Filthy Gorgeous (30 page)

My parents take their seats on the opposite side of the table. See the way my mother keeps nudging my father? And now there’s an uncomfortable silence. They’re plotting, I can tell. I throw my napkin on the table and cross my arms over my chest.

“I’ve already told you. I’m not going to sex therapy, or any therapy!”

They exchange knowing looks. My father pours me a glass of wine. “Calm down, son. Nobody mentioned therapy. How’s the Chardonnay?”

I give a heart-hearted shrug and poke at my food. “Meh. It’s okay.”

He swills the wine around his glass and inhales. “I picked this up from France last time I was over there.”

France.
There’s that word again.

My father leans forward. “I won’t beat around the bush, son. I’m not happy with your work at the moment.”

“What work?”

He sips his wine. “
Exactly
.”

He got me there. I haven’t exactly been on top of my game. My father pushes his plate to one side. “When you’re in your stride, you’re fantastic. One of the best in the business. Look at the way you had Juliana wrapped around your little finger. And not to mention your–”

“Jack!” Mom coughs.

I shudder.

My father dabs his mouth with a napkins. “What I’m trying to say is that you need to get your mojo back. It’s good for business.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he raises his hand and continues. “I have to admit, you know your target audience; women.”

I raise my glass and give a wry smile. “I must get it from you Dad.”

My mother gives me a sly wink.

He continues. “So, I thought to myself, why not target other perfume houses?” He leans forward. “Why stop there? Think about it. With your skills with the opposite sex, we could enter fashion houses. Shoe companies. The world is our oyster.”

I nod. He has a point. When I’m on form, I’m unstoppable.

He continues, with excitement dancing in his eyes. “And New York aside, where else in the world has the highest concentration of these kinds of companies?”

I take a mouthful of mac and cheese and think. “London, Paris …”

Wait a second.

I look up.

Mom and Dad are grinning.

I drop my fork. “Wait, so you need somebody to go to Paris?”

My father winks. “Exactly. Just for a few months to put the feelers out for new opportunities. What do you think, son?”

My ears prick up. I’m like a dog with two dicks. “What do I think? I think it’s a fucking awesome idea. Excuse my French.”

Dad takes a sip of wine. “Glad you agree. So I was thinking of sending Raj.”

Wait …
what?

I scowl. Now they’re laughing their asses off.

“Only joking, son.” My father reaches into his jacket pocket and pushes a piece of paper across the desk. I wish he wouldn’t do that—it really puts the shits up me.

I pick up the paper.

Fuck me
. It’s a plane ticket.

“I booked you in business class on an Air France flight next Tuesday morning. I talked to Juliana. She’s kindly offered loan of her apartment in Paris. As a gesture of good will, I told her you’d take it, to keep company costs down.”

My eyes bulge.

“Calm down, son. Juliana won’t be there.”

My mother winks.
Again
. All that wine must have given her a nervous tic. “And you never know who you’ll run into while you’re there, right?”

Christ, she’s really pushing for those grandkids. I’m her one and only hope.

But, my mother has a point. If I’m in Paris ‘on business’ and I accidentally-on-purpose run into Ella, then that would be …
cool.
Serendipitous. Definitely not stalking, okay?

My father lights up a celebratory cigar. “Is five days enough to get your shit together?”

I laugh.

Five days? It’s going to take considerably longer than that, but now there’s a glimmer of hope, it’s a damn good start.

You’ll be pleased to know that somewhere over the Atlantic, I finally got my shit together. I got my mojo back. Instead of entertaining the air hostesses with my sparkling wit, I spent most of the flight reading a visitor guide to Paris.

Did you know that The Eiffel Tower served as a billboard for Citroën from 1925 to 1934? Well, they did. The idea was considered a stroke of genius until the high energy bills made the company go bankrupt. Anyway, the idea got my creative juices flowing.  So I ditched the book and started brainstorming a plan for a new ad campaign I’m running.

This campaign is the biggest of my life so far.

The product in question is sexy, sleek, smart, and now comes without a beard.

You guessed it.

It’s me.

In the industry we call it ‘self-promotion.’ I’m going to sell myself to Ella Bryant.

Operation Filthy Gorgeous, here I come.

For a few hours I mulled over what I’ll say to her when I see her for the first time. How I’ll deliver my opener to trigger an emotional response. Then I thought, screw strategy. Where the fuck has that got me so far?

There’ll be no horse and carriage rides this time. No kittens hand-delivered by glittery vampires. No accordion players. No fancy billboards with my name emblazoned in lights on the Eiffel Tower.

Unlike Citroën, I’m not going for overkill.

All that matters is how she will respond. I screwed up. But I’m going to fix that. Ella Bryant needs to know that she doesn’t need to choose between myself and Paris.

She can damn well have both.

I thought about waiting a couple of days before I make contact, but I consider patience to be nothing but a waste of time, so as soon as I touched down, I dumped my luggage at the hotel.

See that handsome man there? The one with the drenched white shirt who’s running up the steps of the Metro station two at a time?

That’s me.

Three blocks later, I reach my destination; Place de la Contrescarpe. Though it’s raining and dusk has well since passed, the street still buzzes with activity. Tourists sit outside canopied bars, drinking wine under heated lamps. I grab a scrap of paper from my pocket to check Ella’s address.

Guess how I got hold of her address?

I had Parker intercept one of her postcards to Carrie. Like I said, the guy needs his own goddamn detective series.

I stalk around the square and I’m serenaded by an overenthusiastic busker strumming on a guitar. I still when I reach a small patisserie and check the names on the buzzer. There’s no sign of the name Bryant. I slowly raise my head and count the floors. See the window up there, the one with the flower box? That’s Ella’s apartment. The lights are on, but the drapes are drawn.

I won’t lie to you—I’m nervous as hell. These past few, lonely weeks have been excruciating.  I take a deep breath, push the water out of my hair with my hands, and hit the buzzer.

Bzzz.

No answer.

I take a step back, glance up to her window, and can just make out a slender silhouette of a woman. I recognize the waves of her hair; the curvature of her breasts.

Welcome back, boner. How I’ve missed you.

My eyes flicker to the left. And it’s then I see another figure. Ella Bryant is not alone. That’s gotta be a guy, right? Or a freakishly tall woman. My heart pounds. I take a deep breath. I refuse to draw conclusions before … now he’s touching her arm.

And I can’t move.
Sweet Jesus.
Now she’s removing an item of clothing over her head. I’m transfixed by the peep show unfolding before me. Rooted to the spot. Screw this—you really think I’m going to let some frog-munching champagne guzzler go down on my girl? Alexander Slade is not going down without a fight.

I slam the buzzer again.

Bzzz.

And wait.

There’s still no answer.

Jesus Christ, I have to get her attention. Regrettably, I left my boom-box back in the eighties, so I dart across the square and thrust one hundred euros in notes into Mr. Buskers’ pocket. 

He smiles. Then I grab his guitar. He’s still cussing in French as he chases my ass into the fountain in the middle of the square. He doesn’t quite catch me, so I launch as loudly as humanly possible into the first song that comes into my head:
Everlong
by The Foo Fighters.

The God version.

David Grohl, watch your back. Just kidding. Cover your goddamn ears and join in, ladies, ‘cause I’m just making this up on the spot.

Ella

I’ve waited here for you.

For so long

Right now

I want to get out of my head

Straight into your bed.

This has got to get her attention, right?

It’s her favorite song, and I’m murdering it like a dying alley cat. I repeat the first verse over and over again, because I can’t think of a second. A small crowd forms around the fountain and they start clapping along to my skills. And here comes a gendarme. Do you think he wants an autograph?

Nope—I don’t think so, either.

But I don’t care, because my rouse has worked.

The drapes are open.

There she is.

“Ella!”

She leans out of the window and braces her arms on the window ledge. Her voice is full of surprise. “Alex? Is that you?”

I unhook the guitar from my shoulder, hand it back to the busker, and run to her window. Christ, this feels like our ninth grade production of
Romeo and Juliet
all over again. Except this time, I get to play
Romeo. I wince at the memory. That corset was so tight that I had ball rash for weeks.

“What are you doing here?”

I look up to her with pleading eyes. “Ella, please let me in. I have talk to you.”

She’s joined by her friend. Christ, she can’t be dating him. If Harry Potter had a goatee, you’d be staring right at him. And just look at his goddamn neck scarf.
Pussy.

“Ella, please. Trust me—you don’t want me to launch into the next verse. It’s explicit and it involves a Pink Sladie.”

I swear I see a faint smile form over her lips. Then she says. “Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

I wait for what feels like a millennium before a green door finally creaks open. I suck in air.
Beautiful
. Even when she’s wearing casual clothes her beauty never fails to take my breath away. Harry appears by her side and mumbles something in French by her ear, but she’s not listening. Her eyes are in a trance-like state, staring at me with such intensity, so much so that I feel violated.

And I’m totally down with that.

A droplet of rainwater falls from the canopy above and onto her forehead. It trickles down her cheek and clings to her bottom lip. I can’t help myself. I reach out and brush it away with my thumb. Did you see the way her lips parted slightly when I touched her? How she inclined her head toward my wrist?

Scent is a powerful memory trigger. I’m wearing the same cologne I wore on our first date. That was intentional, by the way. I also sprayed it on my nut sack, just in case. I should warn you that I’m highly flammable right now. If she gets too close, my balls are going to ignite.

Ella turns to snailsucker and starts speaking in French. I have no goddamn clue what she’s saying, but he’s eyeballing me through his spectacles.

And then? 

He just walks away. Au revoir, Harry.
Expelli-fucking-armus.

I smirk. “First date?”

She shakes her head. “He wishes. Forget him—I want to know what you’re doing here? As in,
right
here outside my apartment.”

I lick my lips like a hungry animal about to pounce on its’ pray. “Invite me inside and I’ll tell you.”

She raises her eyebrows. “And if I don’t, what are you going to do? Sit here in the rain and serenade me all night long?”

I work the dimples. “You know me too well.”

Looks like the big fella is on my side; a sudden cloudburst hastens her decision. “Okay, Alex. Come on up.”

My shirt is so wet it’s almost transparent. Did you see her sneaky side-glance at my torso? Me too. 

I follow her inside and we climb the narrow, winding staircase up to her apartment. She pushes back the door and flicks on a lamp.
Wow.
Ella Bryant lives in a goddamn shoebox. There’s a Japanese-style bed pushed against the wall. It’s covered in colorful cushions and blankets. The kitchen begins at the end of a foldaway dining table. I’m pretty sure her pantry doubles up as a wardrobe.

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s cozy, I guess.”

She smiles weakly. “It’s a maid’s room. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m moving to a bigger place soon.”

Ella leans against the refrigerator and a heavy silence fills the air. Awkward. My eyes scan the room, trying to find somewhere to sit that isn’t her bed. Yep, I got nothing. She conjures a fluffy pink towel from the cupboard and throws it at me. “You need to dry off.”