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“You’re the devil,” I say as I bend my head to touch his and look up at the camera. Both of us have faint smiles and eyes full of secrets.
“Perfect,” he says and snaps the photo. I only flinch a little.
“How’s the brownstone coming?” I ask.
He lets out a short laugh. “Did I mention how much I fucking miss you?”
Olivier used the first part of his share of the book advance to put a down payment on a brownstone in Brooklyn which was in desperate need of renovation. It was a bargain for that neighborhood, and even in the state I was in, I’d loved the place.
It took some convincing on my part to get Olivier to consider living on the other side of the river, but ultimately, he has trouble saying no to me, too.
He used his parents’ money for the renovations. His father did email him to ask about the enormous amount of disappearing funds, but Olivier told him he was remodeling the penthouse for Elodie. No further questions were asked.
“The old walls are gone. It’s really big, you know?”
“It’s three thousand square feet,” I remind him.
“That sounds tiny.”
“One day, I’m gonna teach you about five-dollar bills. That’s gonna really blow your mind.”
He snorts and leans his head into my shoulder. “He’s got jokes.”
I put an arm around him and let my head rest on top of his, listening to him tell me about the Long Island plumber—trigger—and the plan to restore the original crown molding. “Two more months, they said.”
“You know you have to triple that.”
“What?”
“Contractor math.”
“Ugh. You need to get better and get out of here. I need you.”
“I’m coming,” I tell him.
“If you keep saying shit like that every time I visit, you’re gonna turn the next two weeks into the most intense edging I’ve ever experienced.”
I laugh again, and Olivier’s answering smile is blinding.
I see him again the next day, and the day after that, and every day until his “honeymoon” is over, and I’m ready to get on with our lives. We leave the treatment center the same way we came in, hand in hand and deeply, deeply in love.
On a less sappy note, we make it about fifteen minutes on the road before the need to really reconnect overrides everything else, including Olivier’s ability to drive. I google the nearest motel, and Olivier hits the gas.
I’m happy. Not like stupidly happy or blissfully unaware. Not euphoric or elated, but as Olivier and I enter the totally typical roadside motel room and he takes in his surroundings like Alexis on Schitt’s Creek, I laugh easily at him without a shred of restraint.
He gives me a wry glance. “If I didn’t want you so bad this would be a hard no.”
I stalk toward him. “But you do.”
“I’m shocked they didn’t offer an hourly rate.”
“You’re wearing Burberry.”
“Oh, like that woman could tell…”
I push back his hair to shut him the fuck up. “You turned off, baby?”
“No,” he whispers once he catches my gaze.
