Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
And now, I can go. “It’s a deal.” I set her on the couch, kiss her on the head, and run to my room to pack.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a cab.
52
SEX, LOVE, AND CAMEMBERT
ASHER
It’s. Just. Too. Bright.
The sun aims its morning death rays my way, blaring at fifty thousand watts through the bedroom window.
That’s . . . weird.
I always shut the drapes at night since, well, sleep is my second-favorite activity, after sex.
I rub my eyes, push up on my elbows.
Must be early, but I can’t find my phone to check the time. Yawning, I stretch my arms over my head as I sit up, then get out of bed to shut the curtains so I can sleep some more.
Maybe I could sleep the whole day away. What better way to spend my lonely birthday? As I trudge to the window, I glance down.
Whoa.
Property of Mark Banks is stamped on my briefs.
Oh shiiiiiit.
Last night slams into me, and I groan so loud they can hear me at Notre Dame.
I pulled a Mark Banks, didn’t I?
I got intexticated.
But what the hell did I say? Spinning around, I race to the bed, hunting for my phone. Is it between the sheets? Grabbing the covers, I haul them off. It’s not there.
A search between couch cushions, on the coffee table, and in the nightstand comes up empty.
Wait.
Maybe I showered with the phone, shot him a very sexy selfie. Yup. Sounds totally stupid and totally like me. Bet I did that instead of spilling my love guts via SMS.
But my phone’s not in the bathroom, so I march to the kitchen, where the charger lies unattached on the counter next to a bottle of scotch.
And that’s a lot less full than it would have been when I opened it.
My mouth is sandpaper, so I yank open the fridge to grab the water pitcher.
What the . . .?
My phone is perched on top of the camembert, dying at two percent.
With a groan, I jam it onto the charger for juice, where it takes one hundred years for my texts to open.
Clicking on the text string, I scroll up right away, embarrassed as I re-read every single sappy message. This is a disaster. I told Mark that I love him. I do, of course. But you’re not supposed to wail it at your true love when you’re wasted. Gawd, this is ugly. Now if I repeat it, he won’t even believe me.
I feel sick as I scroll through all the crazy things I said. I’m thirty-one years old today and still incapable of adulthood. Example—the last text I sent before I passed out:
AND NOW I’M PUTTING THE PHONE IN THE FRIDGE WITH THE CAMEMBERT SO I'M NOT TEMPTED TO TEXT YOU LOVE NOTES ANYMORE TONIGHT
But there’s a reply blinking up at me. Sent nearly ten hours ago.
Mark: I’m on my way to JFK right now to catch the 10:20 p.m. flight. The details are in your email. Pick me up at CDG at 12:20 p.m. at international arrivals. I need to have eclairs with you in Paris on your birthday. Clearly, you need me, too, since Maroon 5 sucks.
Is this real?
But Mark Banks is not a prankster. And the email from Delta serves up the absolutely spectacular news that my save-the-day boyfriend is traveling coach on a flight that lands in one hour and fifteen minutes.
He’s flying coach for me.
I smell like the sewer, but feel like a rock star.
Leaving the phone to charge, I take the world’s fastest shower, brush my teeth, pull on clothes, and run a hand through my wet hair. I grab my cell and bound down the creaky staircase in my building to hail a taxi.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m totally sober again, but buzzed in a whole new way⏤with joy.
“Charles de Gaulle, s'il vous plaît," I tell the man at the wheel.
Then I go to the airport to pick up the only gift I want⏤the man I love.
I feel sheepish as I stand outside of the secure area, waiting for Mark. The app on my phone shows me that his flight landed safely, right on time. But what the hell am I going to say to him?
Hey, honey, thanks for leaving your injured daughter in New York after I got drunk and lost my mind last night. I really do love you, but you don’t have to say it back if you’re not feeling it for this man who smells like a distillery. It’s too soon, and I’m kind of a mess, but maybe I can feed you some eclairs and change the subject to blow jobs? After all, your name is on my underwear. What do you say?
I’m still working on this little speech when another group of passengers streams through the doors. And, like magic, my gaze goes right to Mark. He’s walking confidently through the crowd, weekend bag slung over his shoulder, hair tidy in spite of the overnight flight.