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“Am I softening you?”
His eyes darken. “You’re doing quite the opposite.”
I start to cough, and Foster pats me on the back. If I am doing the opposite, I assume he means to imply something sexual.
“Don’t read into it, Paige,” he chides, “I’m enjoying your company.”
“For once.”
He kisses the back of my hand again.
“Can I have my hand back?”
“No. I like holding it. It’s delicate and soft, just like its owner.”
I roll my eyes, unable to stop a grin from forming. “You’re a ham.”
“But I made you smile.”
As we drive through the streets of Paris, I stare out the window at the architecture of the buildings, everything so unlike the modern ones in Manhattan.
“Where is our hotel? What’s it called?”
“La Reserve Hotel and Spa. It’s in a lovely nineteenth-century building. You’ll love it.”
“Are you sure? I like the modern design of the penthouse.”
“Trust me. Wait until you see the bathrooms.”
When we arrive at the hotel, Foster is right. The façade of the building is old world, with heavy red drapes flanking the entrance. The lobby has high ceilings, dark wood with gold accents, white marble floors, and several green and red velvet chairs strategically placed in groupings. While Foster checks in, I continue looking around in amazement. Once we are registered, a bellhop in a charcoal uniform carries our luggage into the elevator.
“We’re in the presidential suite,” Foster says.
“Of course, we are.”
“You’re saucy today.”
“I’m tired.”
The sun is just starting to rise, but all I want to do was sleep.
“You can sleep while I head to my meeting.”
I frown. “How can you have energy when you barely slept?”
“I’m used to it. I’ll take a nap this afternoon.”
Our suite is at the end of the hall, and when the bellhop unlocks the door, I am in awe. In the same tradition of the hotel, our room is decorated with an old-world charm, with black and white wallpaper on the walls. Below our feet is a thick, plush beige carpeting. In front of us, four black upholstered chairs are placed around an oval honey brown lacquered dining table. Mirroring the lobby, there are the same types of furniture except it’s plush brown. Floor to ceiling windows looked out onto the avenue below.
Foster tips the bellhop, and once he takes his leave, my husband carries the suitcases into the bedroom—a massive space with an oversized king bed. I sit on the corner of the bed to remove my shoes and then run my hand over the white duvet. It’s as soft as silk.
“I think I’m going to get undressed and go to sleep,” I say.
“It’s up to you. I’ll be leaving soon, so I want to freshen up first.”
I don’t know why I did it, but I stand and trace my hand over his cheek, scratching at the scruff on his face. Foster grips my hand, kissing the palm.
“Would you like to have dinner out?” he asks.
