Forget (21 page)

More Later,

-B

P.S. I hope I get to see Dylan soon, and I’m well aware of how pathetic that sounds.

A few days pass without seeing Dylan. He’s been busy keeping things running while his dad is away. At first, I thought it would be good to get some distance, but I’m finding it’s only making this longing that aches deep in my belly stronger. I miss him. It’s beyond crazy, but I can’t deny that text messages and brief phone calls aren’t enough to soothe my discomfort.

Lindsay and I have kept busy, checking off items on Millie’s bucket list.

5. Go antiquing at Les Puces St. Ouen. This is Paris’s version of a flea market. Do NOT leave until you buy at least one thing.

6. In Paris, wine is cheaper than water. Grab a bottle, a baguette, and pop a squat along the Seine. Enjoy a day drinking in the city while enjoying life for a few unhurried moments. No cares. No fears. No worries.

7. Le Champo in the Latin Quarter is the oldest cinema in the city. Go see a French movie there. Afterwards, walk along Champollion Street, stop someplace for coffee and just reflect.

8. Luxembourg Gardens. Sunglasses, a book, and a blanket are all you need to soak up the sun and enjoy the day.

Yesterday, we went antiquing at St. Ouen. American flea markets have nothing on the Paris version. I accomplished Millie’s demand of buying at least one thing. My hands were filled with several bags, jam-packed to the brim. Eclectic paintings for Ember to hang in her shop, wooden toys for Teddy, and several vintage dresses for me.

After shopping until our legs could hardly move, we finished the night at the cinema, catching a screening of an old French film. The film was called
La Règle du jeu.
Apparently, it’s known for being banned on its original release as too demoralizing. The movie slid from melodrama into farce, from realism into fantasy, and from comedy into tragedy. It was so different from than anything I’ve ever watched. Honestly, I still don’t know what I think of it.

Today, Lindsay and I are enjoying a lazy afternoon at Luxembourg Gardens. It’s amazing how this place encompasses such large stretches of open space within a cramped, bustling city. Wide walkways are lined by cookie-cutter trees. Rows and rows of blooms fill sculpted flowerbeds, their floral scent drifting past us with each soft breeze. And fountains, statues, and the city’s skyline looming in the distance add a stunning contrast to the beautiful foliage. It looks like someone plucked these gardens right out of a movie set.

Our blanket is spread over emerald grass. Sunglasses shield my eyes from the midafternoon sun. And Lindsay is sound asleep beside me, intent on napping the day away. I’m passing the time re-reading a book I know like the back of my hand. Occasionally, my eyes drift away from the pages and take in the people enjoying the gardens—couples stroll hand-in-hand, children throw pennies into a fountain, and sunbathers stretch out on the pristine grass.

My phone pings. I set it above the worn pages riddled with dog-ears and wrinkles, and find a text from Dylan.

‘I’ve got a question that’s been bugging me since we were at the wine bar . . . ’

I smile, it’s inevitable, and I don’t even try to hide the goofy grin spreading like wildfire across my lips.

‘What question might that be?’

‘What’s your full name?’

I should have known he’d eventually ask about the full name thing.

‘Ugh . . . ’

‘Just tell me. Pretty please . . . ’

He’s begging. How can I say no to that?

‘Delilah Brook Morning-Rain Sawyer.’

‘Hell of a name for a kid to learn. I can relate, Dylan Alexandre Bissette. So . . . what’s on the bucket list agenda today?’

‘Luxembourg Gardens.’

‘Are you there now?’

‘Yes. I’m currently stretched out across a blanket, shoes off, sun in my face, and reading my favorite book.’

‘I want your life. Can we switch places?’

I stifle a giggle, trying not to disturb Sleeping Beauty.

‘Paris is spoiling me. I could get used to doing this every day.’

‘It’s my favorite city in the world.’

‘Even better than London?’

‘Yes. But don’t tell anyone I said that.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Sitting in a meeting. It’s all rather stuffy and boring. My father owes me big time.’

‘When does he get back? He’s in London right?’

‘Yes, he’s in London. And he’ll be back tomorrow. Thank God.’

Figuring Dylan is too busy to be bugged with text messages, my eyes focus back on my book. Within a minute or two, I get another message from him. My nose crinkles as I read it.

‘Send me a picture.’

‘A picture of what?’

‘Of you, enjoying the sun.’

I start to refuse, but think better of it, snapping a quick pic of my bare feet resting on the white blanket the hotel concierge let us borrow.

‘I didn’t forget about your pervy foot fetish . . . ’

‘HA! I’m only pervy like that for YOUR feet. It’s like getting a peek at Tinkerbell’s toes.’

‘Ugh. Tinkerbell? Really? First Jesse and now you . . . ’

‘It suits you in only the best way. Your little toes are red today. I like it.’

Does the man miss anything?

I snap a quick picture of Lindsay’s peaceful face and send it.

‘Lindsay painted them before falling asleep. She can nap anywhere.’

‘Send me another, but of you this time. I want to see your smiling face.’

I shake my head as if he can actually see me.

‘No way, buddy. You’re lucky you got the first pic. I’m a strong anti-selfie advocate.’

‘Oh, come on, Brooke. Just one pic. I’d say you owe me for that impromptu photo shoot . . . ’

‘You’ll never let me live that down.’

‘Nope. Get to flashing, love.’

‘That sounded dirty . . . ’

‘I know. Now, do as you’re told.’

“Demanding bastard,” I mutter to myself.
God, he’s impossible to deny. I attempt to take a quick pic, but my selfie game is not strong. Not in the least.

Snap. Look. Delete.

Snap. Look. Delete.

I complete that circuit about a dozen times. Not one photo is worthy of sending. Why do I always have the weirdest expressions on my face? It’s like my mouth is intent on ruining every shot.

‘Bloody hell, stop taking a million pics. Take one. Then, send it. I guarantee I’ll love it.’

I glance around, paranoid. Is he hiding in the bushes?

‘That’s not what I’m doing.’

I hurriedly scan through my saved photos, sending the one of him from our paparazzi incident on the métro.

‘I was actually looking for this.’

‘Sure you were. Christ, I’m handsome. No wonder you couldn’t keep your camera off me.’

Laughing, I try to deflate his ever-growing head.

‘Bag the ego, cocky. You’re not that handsome . . . ’

‘But I’m handsome, yes?’

‘Yeah, I guess in an average, doesn’t really stand-out, but not too hard on the eyes kind of way.’

It’s so far from the truth it’s not even funny. Dylan is the guy a woman looks at once, twice, and then three more times because she can’t believe he’s real.

‘Well, my eyes need a picture of a not-even-close-to-average, painfully beautiful woman. I’m not letting this go. Send the pic, or I’ll be forced to leave this meeting and head to Luxembourg. Once I’m there, I can’t be accountable for my actions or the lengths I’ll go to get what I want.’

Damn, that was a mouthful and so incredibly hot.

‘You’re so demanding.’

‘You have no idea, love.’

My mind drifts to thoughts of Dylan and me, wondering what that perfect mouth of his could do. And his fingers, holy hell his long fingers, I can only imagine the havoc they’d wreak all over my fevered skin. Skin heats, nipples harden, and my body aches in response.

I dislodge the filthy fantasies, and give into his demands. Fingers tap the screen, snapping one picture. I guess for selfie standards, it’s not too bad. The sun is behind me, my golden curls are in disarray from the breeze filtering through the gardens, and a small smile rests across my mouth. It’s not Lindsay’s version of model ready, but it’ll do. I send it before I can second-guess.

‘Happy now?’

‘Deliriously so . . . You’re beautiful.’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a little sweet on me, Dylan Bissette.’

‘I’m ten seconds away from leaving this meeting so I can kiss that little smirk clear off your face. If that’s your idea of being “a little sweet on you,” then yes, Brooke Sawyer, I’m definitely that.’

Dylan gives the best compliments. Who needs drugs when I’ve got him? I could stay high off of his words for days.

‘If I was the kind of girl who swooned, I’d be all sorts of starry-eyed and swoony right now.’

‘Making you swoon is my new life mission.’

‘That’s a hard order to fill.’

An order he’s probably already filled,
my mind screams.
Multiple times, in fact.

‘I’m nothing if not determined.’

And
he’s nothing if not prompt, considering it’s only been two weeks since I first met him.

But the real question that’s racing through my head is how much longer can I play this game with him before I’m in too deep?

Tonight, I’m learning the real Paris nightlife is not in bars or clubs, but in homes. One of Lindsay’s model friends invited us to a house party inside her chic flat. It lies mere blocks from the Champs-Elysees. Clair is a Paris native whom Lindsay met while doing a runway show together in New York.

We brought Jesse and Dylan along for the ride, and the second they walked through the door they were bombarded with familiar friendly faces. Apparently the Paris house party scene is quite exclusive, and securing an invite can be a difficult task, but once you’re in, you’re pretty much set for life by networking standards. Hence, the “everyone knows everyone” kind of vibe I’ve getting.

It reminds me a lot of L.A. If I didn’t have connections through Jamie and the label, my couch, Doritos, and reruns of
Friends
on Netflix would make up all of my Friday and Saturday nights. Which, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing better than sitting on my couch,
sans pants,
while stuffing my face with junk food, but I’m glad it’s not my
every
Friday and Saturday night routine.

When my bladder starts screaming for release, I excuse myself from a conversation Dylan and I are having with a famous French director—
See what I mean by exclusivity?—
and head to the bathroom. Unfortunately for me, my best friend decides it’s a good time for a pow-wow, which explains my current state—skirt pulled up, underwear around my ankles, and Lindsay watching.

“Are you going to stare at me while I pee? I never pegged you as the voyeur type.” Lindsay is leaning against the wall—arms crossed and eyes on me—while I
try
to pee in Claire’s master bathroom. “And seriously, it’s creeping me out.” I lean back a little, trying to hide behind the small partition.

She shrugs, mildly amused. “I’m just curious what kind of wiper you are. Are you the adventurous chick who plants her ass right on the seat,
even
while she wipes? Or are you a hoverer, too worried about germs and other people’s piss to let your precious ass make contact with the toilet?”

I stifle a laugh. If I didn’t love her so much, her random weirdness and current inability to understand personal space would be grounds for disownment. “I’m the ‘stop fucking staring at me so I can finish pissing’ kind of wiper. You know, like most people.”

Lindsay waves an arm in the air. “Oh please, Brookie. We’re not most people. We’re best fucking friends. Hell . . .” she pauses, eyebrows scrunching for a beat and then continues, “I probably know your pussy better than mine at this point in our relationship,” she says, far too loud for this small room. Her mouth may as well be attached to a megaphone.

“You’ve never seen my pussy, ya freak!” I refute through a half-laugh, half-cough.

She smirks. “I know . . . I only said that because I thought I heard someone walking into Claire’s bedroom. Figured I’d scare them into leaving. I have zero desire to witness two idiots screwing like drunken bunnies when we exit this bathroom.” She’s
still
standing there, chatting with me like we’re having afternoon tea. “Speaking of drunk sex, why does it always feel so hot at the time? But the next day, once you’re good and sober, you realize that a guy grunting and calling himself Big Papa isn’t hot? I swear if I had to watch a sober replay of me having drunk sex, it’d be all sorts of horrible dirty talk and uncoordinated thrusting.”

I ignore the drunken sex ramble, knowing that if I add to it, she’ll go on for days. “I’m pretty sure that comment about ‘knowing my pussy better than yours’ wouldn’t scare anyone off. If there’s a perv outside the door, no doubt their ears are pressed against it, hoping to hear two chicks finger-banging each other.”

Lindsay cups her hand over her mouth, shouting, “Oh! Oh! Right there, Brooke! You’re so good!
So. Fucking. Good!
” She bangs the back of her head against the wall to bring it on home.

I can’t hide my grin or my laughter. “I swear to God, if my underwear wasn’t around my ankles, I’d be smacking you right now.”