Page 140 of Marry Lies
“Stop the car,” I tell him.
I think I hear Miles knock and tell the driver to pull over between the rushing of blood in my ears and the deep, calming breaths I’m taking, but I’m not sure. All I know is a few seconds later, the car stops suddenly, and I’m just throwing the door open when my stomach tosses its contents onto the pavement outside.
Once I’m done, I feel much better. Miles—bless him—massages my back as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Food poisoning? Again?” he asks gently, helping me into the car.
“I guess,” I mutter, frowning. We’d been in Mexico with Liam and Zoe for her eighteenth birthday a couple of weeks ago, and I’d spent an entire evening hugging the toilet.
It wasnotfun.
“I hope not,” Miles says, pulling me into his side as he kisses the top of my head. The driver slowly continues, and I close my eyes to quell the queasiness. “Let’s get you home and into bed,” he adds, placing a warm, protective hand on my thigh.
“I hope I’m not sick for the launch,” I say quietly.
“You’ll feel better by next week, butterfly. Don’t worry.”
The alarm on my phone goes off. “Can you hand me my purse?” I ask him.
He does, and I quickly swallow my birth control pill, drinking the smallest amount of water possible so that I don’t upset my stomach further.
Suddenly, realization dawns on me. “Oh, duh,” I say, laughing. “I bet it’s the new birth control. It’s my hormones evening out.”
When I look over at Miles, he looks relieved. “Makes sense. But if they’re going to make you sick, why not just get one of those spring things again—”
I laugh. “It’s a coil, darling. And we talked about this. They last five years, and if you want to knock me up next year after the wedding, it’s not worth getting another one put in,” I remind him. “The insertion is quite painful,” I add, wrinkling my nose.
I’d gotten my coil out last month and switched to the pill. Miles and I are eager to start a family, but we also want to wait until after the wedding next August. It made sense to switch to something a bit more temporary.
“Fine, fine,” he says. “I just hate seeing you sick.” He kisses the top of my head again, and I hear him smell my hair. “See, I don’t smell the fountain water at all. I think you smell like fucking heaven. Whatever those hormones are doing, they’re making me feel crazy.”
I laugh as we pull up to our flat. And by flat, it’s really the entire top floor of the building. I say goodbye to the driver as Miles and I head upstairs.
I’d been worried about coming back to Paris with Miles, especially because Charles Ravage still lives here. But Miles kept his word and hasn’t spoken to his father since their conversation almost six months ago. I know my father is very happy at Ravage Consulting Firm, and all’s well that ends well, I suppose. Maybe one day he’ll forgive his father, but knowing Miles, probably not.
He unlocks the door of our flat and closes it behind me, locking the deadbolt before pulling me into our bedroom.
“Why don’t you undress,” he says casually. “I’ll run you a bath.”
I stand by the bed as I slowly unbutton the white shirt I borrowed from him. He disposes of my wet clothes in the laundry basket, and then he walks into the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bath as he waits for the water to heat up in the clawfoot tub. It hits me then. He’s shirtless. That he gave me his shirt without a second thought. That he walked through Les Jardins du Trocadero with his scars on full display. And he had absolutely no reaction to doing so.
“Do you want lavender bubble bath or eucalyptus bubble bath?” he asks, and the question causes me to burst into tears.
He comes running over to me a second later, scooping me up into his arms and carrying me to the bed, setting me on his lap.
“Estelle,” he murmurs, petting my still-damp hair and brushing his thumbs along my cheeks as I sob. “Did I do something wrong? I don’t have to run you a bath. We can just go to sleep.”
I hiccup and laugh before sobbing again, and Miles’s concerned expression makes me cry harder.
“I—don’t—know—why I’m—crying.”
He pulls me close to his body, murmuring softly and soothing me with his words.
Once I’m done, I sniff and rest my face against his neck before wrinkling my nose. “God, that fountain water is wretched,” I say, pulling away.
He smirks down at me. “Feel better?”
I nod. “I suppose. I have no idea what that was about. I think I’m just emotionally wrung out from the launch. I mean, I’ve been so busy, and then we flew from Mexico to Paris, and I haven’t had a second to really sit and digest that my clothes are going to premier next week, and then I have to do all the wedding planning because absolutelynothinghas been secured except the venue and the dress,” I add, heart racing. I start crying again as it all washes over me, and I feel so…out of control.
