Page 53 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
“Done what before?”
“Had a…” I struggled to label it. “A nonstop fuck fling for days on end.”
He laughed. “Nope. I mean, I can’t say I’ve never gone home with someone, but the nonstop thing is new for me.”
“Me too.” Relief washed over me like rain—I wasn’t just one of a string of girls to scream his name in this apartment. Repeatedly.
Then I was quiet for a minute, actually trying to count up the number of orgasms I’d had with Lucas. Holy shit, was it going on ten? That was more than I’d had with Tucker all year, probably.
And we’d never had one together. Suddenly I wanted Lucas to know that. To feel special.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
A smile crept onto my lips. “I thought the simultaneous orgasm was just a myth.”
“Then we’re even.”
I blinked. “How so?”
“I thought the gorgeous girl giving me that insane blowjob in the kitchen was a figment of my imagination. Then she did it again in the shower, so I’m beginning to think she might actually be real.”
I smiled, letting my tired eyes close. “She’s real.”
But was she? Lying there in his arms, I wondered if that was true. Was this girl here really me? Or was I acting out some sort of fantasy ver
sion of myself, indulging every whim, acting on every impulse? Was this all a reaction to being told ten days ago that my life wasn’t what I thought it was? That I couldn’t be who I thought I’d be? Maybe I was using this fantasy to avoid facing the truth—I had to start over.
Or was there more to it? Had this girl been inside me the whole time, smothered by the idea of what I thought I should be? Silenced by the fear of admitting I might be making a mistake? Revealing I wasn’t perfect? Wasn’t I relieved in part that Tucker had called off the wedding? Certainly this girl here in Paris felt more me than I’d felt in a long time.
But this still wasn’t real life.
Frowning, I snuggled deeper into the crescent of Lucas’s body. I didn’t care if it wasn’t real life.
It felt too fucking good to care.
After a breakfast of coffee, fruit, and crepes—which Lucas cooked—I went back to the hotel to pack a bag for the trip to Vaucluse. I’d convinced Lucas I could navigate my way back by Metro on my own, and even though I had to study the map for several minutes, I felt quite pleased with myself when I emerged onto the street from the Franklin D. Roosevelt station.
I didn’t even feel any shame walking into the hotel in an outfit that was obviously Last Night’s. My heels barely touched the ground as I floated through the lobby, humming a tune. It had only been about twelve hours since I’d been there, but it felt like much longer. And my room was just as spacious and beautiful as ever, but it didn’t feel as welcoming or charming to me as Lucas’s small apartment.
The message light was blinking on my phone, and I grimaced, imagining five of them from my mother, haranguing me for not calling her daily like I said I would.
Sure enough, the first three messages were from her, listing the usual litany of horrible things that could happen to a young woman traveling alone. She demanded I call her back, and she knew I’d spoken to Coco because she’d called her, too. “If you made time for her, you can take five minutes and phone me as well,” she snipped. “I’m your mother. I’m only worried about you.”
“OK, OK,” I grumbled, slipping my heels off. “I’ll call you back.”
The next message was from Erin, who had also spoken to Coco but just wanted to hear the details from me. “I can’t get over it—it’s so cool!” she bubbled. “I want the full scoop, so call me when you can. Love you!”
And the last message…was Tucker.
“Hey, Mia.”
Long pause, during which my stomach plunged five stories and went kersplat on the Avenue Montaigne.
“I just wanted to call you and…make sure you’re OK. Make sure you have everything you need at the hotel.” Big sigh. “I’m feeling…bad about the way things ended. I mean, Christ, I don’t even know if they are ended. Completely, anyway.”
Another long pause. I brought a hand to my mouth. Was he fucking serious?
