Page 43 of Meet Hate Love
“For your information, I never sleep past ten.” I dug through my belongings, picking out a white lace thong and matching bra before I closed the top of my suitcase. “Unless I’m hungover.” I glanced over my shoulder on my way to the bathroom, finding his attention solely on the skimpy underwear dangling from my hand.
Right before I closed the door, I caught his reflection in the mirror as he adjusted the erection tenting his towel.
And I smiled. Misery loves company, after all.
* * *
I tooka quick shower and may or may not have thought about Vance while I pleasured myself. Yes, I knew masturbating in the hotel bathroom while he was in the next room was weird, but it took me less than three minutes. That’s how bad it was, and I had to take the edge off if I wanted to survive.
I slipped into my green sundress, put my wet hair into a braid, then swiped on my BB cream and mascara. When Vance had asked how I’d gotten ready in twenty minutes instead of two hours—smartass—I’d told him it was because I was hungry. It wasn’t a lie. I was starving.
Vance’s gaze met mine as we rounded the street corner. “Any word on Rent-a-Poo?”
Thanks to the whole viral video thing this morning, I’d almost forgotten about that little nugget.
“No. No word on how that went over yet. They’re probably still sleeping.” A smile crept over my face at the thought of my sister throwing a complete tantrum when she found out her party had literally been shit on. The delight I felt over that truckload of manure was akin to the excitement I’d imagine Christian Grey might experience at the prospect of having five-hundred ginger-root bulbs to shove up a woman’s asshole. Simply put, the thought of it delighted the sadist inside of me.
“I hope it ruined her entire day,” he said, brushing something from the sleeve of his tight black T-shirt.
I liked our mutual disdain.
“Trust me, Kate is a diva. One lone dog turd under a picnic table would have sent her over the edge. An entire yard of poop will ruin her year.” And possibly my mother’s. I took a few steps before I felt my smile fall. Sure, my sister had done me dirty; still, delighting in her misery felt wrong.
“Don’t do that.”
I glanced up at Vance. “Do what?”
“Feel guilty.”
How had he known an unexpected seed of guilt had wormed its way through my chest? He was a man. Men weren’t supposed to be intuitive.
“She’s not a nice person,” he said. “She deserves a lot more than a shit-covered yard.”
Karma, right? The warm sun that crept between the elegant stone buildings heated my face, and I took a breath, trying to ignore the feeling that I was a horrible person for wanting Kate’s day to be ruined.
“Shit...”
I glanced back at Vance.
“It keeps bleeding,” he said, swiping at the small gash on his forehead.
“Because you keep touching it. You need a Band-Aid.”
“I’m not putting a Band-Aid on my forehead.”
“Do you just want to walk around Paris, bleeding everywhere?” I continued down the sidewalk, past shopkeepers putting out their goods for the day.
“I’m not bleeding everywhere.”
Half-rolling my eyes, I headed toward the electronic, greenpharmaciecross on the corner of the street.
The dark-haired lady behind the counter greeted us with abonjourwhen we stepped inside the small shop. We greeted her back.
“That’s a nice touch, you know?” I perused an aisle filled with homeopathic treatments and picked up a box with flowers on it. “I wish people in Manhattan did that.”
“If people greeted customers in New York the second they stepped in, at least one person a day would respond with, ‘Fuck you.’”
I put the item back on the shelf. “You’re a pessimist, aren’t you?”
