Page 73 of Good at Being Alive
“Someone woke me early with his erection,” I reply, and he groans, shoving his hand through his hair.
“I knew that was coming,” he says. “Coffee first?”
I nod. “Sure. I can make more erection jokes in line.”
We go down to the kiosk in the lobby, where he buys me a latte and a chocolate croissant without being told to get them. Increasingly, it doesn’t feel as if we’re pretending to be a couple but as if we actually are one. Minus the orgasms, that is. And it would be an unbelievably terrible idea, but I think I’d really like him to give me a few of those too. I’m ninety percent certain he’d shoot me down if I suggested it but…I wonder.
“Theo,” I whisper, grabbing his arm.
“Huh?” he asks.
“Come here,” I say, leading him by the hand through the black-and-white tiled lobby. “Grab that free chair.”
His mouth lilts upward on one side. “Which of us gets to sit? I assume you because your story is more tragic.”
I laugh. “It’s adorable how bad you are at this. Have you never tried to make someone insane with jealousy? Sit.”
He sits, and I immediately climb in his lap, curling up there like a child…or averyaffectionate wife.
He stiffens for a half second, then relaxes. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer, before he takes a sip of his drink. “So, who are we making jealous?”
“No one, but someone over there was watching us and she just placed a call. A hundred bucks says Kylie or Jasper or both of them arrive in a few minutes. And they’re hoping for some proof that this is all bullshit, and we’re not going to give it to them.”
He smiles. “I’m not sure the two of us sitting down here early in the morning offers much proof. If we wereactuallymarried, we’d still be in bed.”
There he goes again, saying things that make me want to explore the possibilities.
“Weareactually married,” I counter. “Kiss me.”
His gaze falls to my lips, a moment’s hesitation, before he tugs me closer and presses his mouth to mine. I suck the coffee off his lower lip and his quiet groan is a whisper against my mouth before he releasesme.
I try to move so I can see to the right of us in the bar and his hand clamps down on my hip.
“Careful,” he warns.
I tug his earlobe between my teeth. “What happens if I’m not careful?”
His eyes fall closed. “Several things I’d rather not have occur in public,” he replies.
I grin. “Maybe this morning will get interesting after all.”
The words are barely out before he suddenly rises, lifting me as he goes and setting me on my feet. “Enough,” he says. “We need to get ready to go, and I don’t give a shit who’s down here watching.”
“You’re the least fun husband I’ve ever had,” I sigh.
• • •
Our run begins down the Seine promenade, tree-lined and gorgeous. Lars and Katrina are both absent—I insist it’s suspicious and Theo says I watch too much TV—so Paula is in charge of the shoot. The first part of our loop would make any viewer want to take up running: the plant-covered houseboats andBateaux Mouchesfloating to our right, while ahead of us lies the Pont Alexandre—one of the world’s most famous bridges—with the sun glancing off its Belle Époque lamps and gold-leaf sculptures. On the other bank stand the Invalides and the Orsay, and if I were with someone other than Theo, I might admit that I sort of enjoy doing this.
Alas, we still have eleven miles left togo.
We cross over to the Left Bank, and I’m still hanging in theredespite the heat. I can appreciate the beauty of nature as we take a loop through the Luxembourg Gardens (mile three) but by the time we’ve reached the Tuileries (mile six), I never want to see another garden again. Paula decides this is a good time to pull the mics off and let us finish on our own, perhaps because I’m drenched in sweat and so repulsive viewers won’t be able to stomach the footage.
For our final loop we head up the Champs-Élysées toward the Bois de Boulogne—basically Paris’s Central Park—at which point I hate nature, and lakes, and have completely lost my filter.
“Why haven’t you visited your nephew?” I blurt.
His surprise is visible—a jerk of his head, stiffening shoulders. “Meeting my nephew would mean being forced to talk to his whore of a mother, among other things. I put my entire fortune in a trust for him. He’ll never want for a thing.”
