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She'd tried to talk to me before and after the wedding ceremony, but I'd been ignoring her. I didn't know what to say except,"What the fuck?"
I had a lot of questions for her though.How are you feeling? How is the baby? When is your next doctor's appointment?Are you happy about the baby?Because I fucking am, which is freaking me the hell out.
I had no idea how to be a husband. I'd have to ask Damian, or maybe it would be better to ask Emilia. I doubted my brother was a good husband—more like Emilia put up with his crap because she was a fucking saint and madly in love with him.
I had no idea how to be a father—and that thought scared me even more. I was a man who wasn't afraid of much, and now a drooling baby would have me on my knees. My baby.Putain de merdé!Fucking shit!
I told Guillaume to not wait for me once after we got to our destination, my apartment on Avenue Montaigne, housed in a historic Haussmann building.
The concierge desk was manned by Bernard, who was always impeccably dressed in a dark suit. He nodded at me. "Bonjour,Monsieur Archer. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?" Hello Mr. Archer, how are you doing today?
"Bonjour. Ça va bien, merci." Hello, I'm well, thank you.
I pressed the button on the elevator and Elsa cleared her throat. "What floor are you on?"
I felt the strain of our sudden marriage settling heavily on my shoulders. "We are on the seventh floor."
She caught the "we" and smiled softly. "If you don't mind, I'll take the stairs."
I arched an eyebrow.
"Claustrophobia," she murmured.
Bernard, who’d heard her, stepped to the ornate door leading to the stairs and opened it.
I sighed.Guess we'll be taking the fucking stairs!
"Bernard, may I introduce you to my wife, Elsa Archer." Many of the residents in the building were expats like me so Bernard spoke English just fine.
Bernard didn't show a flicker of emotion and simply said, "Welcome to the Le Palais Montaigne."
"We were married this morning," I said, in case he was wondering about how we both were dressed.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Archer." Bernard continues to hold the door.
"Merci beaucoup." Elsa flashed him a smile and for the first time in the six years I'd lived here and Bernard had manned the concierge desk, I saw him smile wide, like he was happy.
He bowed. "May I add, you are a beautiful bride, Madam."
"Elsa, s'il vous plaît." Please call me Elsa.
Her face lit up. She then stepped toward the stairs, leaned against the balustrade, and removed her heels. She unceremoniously dumped them into the large brown tote bag (no designer label, I checked) she carried and pulled out whatlooked like ballet flats. She slipped them on and began to climb the stairs.
There was no drama in the way she'd done the shoe exchange. There was no drama at all. I'd expected it when she said she preferred to take the stairs, something along the lines of, "do you have to live on the seventh floor." But…nothing.
"How long have you lived here?" she asked in English as she gracefully went up the stairs.
I worked out like a fiend. Seventy stairs were not going to be too much for me, but I expected her to start huffing and puffing, but she didn't. It looked like my new bride was fit.
"Six years," I replied.
She paused for a moment and said, "Do you prefer if we speak in English or French?"
"English," I muttered. "My French is good, but not as good as your English. Sometimes things get…ah…lost in translation."
She chuckled and started hopping up the stairs, brimming with energy. There was a contagious cheerfulness about her, and I found my own steps feeling lighter as I followed, my eyes on her delicious ass.
Get yourself under control, Duncan. You don't want to climb these stairs with a monster hard-on.
