Tonight, I celebrate my freedom from him by dousing myself in all the scents he abhorred. By the time I’m done, I smell like a ten-cent whorehouse. I cackle as I twirl in my bedroom. Yup. I’m a regular mess right now. But I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t stinking care.
I do a little jig. I can finally do whatever I want in my own sweet time in my own dang home.
But admittedly, the scent of me right now is a wee bit overwhelming so I hop into the shower, wash myself clean, and pull on yoga pants and a sweater.
I return to my new favorite place, sinking back into the chaise lounge on my rooftop garden. With a cooler head, I grab my phone, delete Richard’s message, then go to his contact information. My thumb hovers over his name. I could delete him, too. I could even block him. Instead, I resolve to ignore him if I hear from him. After all, there’s nothing I can do for him anymore. I put down the phone and stare at the twinkling lights glittering on the Eiffel Tower.
I gaze at them until they turn hazy and blurry. I might have moved on from my past. I might be letting go of a relationship I stayed in far beyond its expiration point. But I haven’t fully stepped into my new life.
And I know why.
The answer doesn’t reside in Google.
It can be found in those lights.
In where they flicker.
In what they represent.
I text Griffin and tell him I have a proposition for him.
14
Griffin
There’s one word a woman can utter that gets a man’s blood flowing south instantly.
Okay. That’s not true.
There are about twenty thousand that produce that effect, because when you fancy a woman, nearly anything remotely sexy can drive you crazy with desire for her.
Imagine if she says, I’m going to take off a sock.
Boom. Implied nudity. Hard as a rock.
Perhaps she asks, Do you like strawberries?
Obviously that means she wants me to eat them off her breasts. Flagpole raised.
But then there are some that are so direct, so spot on, she might as well be saying, I’d like you to fuck me hard all night long.
Which, for the record, might possibly be my favorite thing a woman could ever say to me. In fact, I might need to make that my own personal addendum to the bucket list.
At the moment, though, the word is proposition.
As I walk to the restaurant Joy has chosen on Rue de Bac, I keep replaying that deliciously inviting message.
I have a proposition for you.
What could it possibly be but some fantastic arrangement where we shag all night and still get along for work? No strings, no pain, no heartbreak. Sign me up right-the-hell now. That would be fantastic. A promise of orgasm-drenched nights, capped off by an uncomplicated good-bye when I take off for Indonesia in a few more months, finally visiting the places around the world Ethan and I marked on a map when we were younger.
As I round the corner, Christian’s words have the temerity to appear in the forefront of my brain.
Don’t you make the same mistake. You can’t mix business and pleasure. We’re lucky to have the jobs we have.
We are lucky to have our jobs. I don’t disagree with his basic premise, but I doubt Joy’s proposition will jeopardize mine. Besides, I really only need to keep my job for the next two and a half months. That’s all she needs me for at her company, and then I’m gone. Who knows where I’ll end up after I take off on my great adventure? We made so many marks on that map. If I found it, it’d be full of pinholes, I’m sure.
Travel everywhere, Ethan wrote.
He can’t. So I must.
There’s simply no way that Joy’s have hot sex with me every single night starting now will interfere with my bigger plans. I can juggle business and pleasure. I can enjoy the woman, the gig, and the checking off of each item on the bucket list.
When I reach the door of Gabriel’s, a restaurant started by a French-Brazilian cook who’s now become a rock star chef in New York City, I’m more certain than ever that I can have my cake and eat it, too. Preferably off Joy’s soft, supple belly.
With that enticing image front and center, I smooth a hand down my black shirt, push open the door, and head inside.
She lifts her glass of wine in an elegant hand, and all I can think is the proposition is coming now. She’s going to hit me with her take me to bed and do very bad things to me offer this second. She’s been cagey and she’s been coy, insisting we order drinks first and then appetizers. What an alluring vixen. In return, I’m going to have so much fun torturing her exquisitely in bed. Driving her wild, touching her everywhere, putting my mouth all over that enticing body.
I raise my glass and tip it to hers, clinking. My eyes drift to her hands, picturing how inviting they’ll look above her head as she writhes on the bed.
She takes a sip, and I can’t stop looking at those lips now. Those red, pouty, full lips I’ve wanted to get to know since the day I met her.
Oh yes. I’m going to get my wish.
She murmurs, “Mmm. This wine is so good.”
I take a drink, too. “It’s fantastic.”
She runs her finger along the rim of the glass. “I do love a good wine. My friend Elise says I should take more advantage of the pleasures Paris has to offer.”
“You really should,” I say, shifting an inch or two closer in my chair.
The restaurant is small, and the tables are lit with low candles, shimmering faintly. Exposed brick walls give the eatery a cozy feel. The weather outside has turned chillier, as it often does in April. Maybe Joy is thinking I
