myself to a four-course lunch on Champs-Élysées. When I couldn’t stomach more, I spread the wealth, metaphorically and literally, footing the bill for every patron on the premises. After that, a cab escorted me to Rue Saint-Honoré, where I bought myself a few humble wedding presents in the form of three Hermès bags. Since I couldn’t possibly embarrass my new beau by purchasing one of the more affordable (read: less obnoxiously expensive) Birkins, I had no choice but to swing for the respectable limited-edition ones. 120K a pop multiplied by three. An actual bargain. No wonder I returned to purchase one for Momma and two for Frankie.
From Hermès, I moved to Dior, then Chanel, before making my last stop at Balmain. But it would be inhumane to leave without supporting the local designers, so I ended up dropping some serious cash on one-of-a-kind boutique finds, too. The exhausting ordeal lasted ten hours, during which my phone remained off and the Black Card worked out like Tracy Anderson. I’d ironed close to seven-hundred-thousand dollars before hailing a taxi around nine at night.
Paris still buzzed with activity. Dazzling lights glittered like fireflies in the dark. Loved-up couples swarmed the sidewalks. They held hands. Laughed. Fell deeper in love. Did things I’d never do. Things as unattainable as kissing the sun. Jealousy impaled my heart. All the money in the world couldn’t buy me what they had. Genuine, content love.
The taxi stopped at the hotel entrance. I tipped five hundred euros and slid out, wrestling dozens of bags. A bellboy rushed to my rescue. He unburdened my arms and transferred my purchases into a golden luggage cart, trailing me. The easy, measured clicks of my heels as they slapped the marble lobby didn’t fool me. I knew what awaited me in the suite. A furious husband. I envisioned Romeo cracking his knuckles and licking his lips, waiting to punish me. Once I scurried into the elevator, I switched my phone on. Just as I’d suspected, three missed calls flashed across my screen, along with numerous texts.