Offensive Behavior

The tap at the door, the question, “Is everything all right in there?” should’ve been embarrassing, but she’d court any humiliation to have Reid look at her as he did now—as if she ruled his world.

“Perfect,” he answered, managing to get a paper cup of water and a wet hand towel to her.

She snuck out first, avoided eye contact with anyone and was already seated with the inflight magazine open in front of her when he sat beside her. He leaned over the console and they kissed.

“I hate flying,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s irrational, more lives are ruined in traffic accidents.”

“You hate irrational.” That’s two reasons for him to be twitchy.

“I’m coming to see its value.”

She scratched her blunt fingertips on his head. “How’s that?”

“Never believed in romance either.”

His eyes were half closed and his breathing easy. The benefits of the mile-high club agreed with him. Seeing that agreed with her. “Romance isn’t real. It was made up by novelists and spread by Hollywood. It’s a lie peddled by every exotic dancer in every city of the world,” she said.

“Cynic.” He kissed her again. Not the kind of kiss two passengers on a plane, with an attendant two rows back discussing dietary concerns, were supposed to share. The kind that would fire through her body and spark its awareness all over again. That too was romance.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll demand a rematch.”

He snuck a quick pass of his hand over her breast, a finger sliding under her bra strap. “If I wasn’t almost unconscious I’d be all over that. Once we’re off this plane, you’re mine.” He sat back in his seat, hit the recline button and closed his eyes.

At thirty thousand feet or at sea level, how she felt about him was the same. She watched him fall asleep and now she was the one who was afraid, because she did believe in romance, she was his, and she didn’t know what to do about that.

TWENTY-FIVE

The apartment Reid booked was on Rue Charlot in the Marais. There was a bar at the end of the narrow cobblestone street, a bakery, a cheese shop and food market. There was a large four-poster bed that made Zarley laugh when she saw it.

They had everything they needed and the time together to enjoy it.

They spent that first day discovering the neighborhood and that first night they ticked another sex act off the list. In the old-fashioned bed, they had lazy, slow sex they were both too tired for and yet couldn’t give up. Reid stressed about it being good enough for Zarley for the five minutes it took to realize this time she wouldn’t leave him after a night, make him wait a whole week to see her again.

He woke alone, but could hear her clattering about in the little kitchen and stumbled out to see her setting up breakfast. She had fruit and coffee and croissants made with chocolate that were still warm and smelled delicious. She had groceries she unpacked. She danced about the small space, going from the countertop to the refrigerator to the table wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts in the school of Daisy Duke, and a skimpy tank.

“Did you go outside looking like that?”

She grunted and pointed to a chair. He sat. She slapped a plate of fruit in front of him. “Yes, and then I realized French women dress better than American women, but that’s not what you meant.”

He rubbed his face, but not hard enough to scrub the dickhead out. “I was being a jealous asshole. You can wear whatever you want.”

“Without your permission or approval.”

Jesus, what was wrong with him? He got her undivided attention and then opened his gob to make her regret it. It’s not that he meant to sound like a judgmental douchebag, but that’s how it came out. “Of course.”

“Eat your croissant.”

It tasted like ashes. This is why he’d been alone; he was no damn good with people. “Zarley.” She licked a buttery flake of pastry off her top lip and raised a brow at him. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re in Paris, I forgive you.”

It couldn’t be that easy. It shouldn’t be.

“But we have to talk about money.”

And there we go. Right as usual.

“If I win the prize money I can pay you back for the airfare. Economy class, because you upgraded on points. But I can’t pay you back for this,” she waved a hand around the apartment. It was bright, airy, furnished with comfort and not the most expensive he could’ve booked. “I can afford a youth hostel, not this gorgeous place.”