Oscar sits up straighter.
“Why Paris?” I ask.
“Well, you know how I love Paris, and Mark just wants to make me happy.”
“Wow,” I say again, and this time, I’m genuinely excited. I should definitely give this Mark guy another chance. If the man is willing to cater to all my mother’s wishes, maybehe isa catch.
“Mark says he will pay for your flights… you and Sarah. And a guest each.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Wow,” is all I can say. Mom must have told him how I’m broke. Sarah is an attorney — she has money, but me, not so much.
“You can bring Oscar,” she says, eager, “or one of your girlfriends… maybe.”
I mull it over. Do I want to take Oscar? A trip to Paris is big. This thing we have going is casual. It doesn’t involve spending the night together, traveling, or romantic cities. He might get the wrong idea. I’ve always been careful to make it clear: this is just for fun — no commitment.
Oscar would never admit it, but he’s the commitment type. His childhood was a happy one: parents who love each other, a sweet sister, and a pretty little house in the suburbs, which his parents still live in. He loves dogs, babies, backyard swings, and burgers on the grill. Oscar is as simple as they come, happy as a clam. I envy that about him. I, on the other hand, am a mess.
I grew up in a chaotic household. We lived in small decrepit apartments mostly. My dad owned a bar, a dirty dive where he met my mom — she was a waitress. He drank a lot, and partied too much. Most nights, they’d fight. My mother would complain about his drinking and philandering ways, and having to take care of the children on her own, and he’d bitch about her spending his money. I’d lie in my bed, and stare at the ceiling. “Never getting married. Never having kids,” I’d whisper like a mantra. My sister, who bunked in the twin bed next to mine, would always snicker. I’m sure she felt the exact same way.
I could take one of my friends. We could make it a girls’ trip. Eat escargot and chocolate, drink pretty cocktails, and flirt with Frenchmen. But who should I take? Gabbie, Corrie, or Maeve?
“Yeah, sure… wow,” I say to my mother. I’m still speechless.
Gabbie probably can’t go. She’s about four months pregnant and has two kids to take care of. Maeve is busy with her new shop. And Corrie… it would probably need to be Corrie.
“Well, sorry, darling, but I have to go,” Mom says. “You know how it is… bride-to-be. Lots to do.”
“Of course, yeah,” I say, absentmindedly. “Congratulations.”
“Bye, sweetie,” she says, and she’s gone.
“Your mom is getting married in Paris?” Oscar asks, chomping at the bit. He wants to know what’s going on.
“Yes,” I tell him.
He wraps an arm around my waist and slowly pulls me in to him. “I’ve never been to Paris,” he tells me. “Could be fun. We could get a little charming room with a big fluffy bed.”
I smile. “It is the most romantic city in the world, some say.”
He presses his hot mouth against the curve of my neck. “The things I could do to you in Paris.”
I laugh. “What kind of things?” I ask, intrigued. “How would they be different?”
“Well, the French are very, very dirty, and when in Rome…”
I wrap my hand around his hard-on — thank goodness it’s back. “Don’t you mean, ‘when in Paris’?” I tease.
With one swift move, he slides the band of my sweatpants over my hips. “Now where were we, before your very rude mother interrupted us,” he says. “Oh yes, I was about to eat your pussy, and fuck your little brains out.”
I bite my lip — I love it when he talks dirty.
He flips me on my back. As he pulls off my sweats and panties, a wicked smile practically breaks his face in two. He has such a huge grin, it draws you in and holds you captive. I’m eager for him, and anticipate his hot mouth on my sex.
“I can’t wait,” he says. “Paris is going to be killer.”
Oh, shit. He thinks he’s going. I can’t lie to him. I need to be upfront with him. This is sure to ruin the mood. Damn, I haven’t gotten off in over a week, and he was just about to go down on me. I roll my eyes to my bedroom ceiling.
Yep, this is one of those days.
