Page 19 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

She shrieks again. “LAUREL. I HATE YOU. That’s insane.”

I spin slowly, showing her the room, then the massive bathroom with its marble counters and glass shower.

“This place is ridiculous,” she says, eyes wide on the screen.

“I know,” I agree. “I feel like I accidentally wandered into a movie set.”

“Girl, I can’t believe you’re in Paris,” she squeals.

“Me too!”

Her expression shifts into a wicked grin. “So… have you joined the mile-high club yet?”

I roll my eyes. “Tasha.”

She laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Professional trip. I know. But you’re missing out. I heard the orgasms hit different in the air.”

“Sure,” I deadpan.

She wiggles her brows. “Where’s Mr. Nine-inches?”

“In his room,” I say.

“Next door?”

I shake my head. “We are in the same suite.”

She gasps dramatically. “Okay, that man absolutely does not want anything about this to stay professional.”

Before I can respond, there’s a knock at my door.

“Hold that thought,” I tell her. “I’ll call you later.”

I end the call and walk to the door, opening it to find Leonid standing there.

“I ordered breakfast,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, so I took the liberty of ordering a bit of everything.”

“That’s really kind of you,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I have a meeting this morning,” he continues. “I’ll be away most of the day. But Louis can take you around later if you’d like.”

I blink. “Louis?”

“Yeah, the driver.”

“Oh, okay. That sounds great,” I say, genuinely grateful.

He lingers for a brief second, as if considering something else, his gaze resting on my lips, then he steps back. “Have a nice day, Laurel.”

And he walks away, leaving the door softly closing between us. I let out a harsh breath and decide to take a long, hot shower.

By the time I’m done, I feel a little more relaxed. I slip into loose shorts and an oversized tee, twist my damp hair into a messy knot, and step back into the suite. Leonid is already gone, so I don’t have to worry about looks.

The trolley of food waits in the living room exactly where he said it would. I wheel it closer to the couch and stare at the spread. Flaky croissants, pain au chocolat dusted lightly with sugar, a basket of crusty baguette slices with butter and fruit preserves, creamy yogurt topped with berries, omelets, fresh orange juice, and a small pot of strong coffee.

I grab a croissant first, take a bite, and reach for the TV remote to flip it on. It lands on a French channel playing something I absolutely do not understand, but it becomes background noise as I eat my way through half the trolley.

By the time I finally lean back into the couch cushions, I’m full to the point of mild regret and yet filled with delicious contentment.