Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
It’s now hanging on my closet door, more artwork than apparel.
But I digress. While the coffee and the roses sort of made sense, an expensive robe didn’t. What significance could that have had? None, I told Amber, though I failed to mention that my ratty old cotton robe had gone missing the same night. Coincidence, I’d thought. Until a few days after the kimono arrived, and I’d found it stuffed down in the back of the hamper. No way it could have fallen there. I’d blamed Sarah for dumping it there, and we’d had a fight. And then she moved out. Which was a complication I didn’t need.
I resolved to think no more about it, about the gifts or about him, until a membership in my name arrived to a high-end spa in a hotel downtown. A spa with a beautiful hammam, which is sort of a bathing pool. I didn’t even know what it was until I asked! And didn’t I tell him I missed having a bath in the apartment?
I love all of my gifts and appreciate every one of them, no matter where they’ve come from, but this gift is the gift to beat all others. This gift is absolute heaven. Life is pretty tough at the moment, but my visits to the spa keep me going. I schlep on down there with my Gucci knock-off slung over my arm, which probably looks more Forever Twenty-One than designer. Because that’s where I bought it from. I enjoy a glorious treatment—a massage or facial—then I go soak in the hammam, which is just pure bliss, unlike the bus ride home.
There’s no Porsche or Maserati waiting in the parking lot for me. And this is just one more reason I can’t see how these gifts could have come from Remy. He was a tourist, maybe even a backpacker. And after spending a year travelling around the world, I know these demographics aren’t exactly known for being plump in the pocket or even very considerate. And if Remy was wealthy, how come he came back to my place that night? Yeah, okay, other than the obvious, but that wasn’t on the cards when we left the hospital. Or even when I tucked him into bed.
Not that I’m saying the gifts aren’t considerate. And he was a considerate bedmate. Orgasms a-plenty were delivered that night. Also, he was considerate enough not to die in my bed. But then he left, leaving behind a lot of unanswered questions. I mean, how did he come to be on my street in the first place? And what about the tale of his bike? I did find a road bike helmet behind the house the following week, but if he’d had an accident, where’d the bike go? And why didn’t he have credit cards or even a phone?
‘You look like you’re deep in thought.’ Amber’s words pull me from my thoughts, propelling me out of my chair.
‘I’m thinking about snacks,’ I lie, grabbing my iPad from the kitchen table and holding it instead as I pull a bag of chips from the cupboard.
‘But seriously, if you name that baby Beryl, I’ll turn up like Maleficent and put a curse on y’all’s asses.’ I stuff a couple of chips into my mouth to prevent me from spilling the thoughts that seem to continually rotate through my brain.
Remy. Remy. Remy.
Who is he really? What was he doing in my neighbourhood? Why me?
‘That was hardly a seamless segue. And y’all’s? Aren’t we a spitfire tonight?’
‘When I’m under pressure, the Kentucky in me always busts out.’
‘And you’re under pressure because I’m busting your lady balls?’
‘My lady balls are safe in your gentle hands. It’s just . . .’ I should’ve shoved another handful of chips down. I should’ve choked on them rather than speak. ‘I keep thinking about the gifts.’ Why do they keep coming? Why is he making me think? He bailed. Fine. I get it. He had reasons not to stay. But he’s now supposed to let me forget how much I enjoyed having him around.
‘Are you thinking about selling the coffee machine?’
‘No, I already did that.’ Desperate times calls for desperate measures and poor girls don’t need expensive kitchen gadgets. Besides, I’ve sort of gotten used to drinking bad coffee.
‘So . . . you keep thinking about him?’
The fact that she hasn’t referred to him as Monsieur Baguette catches me off guard a little.
‘I just don’t see how the gifts can be from him. The man had calloused fingers!’
‘I’m sure there’s logic in there somewhere, honey, but I’m damned if I can see it.’
‘Rich men don’t look like him.’ Can’t feel like him. ‘Hell, working men don’t look like him, either.’
‘You’re going to have to explain this to me. Words of one syllable, maybe add in a little detail.’ She adds a roll of her hand to hurry me along, but I don’t exactly know where to start.