Beautiful Bitch
Page 32
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It felt wrong to dive into the infinity pool knowing she was stuck in New York. I didn’t want to walk through the vineyards bordering the house, because it seemed like something we should discover at the same time. Max’s housekeeper had put out some bottles of wine for us to enjoy, but surely only a giant ass**le would drink them alone. My claim to this house was hers, too. I’d still only opened one bedroom door, and slept there, not wanting to go through our options until she’d arrived. Together we would pick out where we would spend our nights.
Of course, if I said any of this to her she would laugh at me and tell me I was being dramatic. But that’s why I wanted her here. Something monumental happened to me the other day when I used the bat signal, and that sense of urgency hadn’t diminished, and probably wouldn’t until she was here and had heard what I had to say.
I walked through the gardens, stared out at the ocean in the distance, and checked my phone again, reading Chloe’s most recent text for the hundredth time:
Looks like Air France might have an open seat.
She’d sent this one three hours ago. Although it seemed promising, her previous three texts had been similar, and ultimately she’d been bumped from those flights. Even if she had left three hours ago, she wouldn’t make it to Marseille until tomorrow morning, at best.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure emerge from the back of the house and place a platter of food on the table closest to the pool. Another peek at the clock on my phone told me that I’d managed to kill a few hours, and it was finally time for lunch. The house had come with a cook, a fifty-something woman named Dominique, who baked bread every morning, and, so far, served some variety of fish, fresh garden greens, and figs at lunch. Dessert was handmade macarons or tiny cookies with jam thumbprints. If Chloe didn’t get here soon, Dominique would have to roll me to the door to greet my lady friend.
Beside my plate was a large glass of wine, and when I looked over at Dominique, she’d stopped at the threshold of the back door, pointed to the wine, and said, “Le boire. Vous vous ennuyez, et solitaire.”
Well, shit. I was bored, and I was lonely. One glass of wine couldn’t hurt. I wasn’t celebrating—I was surviving, right? I thanked Dominique for lunch, and sat down at the table, trying to ignore the perfect breeze, the perfect temperature, the sound of the ocean not even a half mile in the distance, the feel of the warm tile beneath my bare feet. I wouldn’t enjoy a single second until Chloe was here.
Bennett, you are one pathetic navel-gazer.
As usual, the fish was incredible, and the salad with tiny tart onions and little cubes of a sharp, white cheese packed so much flavor that before I knew it, my wineglass was empty and Dominique was at my side, quietly refilling it.
I began to stop her, telling her I needed no more wine. “Je vais bien, je n’ai pas besoin de plus.”
She winked at me. “Puis l’ignorer.”
Then ignore it.
One bottle of wine down and I began wondering why I hadn’t bought a villa in France myself. I had lived in the country before, after all, and while the memories were bittersweet—time away from friends and family, a grueling work schedule—I’d lived here in a time of my life that felt so short in hindsight. I was still young. I was still starting out, really. Thank f**k Chloe and I had found each other when we still had our whole lives ahead of us.
Hell, if Max could find a gorgeous place like this, I could find one that was even more lush and beautiful.
The wine had left my limbs warm and heavy, my head full of rambling thoughts that seemed to have no reason. How insane would it have been to know Chloe in my early twenties? We would have torn this place up, and probably lasted only a weekend. Isn’t it amazing how you meet the person you’re meant to meet, when you’re supposed to meet her?
I fumbled with my phone and texted Chloe: I’m so glad we met when we did. Even if you were an enormous pain in my ass you’re still the best thing that ever hapened to me.
I stared intently at my phone, looking for an indication that she was replying, but nothing. Had her phone died? Or was she asleep in the hotel? Could she text on the airline? I did the mental calculation, knowing she was six hours? Seven hours behind . . . ? No, too complicated. I smiled at Dominique as she poured me another glass of wine, and I texted Chloe again: Not drinking all of the winembut what I have is dellicious! I promis to save some for you.
I stood, tripping over . . . something. I frowned down at the lawn and wondered if I’d stepped on a small animal. Discarding the thought, I walked into the garden, stretching my arms and letting out a long, happy sigh. I felt relaxed for the first time since I’d last f**ked Chloe, which was about a zillion years ago. With a full stomach and a bit of wine in me, I realized I hadn’t taken the time to plan for Chloe’s arrival at all. We had some things to get out of the way first. We had some talking to do, some planning.
Of course, if I said any of this to her she would laugh at me and tell me I was being dramatic. But that’s why I wanted her here. Something monumental happened to me the other day when I used the bat signal, and that sense of urgency hadn’t diminished, and probably wouldn’t until she was here and had heard what I had to say.
I walked through the gardens, stared out at the ocean in the distance, and checked my phone again, reading Chloe’s most recent text for the hundredth time:
Looks like Air France might have an open seat.
She’d sent this one three hours ago. Although it seemed promising, her previous three texts had been similar, and ultimately she’d been bumped from those flights. Even if she had left three hours ago, she wouldn’t make it to Marseille until tomorrow morning, at best.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure emerge from the back of the house and place a platter of food on the table closest to the pool. Another peek at the clock on my phone told me that I’d managed to kill a few hours, and it was finally time for lunch. The house had come with a cook, a fifty-something woman named Dominique, who baked bread every morning, and, so far, served some variety of fish, fresh garden greens, and figs at lunch. Dessert was handmade macarons or tiny cookies with jam thumbprints. If Chloe didn’t get here soon, Dominique would have to roll me to the door to greet my lady friend.
Beside my plate was a large glass of wine, and when I looked over at Dominique, she’d stopped at the threshold of the back door, pointed to the wine, and said, “Le boire. Vous vous ennuyez, et solitaire.”
Well, shit. I was bored, and I was lonely. One glass of wine couldn’t hurt. I wasn’t celebrating—I was surviving, right? I thanked Dominique for lunch, and sat down at the table, trying to ignore the perfect breeze, the perfect temperature, the sound of the ocean not even a half mile in the distance, the feel of the warm tile beneath my bare feet. I wouldn’t enjoy a single second until Chloe was here.
Bennett, you are one pathetic navel-gazer.
As usual, the fish was incredible, and the salad with tiny tart onions and little cubes of a sharp, white cheese packed so much flavor that before I knew it, my wineglass was empty and Dominique was at my side, quietly refilling it.
I began to stop her, telling her I needed no more wine. “Je vais bien, je n’ai pas besoin de plus.”
She winked at me. “Puis l’ignorer.”
Then ignore it.
One bottle of wine down and I began wondering why I hadn’t bought a villa in France myself. I had lived in the country before, after all, and while the memories were bittersweet—time away from friends and family, a grueling work schedule—I’d lived here in a time of my life that felt so short in hindsight. I was still young. I was still starting out, really. Thank f**k Chloe and I had found each other when we still had our whole lives ahead of us.
Hell, if Max could find a gorgeous place like this, I could find one that was even more lush and beautiful.
The wine had left my limbs warm and heavy, my head full of rambling thoughts that seemed to have no reason. How insane would it have been to know Chloe in my early twenties? We would have torn this place up, and probably lasted only a weekend. Isn’t it amazing how you meet the person you’re meant to meet, when you’re supposed to meet her?
I fumbled with my phone and texted Chloe: I’m so glad we met when we did. Even if you were an enormous pain in my ass you’re still the best thing that ever hapened to me.
I stared intently at my phone, looking for an indication that she was replying, but nothing. Had her phone died? Or was she asleep in the hotel? Could she text on the airline? I did the mental calculation, knowing she was six hours? Seven hours behind . . . ? No, too complicated. I smiled at Dominique as she poured me another glass of wine, and I texted Chloe again: Not drinking all of the winembut what I have is dellicious! I promis to save some for you.
I stood, tripping over . . . something. I frowned down at the lawn and wondered if I’d stepped on a small animal. Discarding the thought, I walked into the garden, stretching my arms and letting out a long, happy sigh. I felt relaxed for the first time since I’d last f**ked Chloe, which was about a zillion years ago. With a full stomach and a bit of wine in me, I realized I hadn’t taken the time to plan for Chloe’s arrival at all. We had some things to get out of the way first. We had some talking to do, some planning.
