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“I thought after breakfast we’d take a walk along the boutiques on the Rue Saint-Honoré. I want you to buy a couple of cocktail dresses. Then after lunch, the Eiffel Tower, and I have a surprise for you in the evening.”
“Sounds amazing, but I don’t need cocktail dresses; they’d be a waste of money.”
“You do for where I’m taking you tomorrow and on our wedding anniversary.”
“Where, where are you taking me?” she asked eagerly, her interest piqued. Would they visit Disney Paris? Her heart fluttered with excitement. Then she recalled she was supposed to be proving to them both that she didn’t need to spend time being a little. Disappointment made her stomach drop.
David tapped the side of his nose. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. I have tomorrow and our wedding anniversary days planned; the rest of the week’s activities are up to you to decide.”
“I need to know where we are going so I can choose the right outfit!” she complained.
“Nice try, Penny-Pie, but I will be there to guide you so no worries on that score. Now time to change for dinner.”
Sulking, she made a moue of her lips. He always had the upper hand. He held his out to her; she chuckled at the thought she was using a metaphor of hands just as he held one out to her. As he helped her up, she swayed and giggled again.
“You’re tipsy,” he told her.
“What a silly word that is,” she chortled. “Tip-sy, tip-sy. Topsy-turvy, that’s a funny word too!” She dissolved into helpless laughter.
“Oh, God, you’re drunk!” David said.
“I am not dunk!” she declared.
“Drunk, and yes, you are. I’m ordering in room service. We’re eating here.”
“Ooo, listen to Mr. Bossy-Boots! Suppose I want to eat in the big posh restaurant?”
He cast her a seriously measured look.
She pointed at him. “You should see your face!” Her peal of mirth turned into hysterical giggles. Collapsed back on the couch, she gripped her aching stomach and howled with laughter, not even noticing that David had left the room.
* * *
Awaking the next morning, she blinked against the harsh daylight.
With a mouth that felt full of cotton wool, she wondered what was wrong with her. She felt utterly wretched and her head ached abominably. “I’m sick,” she moaned softly.
“You have a hangover,” David announced drily and unnecessarily loudly from somewhere nearby.
“No need to shout,” she grumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.
A moment later the pillow was removed and David held out a steaming cup of something. She sniffed the air; coffee! Pulling herself up into a sitting position, she reached for the cup and saucer. No mugs in the Ritz. Blurry-eyed, she saw David’s hair was wet; he wore a white towel wrapped around his hips.
“What’s the time?” she asked between sips.
“Nine o’clock, I ordered breakfast to be brought to the room because I knew you’d sleep late.” There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Talk of the devil...” He crossed the room and disappeared, reappearing a few moments later holding a tray, which he deposited on her lap. Inventorying the contents—a glass of iced water, a bowl of fresh fruit diced, two fat fluffy croissants, and a yogurt—she began with the water.
“Just eat what you can, babe. I’ll eat through there,” he waved toward the sitting room. “I’ve got a full cooked breakfast and I thought the smell might make you queasy again.”
She looked up. “Again...?”
“Yeah, last night; you don’t remember?”
“I was sick?”
“Um, yeah, just a bit.”
