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Chapter 9
“Paige?” Foster whispers.
I grumble and keep my eyes closed until he repeats my name. Opening one lid, I forgot where I am for a moment, then I remember that I’m on Foster’s luxurious private plane, sitting on a wide, butter-soft, leather seat. After this, I won’t ever want to fly commercial again.
“What?” I respond.
“We’ll be landing in about forty minutes. Do you want to freshen up?”
“I want to go back to sleep. What time is it?”
“You’ve been sleeping since we got in the air almost seven hours ago. It’s just before five in the morning, Paris time.”
With a groan, I right my seat from my reclining position. “Where are we staying in Paris?”
“A quaint romantic hotel.”
“Why bother?” I mumble.
Foster sits down next to me and runs his knuckles over my cheek. “You’re grumpy this morning.”
“Shouldn’t I be? I just slept on a plane.”
“I have a meeting at eight.”
I raise my eyebrows, asking, “How can you not be tired?”
“I’m used to long hours. I got an hour nap.”
“That’s nothing.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“I have to pee. Where is the bathroom?”
Foster points to a door in the back of the plane. Undoing my belt, I walk to the bathroom. It is bigger than a regular plane bathroom but still cramped. The first thing I do is look in the mirror and see dark circles under my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well over the past few nights. My mind keeps wandering to the evening I spent in Foster’s bed, and how he cuddled me until morning in the most tender display between us since we got married.
The captain’s voice comes over the intercom, telling us we were almost ready to land. I use the toilet, splash some cold water on my face, and pat it dry before I head back to my seat.
“I was beginning to worry,” Foster say as I sit down next to him.
I smirk. “Did you think I fell in?”
“I was beginning to think so.”
I chuckle as I secure my belt, and the plane begins to descend.
We land at Charles de Gaulle Airport forty-five minutes later. My head is foggy from the long nap, so Foster holds my hand as we walk down the steps to the tarmac. A white Mercedes is waiting for us, complete with a driver dressed in a gray suit. He nods and smooths his thin brown mustache as he holds the door open for us.
As soon as we are seated and our bags in the trunk, Foster grabs my hand again. This time, he holds it tightly in his own, kissing the back.
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you feeling romantic?”
“Would you fault me if I was?”
“It’s unlike you.”
“I’ve enjoyed the past week.”
