Christ. The man was one text away from live-tweeting his emotional breakdown, and I snickered while typing a reply.
NICO: Don’t get your panties in a twist. I was asleep. Glad you made it safely.
NICO: Been here a while. Did you eat?
Why the hell had I sent that? What would be next? I’d ask if he brought a sweater?
PACKY: Don’t know about you, but I don’t wear panties. And my very masculine boxers are not in a twist. They’re playing their supporting role perfectly.
PACKY: When you ignored me, I ordered room service.
Jesus. Had he wanted company?
NICO: I’d hate for your heroic underwear to suffer. Sorry I missed your texts. I’ll try to be a better girlfriend next time. For now, I’ll order room service too.
PACKY: We’re due at the school at 11:30 tomorrow. Breakfast at nine? We’ll make a game plan.
Breakfast withhim? My stomach already didn’t like mornings, and I hoped seeing him over bacon and eggs wouldn’t make it revolt.
NICO: Fine. Restaurant downstairs?
PACKY: Yep. See you then.
I almost put the phone down, but thought better of it. If we didn’t at least pretend to start on the right foot, this mission would go up in flames. I sent another message.
NICO: See you. Sleep well.
No response. Fuck him. He was probably too busy giving his boxers a pep talk.
6/
packy
Nico flashed an infuriatingsmirk as the car pulled up, and I should’ve known better than to hold the door open for him. Of course, he would turn basic courtesy into some kind of power play. But I was trying,reallytrying, to get through this PR nightmare without making headlines for the wrong reasons.
“After you,” I said.
He didn’t move. “Trying to score good-guy points already? Are there some cameras nearby?”
So much for trying.
“Just being polite,” I said. “Wouldn’t want you whining if I stepped on your fancy shoes.”
“They’re Italian leather.”
He dragged his eyes down my body before settling on my shoes, then snickering.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with Italian anything,” I said.
I looked him over, searching for something to criticize. Perfectly tailored gray wool pants, and a blue polo that fit like it had been sewn onto him. Cashmere, probably. Custom-built for showing off.
I considered asking for his workout routine, but rolled my eyes instead. “Pretty sure I could manage spaghetti.”
“Judging by your tie, I’m not sure you can even manage dressing yourself.”
“Very funny. I think you need an attitude adjustment before we see those kids.”
Leaning close enough for me to catch his cologne, he lowered his voice. “Careful, Paquette. Someone might think you’re flirting.”
