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“What else did he say, huh?” he asks aggressively, quirking his eyebrow at me, an infuriating smirk on his face.
“Yes, there was one other thing,” I tell him. Then I turn to Weaver and tell her, “He said it was a pleasure to meet you and he looks forward to the next time.”
Ryan turns three shade of red, but I don’t even care. All I can see is Weaver’s smile, her curt little nod and her hand reaching out to mine. I kiss my mother and Sandrine goodbye, and Weaver and I leave the hospital, to the waiting town car out front. We still have sixteen hours before our flight, and I’m not done romancing her yet.
16
Weaver
I’m finally over my jetlag and unpacking, a week after we landed in New York. The last week was spent in a haze, not just from the change in time zone, but replaying every detail of our trip to Paris. The candlelit dinners, sharing a warm baguette as we walked along the Seine, the hotel bed, the sex, the sex, the sex. I feel an ache between my legs remembering those times we spent in bed. If we’d have been in another city, I’m not sure we would have ever made it outside. It was a hard choice some mornings though, giving up the hours of exploring each other’s bodies for going to Versailles or Musée D’Orsay. It was worth it, though. Chris took me an hour outside of Paris one morning, before the sun had even risen, and we hiked for miles through hamlets and towns. I’d never seen that side of him. He could name every bird overhead and every tree along the path. The memories make me smile and I have a feeling there’s a lot we can still learn about each other.
He told me all about his plans to relocate from London to his family’s apartment in the city, and silly me, I realized I was never exactly sure where his home was. He laughed when I told him that because he said he’s never considered his London apartment a home, more like a hotel suite where he was allowed to leave his toothbrush behind. I guess my boyfriend is kind of a nomad, but Chris made it clear that now that there’s something worth sticking around for, he’s looking forward to having a real home. He’ll be at the Plaza for another week, but then he’ll move into an apartment that’s just a ten-minute cab ride from mine.
We’ll have two separate real homes, though, for the time being. I have a lot of stuff to figure out and seven months left on this lease. Cam-girling was supposed to be a temporary fix, and it did bring me a lot of money, money which I won’t be returning to Chris or feel guilty over. He wanted to play that game, well that was the price. My nest egg won’t last me long, though, especially if I want to lease a space to start a business next year. One of the first things I did when I got home was call my uncle in Brooklyn. I’m not looking forward to picking up regular shifts at his bar, but I have to pay my bills, on my own. There’s also an opportunity to do some marketing work for him, but I have to sweeten him up to the idea of welcoming hipsters into his bar of typical blue-collar workers.
Chris has been gone for most of the week, flown back to London to pick up his toothbrush (and other things, he assures me) and take care of a couple of business dealings. He’s flying back in tonight and I’ve promised myself I’ll have this apartment clean and welcoming for when he walks through the door. Although I don’t plan for him to spend time in rooms other than my bedroom after being apart for days.
I’m folding the last of my clean laundry when I hear my laptop chime. It’s the Sugar Girl window and I see that familiar name: WildCaptain. That’s odd. I accept the call.
Fancy seeing you here, Captain. What’s up?
The conversation bubbles appear and then disappear. I go back to folding my laundry assuming it was just a mistake. Then I hear a notification.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Let me see you. It’s been too long.
It’s good to know he feels the same way I do, because I completely agree. It’s been way too long.
You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, I type.
No can do. I’m sitting in a cab heading to the hotel. Just give me a little taste.
I look myself over and I’m not exactly a cam-girl dream, but the idea of Chris in the city, riding in a cab wanting me, thinking of me…it’s too much to resist. I slide the clean laundry off my bed and grab my laptop, positioning it on the bed and sitting behind it. As an afterthought, I whip off my sweatshirt. The tee-shirt underneath isn’t much of a sexy improvement, but it’ll make Chris laugh. He bought it for me in a cheesy giftshop in Paris. It’s a gold pattern and when you look closer, you can tell the pattern is French fries. When Chris saw it, he said I had to have it. “Now this is seriously hot,” he said. I laughed the entire time he was purchasing the shirt. He kept telling me how irresistible I’d be covered in fries.
