Yes, yes, but this sham marriage doesn’t count. I’ll have to get a divorce because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants. Laura and I consummated the union, which made a swift annulment impossible. But that’s all right. Most WAFS couples end up divorcing. They’re almost expected to. We all signed a prenup, so the divorce shouldn’t be too messy or painful.
And, as soon as I’m free, I’ll resume my courtship of Celeste.
I open the balcony door, and the warmth of the apartment envelops me at once. What a contrast to the pleasant coolness of the night! Of course, there’s no AC here. The French have a problem with air conditioning, and it’s not for environmental reasons.
I say good night to my brother and his fiancée. They go straight to the master bedroom and close the door.
On my dash to the guest room it occurs to me that what Henri and Gigi find amusing may not be my ridiculous TV marriage per se. Rather, it’s seeing me in this freakish, unprecedented state of rut, all judgment suspended, unable to keep my hands—and other parts—off Laura.
How embarrassing!
But no less true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LAURA
The kitchen is quiet except for my muttering and the sound of wood scraping against wood. I’m standing on my tiptoes, yanking at the stubborn window frame with all the strength I can muster. But it won’t budge. The stuffy, stinky air of a Parisian summer afternoon seeps in through the gap, mocking my efforts.
It must’ve been the TV crew intern who opened it earlier while they were filming Antoine and me moving in.
What was he thinking?Well, given the nonviable length of his painted fingernails and his moon boots, not much.
Blaming the intern won’t solve the problem, Laura.
For a moment I consider giving up. But then I pull myself together. This place is air-conditioned. It’s only for two weeks, so you can be sure I’m going to enjoy cooled air to the fullest, courtesy of WAFS! The system at the Cala Stella resort may have been more advanced, but this is still so much better than the sauna in my apartment!
I’m not going to let a jammed window ruin the bonanza.
Swearing under my breath, I give the frame another hard tug. In vain.
“You’re going to dislocate your shoulder,” Antoine says somewhere behind me.
I look over my shoulder and find him perched on a bar stool, arms crossed, watching me like I’m his evening entertainment.
“Thanks for the commentary,” I snap.
Turning back to the window, I yank harder, exhale, and yank again. Still no joy.
“You know,” he says after a pause, “there’s a radical concept calledasking for help.”
“I don’t need help. I just need this stupid thing to—” I tug harder.
The thing in question doesn’t budge. My fingers slip off the frame, my wrist aches, and I can feel my face heating with frustration.
Antoine shoots me a look that says,I’m about to do something you won’t like.Then, without a word, he comes over, close enough that I can feel his scent and his breath at the back of my neck.
“Move,” he says softly, reaching for the window.
“I got this, I just need to?—”
But he doesn’t listen. His hands brush mine as he gently but firmly moves them aside. “Let me, please.”
Before I can protest again, he grips the window frame and gives it one firm push. The window slides shut with a loud thunk. He flicks the latch into place and tests it, just to be sure it won’t get stuck again. Then he turns to me.
His eyes meet mine as he rests a hand on my shoulder. “You need to learn to ask for help, sweet cheeks.”
“I don’t have a problem asking for help,” I bristle. “I just didn’t think you’d know how to fix it.”
