I look up, seeing Jesse rubbing his dirty blond mass of wet hair with a towel. I lean back on my pillow and savor the delightful view. He’s naked. I’m dribbling.
He saunters over and crawls up the bed until he’s sitting on his knees by my feet. “Let me.” The towel gets laid across his thighs and he takes my foot in his strong hands.
“You want to paint my toes?” I ask, a little amused at my manly husband taking on such a girly task. He flicks me an indifferent look, clearly not bothered to be tending to his wife to this extent.
“I may as well get some practice in,” he informs me, straight-faced and all matter-of-fact. “You won’t be able to reach them soon.”
My foot lashes out on reflex, jabbing him straight in his stomach, not that it has the desired effect. He grins down at his lap and repositions my foot. “I don’t want to go home,” I say quietly.
“Me either, baby.” He doesn’t seem shocked to hear it, like he’s read my mind, or clearly been thinking the exact same thing. He gives my big toenail a stroke down the center with the brush, then one on each side.
“When can we come back?” I ask, watching as his concentration frown emerges. It makes me smile and momentarily forget my dispiriting thoughts.
“We can come back whenever you like. Just say the word, and I’ll put you on that plane.” He wipes across the flesh at the base of my nail and sits back to observe his handiwork. It’s not bad at all, considering his big hands and the tiny brush. He looks up at me. “Have you had a nice time?”
“Paradise,” I muse, resting my head back. “Continue.” I nod at my foot in his lap.
His eyes narrow playfully. “Yes, my lady.”
“Good boy.” I sigh dreamily, relaxing into the pillow. “What happens when we get home?”
He continues with the painting of my nails, not giving my question the acknowledgment it deserves. Something needs to be done, preferably by the police officially, not by Steve as a favor to a man he’s pissed off.
“What happens is that you’ll go to work and finally fulfill your promise to enlighten Patrick of Mikael.” He tosses me an expectant look, which I ignore.
“Do you think Mikael stole your car?”
“I have no fucking clue, Ava.” He places my foot down and picks up the other. “I’m dealing with it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”
“How are you dealing with it?” I can’t help the question. I really want to know because something tells me that like most of Jesse’s ways, it won’t be conventional.
As I knew I would, I get landed with a warning look, and I’m mindful that by pushing this, I may very well get tossed off Central Jesse Cloud Nine before we arrive back in London.
“End of,” he says simply, and I know it really is.
So I relax and let him finish the intricate task of painting my toenails as I silently appreciate both his attentiveness and the fact that he’s scrunched over, leaning down close to carry out his task, yet there is not a roll of fat on that stomach, whatsoever.
“You’re done,” he declares, screwing the lid back on. “I’m even amazing at this.”
I pull my feet up and lean over to take a look, half expecting to see a set of pink-colored feet, but no. Jesse is, indeed, amazing at painting toenails. “Not bad,” I flip casually, feigning the wiping of some stray polish that isn’t even there.
“Not bad? I’ve done a better job than you’d ever do, lady.” He jumps up from the bed. “You’re so lucky to have me.”
“Aren’t you lucky?” I ask incredulously.
“I’m luckier.” He winks, and I’m speedily dragged from my offended state on a sigh. “Come on, lady. Let’s go exploring.”
We pull off a roundabout and up to a security gate that leads down to a port. Jesse lowers his window and flashes a plastic card at a screen and the gate opens instantly, allowing him to drive through. “Where are we?” I ask, edging forward in my seat to look down the road.
“This is The Port, baby.” He proceeds at a crawl and turns onto a pedestrianized area, people mechanically moving to make way, not giving the DBS a second glance. I would’ve thought this strange, but I quickly register the dozens of prestigious cars, all parked in bays along the front. And not just the odd Merc or BMW. I’m looking at rows of Bentleys, Ferraris, and even another Aston Martin, all screaming billionaires. My attention is speedily drawn from the row of expensive vehicles when I clock the rows and rows of boats. No, not boats. These are yachts.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper as Jesse slips into an empty bay.