Mr. Write Read online

  But it appears no explanation is necessary. “C’est pas grave. Une chamber, c’est bien.”

  I turn over my shoulder to look at her, mouth slightly parted because I am so fucking turned on to hear her speaking French. It’s no secret I have a love affair with everything French, so when Carrie reveals she’s fluent in my favorite language, I have to wipe the drool from my chin.

  But I can deal with that later because she just agreed to share a room with me.

  As tempting as that offer is, I don’t think I can spend whatever time we stay here sleeping on a couch. And more importantly, I don’t trust myself with Carrie. Merely standing this close to her is enough to leave me a slobbering fool. I have no chance of keeping my hands to myself if I share a room with her.

  The attendant looks at us, clearly mortified about the mix-up.

  Retrieving my cell from my pocket, I send Nick a quick text. Within seconds, the screen lights up, and I curse the day we bonded over 80s hair metal bands.

  Oopsie. Silly me. I only booked one room.

  Sighing, I slap my phone against my palm, wondering how I’m going to detail my friend’s attempt at playing cupid. I explain to the attendant that it’s my fault, and that I only booked one room. Carrie has every right to be mad, but she isn’t.

  “At least I don’t feel so bad about you paying for the room now.”

  The attendant stifles a giggle behind her clamped lips, but it’s apparent she’s as spellbound by Carrie as I am. Her glasses are perched on the edge of her nose as she types something into the computer. She smiles a moment later.

  Once the paperwork is taken care of, she hands over our keys and points at the elevator. “Enjoy your stay,” she says in a broken accent.

  “Merci.”

  We pass a young couple walking toward the front door, hand in hand. Their love shines. But one can’t help but be swathed in the emotion because this city is bursting with it.

  “Have you been to Paris before?” I query as we wait for the elevator.

  “Yes. Many times. The last time I was here I was twenty-four.”

  “How long ago was that?” We both crashed on the plane, which limited our getting to know you time.

  “Two years ago. I came here with my boyfriend at the time,” she reveals with a snicker. “I thought it would inspire me to feel something for him because after being together for three months, I was lacking that…”

  “Spark?” I fill in, and she nods.

  We enter the elevator, and Jesus Christ, it’s a tight squeeze. I need to think of anything other than her body inches from mine. “What was his name?”

  Seeing as I’m invading her personal space, I figure I may as well invade her privacy as well.

  “Albert.”

  My brows shoot up into my hairline. “Albert? That sounds like a very mature name. I was expecting something a little more…modern.” My jealousy soon subsides because what dashing male lead is named Albert?

  “That’s because he was forty-five.”

  “Fo-forty-five?” I spit out, and she nods. “So you don’t have any issues dating older guys then?”

  “No. I’ll try anything once,” she replies with a sassy grin. I almost swallow my tongue. She is bound to give me a heart attack come nightfall.

  Once the elevator stops at our floor, she exits, cool as a cucumber, while I subtly rearrange my pants. I’m trying, I truly am, but holy fuck, this woman is something else.

  “What room are we in?” she asks over her shoulder. I can’t help but think back to our conversation on the plane. She confessed to never being in love.

  I still find it hard to believe that someone this terrific has never experienced the big L. Maybe she’s incredibly fussy. Although I’ve only known her for such a short amount of time, I don’t take her for the shallow type. I wonder what sort of men she’s dated. From the two I know, one was an utter tosser while the other was old enough to be her father.

  She did say she’s dated a lot of guys. Therefore, it appears she doesn’t have a type. I wonder if I’m her type? Whoa, this train of thought needs to end now. We’re not here to worry about such trivial matters. I’m here to write, and Carrie is here to forget about the Alberts and twats of this world.

  “Two hundred and five,” I reply to her earlier question.

  We walk the elaborate hallway, appreciating the true beauty of this place. Carrie stops by our door, and her energy to enter is palpable. I unlock the door, gesturing for her to enter first. A gasp leaves her when she steps foot inside. Following behind, I relish in witnessing her reaction.

  “Holy shit. One can easily see this was formerly a palace,” she gushes, turning in a circle as she examines our home for the next few days.

  The spacious room is decorated in golds and whites, showcasing the elegance. A large living area is separate from the master bedroom. The king-size bed to the right is draped in gold silk and throw cushions.

  I have no doubt every room in this hotel is stunning, but I now know what the attendant was smiling about. We got the upgrade. This is clearly a suite with a…

  “Oh my god…the view,” Carrie coos, opening the terrace doors, which confirms my assumption that we got a suite with our own private terrace.

  I walk to where she stands by the balcony, mesmerized by the skyline of Paris, and at its center, the Eiffel Tower—the nucleus for so many worldwide.

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed,” I confirm because this is some view.

  Even though the fog casts gray clouds over this magical city, it doesn’t take away from the magnificence that is Paris. If anything, it amplifies the fact that beauty can be found in the most unexpected of places.

  I leave Carrie to her private thoughts and go to unpack a few things.

  As I step into the master bedroom, my eyes land on the well-dressed bed. This will be the first time I’ve slept beside someone—just sleep. The thought is unnerving. It also reminds me of the number of women I’ve slept with over these past six months.

  “What side of the bed do you sleep on?” Carrie asks, snapping me from my thoughts.

  “I don’t mind.” Running my fingers through my hair, I hope to disguise my nerves.

  “I’ll probably end up on your side anyway,” she reveals, dumping her bag by the right side of the bed.

  “Oh?” I wet my lips.

  “Yeah. I’ve been told I’m a restless sleeper. I end up in all sorts of positions.”

  Bloody hell.

  She smirks, knowing damn straight what her comment is doing to me. This innocent flirting is sure to leave me walking with a limp.

  “I’ll be sure to stay on my side then.”

  She bumps me with her shoulder playfully. “Where’s the fun in that? Are you hungry?”

  “Ravenous,” I reply in a tone that reveals I’m not only hungry for food.

  Small victory for me when her cheeks blush a sweet pink. At least I’m not the only one affected by our flirting.

  She chews her bottom lip, her confidence soon replaced with the bashfulness she shows from time to time. It’s becoming. Like her whole persona.

  When I don’t shy away from staring at her, she nervously crouches down to unzip her bag. She retrieves a coat and her camera. “You can capture your beauty, and I’ll capture mine.” She loops the strap around her neck after slipping into her white coat.

  I stand transfixed as she untucks her long hair from the collar. Our eyes meet, and a knowing gaze bounces between us. But neither of us wishes to address it and make things awkward.

  “Shall we?” I suggest, suddenly needing fresh air. When she nods, I grab my jacket and laptop, and then we’re out the door.

  As a silence overcomes us when we enter the elevator, I wonder what she’s thinking. Our attraction has been present since the first moment we met, but this silence is new. Is she having second thoughts?

  She had no qualms flying to Paris with an almost stranger, so I don’t understand why she’s clamming up
all of a sudden.

  “I know a great café not too far from here,” she says, breaking the silence.

  “As long as they have coffee and croissants, I’m sold.”

  “Their pastries are delicious. Paris is not good for one’s waistline.” We exit the elevator and brace ourselves for the punishing weather.

  Once outside, we commence a quick walk as the morning air is bitterly cold. “There is nothing wrong with curves,” I say, remarking on her comment.

  She rubs her gloved hands together, blowing them as she’s still evidently cold. “Oh, so you like girls who aren’t wafer thin then?”

  Pulling up the collar on my leather jacket, I reply, “That doesn’t matter to me. It never has. Confidence and independence is far more appealing than a pretty face.”

  She doesn’t look convinced.

  “Why, you thought otherwise?”

  She shrugs, but that’s a yes.

  “Go on then. What do you think my type is?” This should be fun.

  “Judging by your ex-wife, I’d say your type is a superficial, spoiled princess with a stick up her ass.”

  I trip over my own feet, almost kissing the pavement.

  Carrie makes no apologies. “You asked.”

  “Yes, I did,” I reply when I find my voice. “I just find it interesting to hear your opinion of her.”

  “I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks that.”

  I mull over her comment and decide to set the record straight. “She wasn’t always this way.”

  “Uh-huh,” Carrie replies, hinting she doesn’t believe a word I say.

  I have no idea why I feel the need to defend her, but I soon realize I’m defending myself and not her. “There once was a time when I was enough. But after being together for thirteen years, the passion, I suppose, it dies.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Carrie counters, huddling into her coat as the wind blows.

  “Excuse me?” I can’t keep the humor from my tone.

  “That’s bullshit,” she repeats, not at all bothered. “Regardless of how many years together, the passion dies because the love was never there.” She seems quite passionate about this topic, so I listen with interest. “Time should strengthen what you have, not tear it apart. I hope I’m still doing the dirty with my husband well into my nineties, if I live that long.

  “Yes, we may not fuck like rabbits, but I’d imagine I’d still want him as much as I did when we first met.”

  “So you don’t think you’d grow bored?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “No.” She turns serious. “I think my love would grow more and more each day. That’s what love means to me… which is why I’m still single, so what the fuck do I know.”

  She’s deflecting her emotions, but I stop her by gently gripping her upper arm. We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, covered in white flecks of snow, but it’s small moments such as these that make the most impact. “Don’t disregard your feelings like that. They matter. And as it happens, I agree with you. Being in a relationship is a partnership, and I thought I’d found my partner, but it appears I’m still looking.”

  Her chest rises and falls, her cheeks rosy from the wintry breeze. A snowflake lands, perching on her long lashes, and just like that, inspiration hits.

  She is unique, different, just like every snowflake that falls from the heavens.

  “Let’s go.” Her lower lip quivers, and I’m unsure if it’s the cold or if it’s something else. I suppress the need to bundle her into my side when a shiver passes through her.

  We walk the rest of the way to the small café in silence. The smells catching on the morning chill are mouth-watering. Carrie enters the quaint café, which is simple in design but so very Parisian. As she peers around, looking for a table, a waiter immediately spots us, and I instantly want to tear off his arms and beat him to a bloody mess with them.

  “Bonjour. Table for two?” the young waitress asks.

  Carrie nods while I watch the preppy Ken doll make a beeline for her. “Salut. It’s okay, Anna. I’ll show them to their table,” he says with an American accent.

  Carrie seems to only just notice him as she looks up and smiles.

  “Follow me. I’ve got a booth in the back under a heater.” He winks as though he’s doing us a favor, and I have to refrain from reminding him it’s his job.

  We follow as do the eyes of every patron in the café. Yes, I can admit, he is clearly appealing to the opposite sex if you like that perfect hair, perfect teeth kind of look, but I know Carrie won’t fall for the optical illusion. She knows better.

  He places our menus on the table, that interested grin still attached to his face as he stares at Carrie. Then at me. Is he sizing me up? She shyly pushes past him to slide into the booth, but nothing is reserved about my manner as I clear my throat very loudly and almost send him three feet by shoving him out of the way.

  The violence alerts the creep to stop staring. “I’m Mason, by the way. I’ll be back to take your order.” He flashes a white, toothy smile, then leaves us alone.

  I sigh. Even his name is flawless. Why can’t he be called fucking Albert?

  Carrie removes her gloves and coat, and I reach for the menu. There is no denying this wave of jealousy clouding my rationale, but I squash it down because it has no right to be there.

  As I scan over the options, everything suddenly looks so bland. But Mason is the reason for the bad taste in my mouth. I toss the menu onto the table, deciding on just a coffee as I’ve lost my appetite.

  As Carrie studies the menu, I peruse the room, and my gaze lands on a young couple two tables over. They too are reviewing the menu, hinting they just arrived.

  “What will you have?” asks the beau to his woman companion in French.

  He wears a blue dress shirt and slacks, and his blond hair is styled neatly. Peering down at his shoes, it’s apparent they’ve been shined clean. I examine the lovely woman’s attire, which is a tight green dress and brown heeled boots. Her makeup is a little too heavy for a casual catch-up.

  His bouncing foot is a dead giveaway he’s nervous. Her hair flicking and licking of lips shows this for what it is—a first date.

  Without thought, I unzip my bag and pull out my laptop and glasses. As I wait for it to fire up, I peer over the top of my glasses and meet Carrie’s eyes.

  “What?” I ask when she appears to have seen something astonishing.

  “I like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “The look you get when inspiration strikes,” she explains.

  “Well, that seems to happen a lot when you’re around.” It’s out there before I can put a lid on my outburst. But Carrie seems flattered.

  “I’ve never been anyone’s inspiration before.”

  “That’s a damn shame and an indication of the boys you dated. They were just that—little boys who wouldn’t know their nose from their cock. Even Albert.” I have no idea where this bout of Tourette’s has come from, but I don’t regret a word.

  Carrie’s mouth twitches as she leans back into her seat. “Them’re some fighting words.”

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “Speaking of truths…how many women have you been with then? Seeing as you’re a big man and all.”

  This is dangerous ground we tread, but she makes it clear she won’t let this slide when she arches a challenging brow.

  Matching her pose, I brace my arm across the top of the leather booth and shrug. “Before my marriage turned to shite, I had only ever slept with one other woman before Liz. We got together when I was twenty.”

  She blinks once, clearly stunned by my revelation. “Wow. Her cheating seems all the more worse now.”

  I know exactly what she means.

  “So getting back on the horse, so to speak, wasn’t high on my to-do list. But Liz’s infidelity plagued me, almost mocked me at times…so I guess I…”

  “Fell into someone’s vagina?” she offers when I’m at a l
oss for words. A hoarse chuckle escapes me because I love how candid we are with one another. “Stop stalling. What’s the closing number?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” And that’s not because I have endless victorious notches on my bedposts. It’s because I never wanted to keep count.

  “Ballpark,” she presses, pursing her lips.

  There is no way I can avoid this topic without answering her. Math was never my strong suit, but I do a quick calculation in my head. I was hooking up with random women, some more than once, others a one-night-only deal, about two weeks after I left Liz. The number of women would be roughly two a week, maybe three.

  So, off the top of my head, I…holy shite.

  That’s a lot of women.

  “More than thirty?” Carrie says, giving me a lifeline. But I am utterly ashamed. When grouped together, that number confirms what a manwhore I am.

  During those six months, I never really gave much thought to the final number, but put on the spot like this, I suddenly feel the need to neuter myself. “Yes, more than thirty but no more than fifty. I don’t think,” I add, scratching the back of my neck.

  Carrie sits quiet. She has every right to want to spray me with Lysol. “Wow. I’m impressed with your stamina.” Her comment is supposed to be playful, but an underlying bitterness breaks the surface.

  I understand completely. I am disgusted with myself too.

  She senses my revulsion. “Hey, I’m not one to judge. Believe me.”

  Before I get a chance to ask what exactly that means, Mason strolls over. “What can I get you?” He has his notepad and pen poised, ready to take Carrie’s order.

  She shakes her head, most likely to dispel such heinous thoughts of my gluttonous cock from her mind. “I’ll have a café au lait and a pain au chocolat.” She purses her lips in thought. “And an éclair. And also a lemon and sugar crepe.”

  Mason writes down her order with a smirk. “Good choice. They’re all of my favorites.”

  Good thing no one asked you, I silently add.

  “And for you, sir?”

  The word sir has never sounded so…old. But I suppose compared to Mason, I am. I would guess him to be in his mid to late twenties. Not that much older than me, but when I was his age, I thought anyone over the age of thirty was ready for retirement.