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“I give you my word. I’ll keep my lips—and other organs—to myself.”
“It wasn’t so easy for you to do that at the gala.” I resume my walk, trying to keep the insulted bite out of my voice. He falls into my step, letting out a sexy, throaty laugh.
“Yes, well, as established, I was very drunk and very lonely. Not a good combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Spare me your excuses. Just never touch me again.”
“Why?” he asks, genuinely interested. “Forgive my honesty—not many people use it these days—but it’s not like you betrayed Paul. He is currently six feet under, in an advanced stage of decomposition—”
“Arsène!” I roar, stopping in place again.
“—after cheating on you, for the vast majority of your short marriage.” He ignores my outrage, soldiering through. “While I’m right here, very much alive, and dare I say—more attractive than that oatmeal with legs and a crew cut. And you can’t tell me you don’t find me attractive, either, because I might’ve been drunk during that kiss, but my ears were working fine. And I remember, Winnifred, your heartbeat slamming against my chest. How you moaned and trembled—”
“Stop!” I push at him desperately, jerking him away, my face hot with shame and something else. Something dark and depraved. Need? “Just stop! I don’t care that he cheated. I don’t care that he was a scumbag. He was still my husband.”
Arsène stares at me nonchalantly, waiting for the storm to be over.
“Now please leave me alone. I can walk home by myself.”
“No,” he says flatly. “I’ll see that you get there safely.”
I start moving in my apartment’s direction again. “Aww. You sound like a good southern boy.”
“No need to hurl insults my way.” He resumes his walk. “Going back to our original conversation—you’re welcome to see the private investigator’s file whenever you please, provided you’ll give me access to Paul’s office afterward. Furthermore, whenever we see each other, I promise not to kiss you.”
“Thank you,” I say primly.
He grins. “You’ll be the one to kissmeall on your own.”
“Dream on!” I cry out childishly.
We’re almost at my apartment, and the sun is beginning to peek from the rooftops. Where’d the night go? I’ve spent ten hours with this man without even realizing it.
I stop next to my front door and lift my chin up. “I’ll reach out when I’m ready to see the file.”
“One last question.” Arsène leans an arm close to my ear against my building. He is so nonchalant, so beautiful, it is maddening to think he is—was—one woman’s man.
“What’s that?”
“I overheard your mother saying you should go to the doctor. Are you okay?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m too scared to check.
Laughing carelessly, I say, “Goodbye, Arsène.”
I fling the entrance door open and slam it in his face.
After all, for him, this would be another exotic tidbit to laugh about on his way home.
For me, it is my life. My destiny. My heartbreak.
I wake up to the sound of my phone, alarm clock, and doorbell all chiming simultaneously. Groaning into Paul’s pillow—I still like to sniff it at night, pretending his scent lingers on—I unplaster myself from the warm sheets.
I bang the alarm clock on its head. By the time I reach for my phone, the call dies. I squint at it, the screen too bright for my sleepy eyes. A chain of text messages rolls in quick succession.
Lucas: TELL ME YOU READ THE TIMES. TELL ME YOU DID. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. YOU ARE FAMOUS, BABY.
Rahim: We need to ask for a $$$ raise after this, LOL.
