“I think I love him!” I said.
Luka and I laughed and embraced each other, the dog squirming between us, wagging that stubby tail like mad and licking my face.
I woke with a start, my face still wet, and was completely disoriented—until I realized it was because my pillow was still damp with tears from earlier.
Homewrecker Candy was nowhere to be found when I exited the aircraft, Luka practically dragging me to the waiting limousine. Had he actually cheated on me with the flight attendant, or was it all a big show to hurt me? I had no idea, and I was afraid to ask when I knew the answer could potentially tear me apart.
Thinking back over our vacation, I was filled with bitterness. The most romantic city in the world, and I spent the entire time enduring Luka’s cold shoulder and monosyllabic responses to every question I had, every conversation I tried to start.
We took a day trip to Versailles that my parents had booked for us as a wedding gift, and when I saw Marie Antoinette’s retreat in the Trianon gardens, my chest tightened with empathy. Here was a girl who should have had it all—married to the king, ruler of France, wealthy beyond belief with every luxury at her fingertips. And yet she’d built herself tiny palaces to get away from it all. From the weight of the impossible expectations placed upon her, the difficult marriage to someone she hardly knew…a marriage agreed to for purely political reasons.
Part of me was convinced that I knew exactly how Marie had felt.
And then at the Orsay Museum, where all I wanted was to see Degas’ bronze ballerina in person. There was such a huge crowd around the diminutive, lifelike sculpture that Luka tried to pull me away from the gallery, insisting there were plenty of other artworks to see.
“I want to see her,” I had said. “I want to see the real satin ribbon in her hair, and the tulle of her tutu. I want to see the sculpture that caused such a scandal in the 1800s.”
“I’ve seen it a million times,” Luka said. “It’s overrated. It’s barely three feet tall.”
Smiling sweetly, I informed him in a harsh whisper that I did not fly four thousand fucking miles to get within ten feet of Little Dancer Aged 14 and then walk away without admiring it simply because I had to wait my turn.
Without another word, Luka had spun on his heel and left me there. Refusing to chase after him, I’d stood in the back of the crowd, slowly moving toward the bronze, one agonizing inch at a time. When the person in front of me finally stepped away, I gasped with delight at the ballerina. She was perfectly formed and shabby and even more beautiful than I’d imagined. But in that moment I was alone, with no one at my side to share my joy with.
After that day, I stopped trying to chase the magic by myself. I settled into the routine Luka had laid out for us, barely leaving the hotel and pasting a fake smile on my face during our few mandatory excursions. It had been painful to live through, but at least it was over now.
Closing my eyes against the memories of our disastrous trip, I start to drift off on the ride home. The next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“Are we home?” I mumbled, my voice husky with sleep. I don’t get an answer.
Opening my eyes, I take in Luka’s face and his very, very displeased expression.
“What the hell is going on, Brooklyn?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, massaging a crick in my neck, my brain in a complete fog.
Considering how little we actually did in Paris, I’m surprised at how wiped out I am. I’m not sure if it’s the jet lag or because of the exhausting show we’ve been putting on, and the stress of not knowing what would happen between me and Luka once we got back. Well, and I hadn’t been getting the best sleep on that stupid hotel sofa. It had been made for looks, not comfort.
“You got a text,” he says, holding my phone toward me. “Explain this.”
The screen is lit up, but I can’t see it clearly.
Between my mind-numbing crying meltdown on the plane, and my backseat nap, it takes me a moment to swipe my phone out of his hand.
The text includes a picture, and it’s from Mateo. He’s shirtless, flashing his six-pack abs and chest tattoos, posing with a sexy thrust of his hip for the camera. That boy always could take a flawless selfie, not that it does anything for me. There’s a voice message attached to the image, though. I hitch a brow and get ready to launch into an explanation until I remember…
I have a playing card right here that I’d completely forgotten about.
Despite being friendly with each other at the wedding and forming some kind of truce, Luka is obviously still deeply jealous of my best friend. Maybe it would be good for my husband if the tables were turned a little bit. Luka’s a pro at throwing women in my face to see just how jealous he can make me. Yet, with one little picture of my half-naked best friend, I’ve been given the power to do the same damn thing.
“I don’t know,” I say with a yawn. “But damn, he looks good.”
“Why is he sending you this?” Luka prods, even more furious. “It’s inappropriate. You’re a married woman. He’s naked.”
“Sure, from the waist up. Calm down, Luka. I’ve seen him a lot more naked than this.”
Our eyes meet, and I can see a little muscle jumping in his left jaw. The little flicker of jealousy makes me ridiculously satisfied. I have to stifle a smile.
“What’s the voice message say? What’s he saying to my wife?”
I shrug a shoulder. “What do you care, Mr. Lipstick-on-Your-Shirt?” Egging on his temper is childish and I know it, but I’m still livid about the drunken night he spent God-knows-where in Paris, on top of whatever may have just happened on our flight home. “I’m sure he isn’t saying anything to me that you weren’t saying to that bimbo flight attendant an hour ago.”
A frustrated growl comes from deep in his throat. He slides across the seat and starts digging around in the limo’s executive mini-bar. I hear glass clinking, the sound of liquid filling a cup, and then the scent of whiskey hits me as Luka takes a slug from the drink he’s just poured. I hate that he’s drinking again after going through so much effort to get it under control and keep it to a minimum level, but petty satisfaction still flows through me like sweet, sweet syrup. I’ve got him. I’m forcing him to eat a huge spoonful of his own medicine.
He moves back toward me with the short glass in his hand, and his eyes narrow. “It might serve you to remember that I’m not the one under contract, Mrs. Zoric.”
“Oh, yes you are, Mr. Zoric,” I shoot back. “Marriage is the biggest contract of all. And just as legally binding.”
I smile sweetly and tug the whiskey out of his hand, taking the biggest swallow I can manage—more because I don’t want him drinking it than because I actually like the taste myself.
My husband glares at me and steals his drink back. “We’ve talked about your relationship with this guy. You know how I feel about it. Have you forgotten that your little friendship caused problems with our image in the past?”
Oh, that’s rich. “Our image? This coming from the same man who was, in all likelihood, just photographed in Paris getting it on with a woman who isn’t me? And my friendship with Mateo isn’t ‘little.’ He’s been with me through thick and thin, and he’s more loyal than you are.”