“Aha! That’s the reason for the porky comment.” She grins. “You are going to want to string Tyler by his balls from the Eiffel Tower.”
“As long as it’s not a bullet and a boat, I think I can cope,” I say dryly, taking a small envelope from her hand.
“I’m sorry?” she chokes. “No, wait. There are some things I don’t need to know. Besides, I think I’ve worked that out for myself.”
I hold up three fingers and internally laugh at her gasp. Yep. The ex-call girl is amazed by simultaneous O’s. There’s something I never thought I’d see.
She’s still staring at me when I tear open the envelope. A card falls to my lap and I gawk at it. Not a note-card kind of card. A card-card. A credit-card kind of card. With Tyler’s name on.
I inhale deeply and pull out the note. Do. Not. Freak.
Believe it or not, I’m not being an arse. This time. Shocking, I know.
I conveniently forgot to tell you one of the shoots I want to do is a boudoir one…again. And I conveniently forgot to tell Dayton to pack you something suitable. Which means you have to buy something. Okay. Maybe that’s a little twattish…
Still, find something sexy. Preferably in that light pink colour you like. Definitely in the light pink colour.
And don’t come back until you have a pair of shoes that match.
If you also feel the need to purchase something for dinner tonight, go wild. Wild is how we do it, and I don’t expect any less when I throw my card at you.
Just don’t snap it, alright? I know your hot temper and I kinda need my card.
T
I swallow twice. His card. Right. For lingerie. And shoes. And a dress. I rub my nose.
“Well?” Day half-winces.
“He put a ‘u’ in color.”
“Um, what?”
“He put a ‘u’ in color. Fucking British and their stupid spelling.” I fold the note into quarters and tuck it into my purse then grab my wallet and slip my card into it.
“Why aren’t you going batshit motherfucking crazy?”
I sigh heavily and look at her. “What can I do, really? He’s even more persistent and controlling than Aaron—but not in a bad way. And hey, if he’s telling me to buy things that will ultimately get me fucked, who am I to complain?”
Dayton raises her eyebrows and opens her car door. I get out on my side and look up. The Arc de Triomphe towers above us. I know this place. The Champs-Élysées. The most expensive street in the world.
My best friend stares at me for a long moment before we start walking. “I’m not sure what he’s doing to you, but I kind of like it. Is he taming you?”
I laugh loudly. “No, he’s even crazier than I am. He’s wild and crazy and ridiculously impulsive.”
“I know someone else like that.” She gives me a pointed look.
“Perhaps that’s why we make sense in the worst kind of way.” I shrug, looking down the Champs-Élysées.
“The worst kind? No, Liv. You make sense in the best kind of way. Trust me. Opposites don’t always attract and work out. Sometimes you need another version of you, just with a penis instead of a vagina, to make everything seem right again.”
Elevator. Bullet in a restaurant. In a bathroom at a party. In a club. On a bar—an actual bar.
Those are only some of the things on Tyler’s list. He really wasn’t joking when he said he’d think up some places. Of course, I fully expect him to try everything on the list at least once. He’s nothing if not consistent, and he hasn’t yet said that he’ll do something without following through on it.
Shopping is painful. I’ve never been a huge shopper, but I’ve never been a hater of it either. After Day led me to a lingerie store off the Champs-Élysées, one she found after an afternoon of random walking around, we headed back onto the main street and passed a thousand designer stores.
Now, we’re in a high-end store I barely caught the name of, and I’m feeling like a fish out of water. I’m too scared to touch anything or, god forbid, look at a price tag. This is crazy and this isn’t me.
I wish I could be the kind of woman who’s able to spend a man’s money without batting an eyelid.
“How do you do it?” I ask Dayton, watching her hand three items to the clerk.
“I imagine it’s my money and not Aaron’s.”
That would work if I had this kind of money.
“You’re really not comfortable here, are you?” she asks quietly when she comes back to me.
“It’s not that. Maybe a bit.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t have a right to spend his money. It’s not mine to spend.”