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“Done.”
I scamper out of bed and marvel at how strange my body feels. My ass should ache because of the spanking he gave me, but the hot oil did wonders. I feel limber and well-rested. The light fragrance of the oil still lingers in the air.
I push open the bathroom door and stop.
I blink.
The bathroom’s been transformed. White candles flicker along the windowsill, nestled on a shining silver tray. Soft strains of classical music play from hidden speakers. Beside the massive shower sits a sturdy table laden with the fluffiest, most brilliant white towels I’ve ever seen. I turn slowly to look at him in wonder. His phone up to his ear, he gives me a wink. My heart warms. I blow him a kiss and turn back to the bathroom.
I realize all at once what he’s doing. He’s giving me my perfect day.
In France, weddings rarely take place much before four o’clock in the afternoon. If his brother set his first alarm for six o’clock, we have nearly a whole day ahead of us.
I try to remember what I conjured up in my imaginings.
“…good, strong coffee, of course. Then I’d take a nice, long shower, in one of those huge luxury bathrooms with pretty white candles all lit up, scented soaps and lotion and fluffy towels and maybe soft strains of music playing in the bathroom…”
Ah, there it is. On the bottom shelf below the towels, there’s a silver basket filled with amber bottles and scented soaps next to washcloths as delicate and cushy as clouds.
Step one. Nice, long shower.
I washed my hair the night before, so this one’s nothing but luxury wrapped in rose-scented soap and steam. He did tell me to get back to bed, though, so when I remember, I finish up, slather lotion all over my body, then scurry back to bed and dive under the covers.
I don’t remember the last time I felt so pampered. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt so pampered.
A part of me feels as if I don’t deserve this. I didn’t earn this the hard way. My sister’s back home and though I make sure she’s well provided for, she isn’t living in the lap of luxury like this.
She will, I promise myself. She will.
Fabien’s still on the phone as I half doze, half dream in the comfort of the bed. I reach for my phone and realize I forgot to plug it in last night. I turn to go fetch it and see it next to me sitting on a wireless charger.
I point to Fabien, then point to the phone. He nods.
He remembered to charge my phone?
He’s too much.
If something seems too good—
There’s a knock at the door and I look over at Fabien. He points a finger at me, his phone still up to his ear. “Stay there.”
If breakfast in bed’s up next, wild horses couldn’t drag me from here.
I nod and sit up, covering myself with the duvet. My suspicion’s confirmed with the strong, inviting smell of coffee and pastries. My stomach aches.
“Oh my goodness, I’m starving,” I whisper as he approaches me with a large silver tray.
“Good. You’ll need your appetite for the day I have planned for you.”
I watch him prepare my coffee, then hand it to me before he nestles a wooden bed tray across my lap.
“I’d think you’re buttering me up for sex, but you already know how to play that angle,” I whisper, since he’s still on the phone and I’m about to take a gigantic bite of a croissant the size of my head.
“Shhh,” he mouths, “it’s my mother!”
I nearly choke on my croissant but when he stifles a laugh, I know he’s only teasing me.
I watch him as I eat my breakfast and imagine what we’ll do next. Spying several large white paper bags filled with boxes over near the door, I squint to read them. Rouje. Miaou. Chloé.
When did he possibly have time to buy me clothes?
I’d get dressed in clothes that fit me perfectly but were comfortable…
Finally, he hangs up the phone and sighs.
“Who muz if?”
“That’s neither French nor English. Maybe swallow that bite first.”
“I always swallow,” I say, and stick my tongue out.
“Looking for another spanking so soon?”
“Fabien.” He does know how to make me blush. “I asked who was it on the phone? Am I allowed to ask that, or is that like highly secured information or something?”
“Just Thayer. He knows I have to head back to Corsica, so he’s trying to squeeze in as much work here in Paris as he can before we go back.”
“Ah. Well, I can’t blame him. Thanks for plugging my phone in.”
He bends and kisses my cheek. “Of course.”
Other girls would say that Fabien is… well, maybe perfect. I wonder if it’s my upbringing in poverty that makes me suspect he’s up to something, that I can’t trust him. But right now, not only do I feel like I could trust him, I also feel like a girl who could get used to being treated this way. I know I would never take it for granted, though, no.
