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His smolder was already at an 8.5 out of 10.
If we didn’t get him on another ride soon, we might spend the whole day touring the amusement park’s storage rooms.
Chapter Fifteen: Valor
“Did you start unpacking yet?” I teased, then bit into my sandwich and started to chew. It was the third time we’d video called today.
My office had felt brighter and less oppressive as soon as she’d picked up the call, as though she’d brought all the sun, surf, and adrenaline home with her when we’d left Spain a few weeks ago.
How could I miss her already?
Going back to work after a vacation was always difficult, but after being with Tarryn and Loïc in Spain, it was fucking torture. Of course, I missed the food, the beach, and the sightseeing, but more than anything, I missed them.
How had I let things get to the point where I so rarely saw Tarryn in person?
“No, my bags are still sitting in the same place by the door. Is it bad that I’ve been hoping Loïc would drop by and take care of it before I had to pack again?” The lighting in her bedroom wasn’t great, but even so, her lips looked pale.
“You’re really not shaking that plane ick, huh? Hopefully, you feel better for your flight and the talk show interview.”
She gave a half-hearted smile. “Hopefully.”
My heart thrummed. Keeping secrets was hard for me, but surprising her backstage would be fun.
I took another bite of my sandwich, then realized it was douchey to eat in front of her.
Her throat worked. “I love you dearly, but do you need to chew so loud?”
I re-wrapped my sandwich and swallowed. I could finish eating after we hung up.
“I’m still feeling fine, so whatever you have is probably not the flu.” I pressed my lips together sympathetically. “I’m sure if Loïc was sick he would have let us know by now. He definitely wouldn’t be visiting his brother’s family.”
“He’s got his own place near them, so if he's sick he might be holed up there to recuperate.”
Right. I’d forgotten he had a house of his own. What would Loïc’s place even look like? It had to be as wildly eccentric as he was—what was the term for that kind of decorating? Maximalist. I could imagine the place overstuffed with books and cozy furniture and so many accessories it would be hard to weave through them all to get to a chair.
“I’d like to see how he lives, but we’d probably need hard hats and body armor.”
She laughed. “I’m picturing a lot of gold statuary and maybe feathers.”
“You, too, huh?” I grinned. “He definitely makes life interesting.”
“I’m not sure where this thing with him is going, but I’m glad to have one safe, sane, and consensual partner in this three-way relationship.”
“Me, too.” I chewed my lip. “Although I have to admit I’ve watched the video of him breaking into your room in the middle of the night probably a hundred times.”
She arched a brow at me. “My husband is such a fucking pervert,” she said affectionately.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She huffed a laugh, then she was gone in a flurry of movement, leaving her phone camera half covered with a bedsheet.
From far away, I could hear her heaving again. I’d have to make sure she drank some water because I doubted there was anything left in her stomach at this point. It had been days of this, and I was still trying to convince her to go to a clinic.
She came back a few minutes later. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just sorry I’m not there to get you some water and crackers.”
“Me, too.”
