Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Bonjour monsieur. Pouvez-vous nous prendre à l’Hôtel Le Petit Chat Noir?”
“Oui. Bien sur.” The driver typed the destination into the keypad attached to his dash.
Blake stared at me wide-eyed. “You speak French?”
“I took twelve years of it.” I settled into the seat, smiling as I leaned into her ear. “Don’t expect me to say tittie tittie croissant to you in French, though.” My nose brushed the soft strands of her hair, and I fought the urge I had to run my fingers through it.
She elbowed my ribs so hard I grunted. “Stop eavesdropping, you freaking perv.”
“I’m not a perv.”
“Right, you’re just a dick doodler.”
The entire forty-minute drive from the airport, Blake kept her face plastered to the window. She kept muttering about how beautiful the city was, how much she liked the flower-filled wrought-iron terraces and the painted shutters.
At one point, I swore I’d heard her quietly singing “Bonjour” from Beauty and the Beast. And while I’d never admit it to her, random, off-the-wall shit like that was what made me have a thing for her.
Eventually, the car pulled to the curb in front of a row of elegant taupe buildings. I got out and retrieved our luggage from the trunk before handling the payment. After the driver pulled off, I noticed Blake’s brightly colored suitcase was still by the curb. She’d wandered off down the sidewalk, haphazardly snapping picture after picture after picture. Half of them would probably end up being complete crap. I’d once gotten into a heated photography argument with her in the breakroom. She’d claimed taking the time to line up an angle and make sure there was appropriate lighting was too meticulous. I claimed her method of snapping ten thousand within sixty seconds was too sporadic.
I popped the handles of the suitcases into place and dragged them toward the hotel entrance. “Do you even know what you’re taking a picture of?”
“The guy carrying the baguette.” She took one more before spinning to face me. “It was so French.”
“How stereotypical of you to say.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped on the camera icon.
“Are you always this grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy.” I flipped the camera to face me, pressed record, and smiled. “Hey, Vagabonders! You guys asked for advice on how to travel with someone you hate, and that’s exactly why I’m traveling with this…” I turned the camera toward a very annoyed-looking Blake. “My late-to-everything coworker who wouldn’t piss on my teeth if I were on fire.”
Her lip curled in disgust before she flipped me off and headed into the hotel.
“And the hate is strong after a ten-hour flight.”
I followed her into the lavender-scented lobby, panning the camera from the crystal chandeliers centered on the tall ceiling to the Victorian bar at the back of the room. “We’re going to get settled in, but check my page later if you want to see updates from Paris.” I pocketed my phone on my way to the concierge desk.
“Vagabonders?” Blake said when I stopped beside her. “You realize that’s cringe?”
“Cringe? Did the walking dictionary just use street slang?”
“Street slang is the only apt way to describe the atrocity you just committed.” She tapped the service bell, and a slender woman with a blunt bob rounded the desk.
The lady went through the motions of checking us in, asking for IDs and payment. I slid the Wanderlust business card across the counter, then turned to Blake. “And for your information, my followers decided to call themselves Vagabonders.”
Blake snorted. Then took a Paris brochure from the wire caddy at the end of the counter. “So what are your My Dick Travels followers called? Peen Peepers or Meatstick Minions. Wait! Please tell me you lovingly address them as Sausage Scopophiliacs.” A pleased smile curled her lips.
“I don’t even know what a scopo—whatever you just said—is.”
She sidled a little closer to me and pushed up on her tiptoes. Her warm breath teased my neck when she leaned in, her lips brushing my skin. Fighting a groan, I told myself I wouldn’t try to fuck her on this trip. No matter how tempted I was.
“It’s a person who gets sexual pleasure from looking at things like porn,” she said in a hushed, slightly seductive breath. “Like your My Dick Travels followers.”
Now I had the idea of her and porn floating around in my head. Great!
I took the room keys from the concierge, grabbed my luggage, and headed across the opulent lobby toward the elevator.
“Don’t most people get sexual pleasure from looking at porn?” I said. “Isn’t that the entire point? And it’s not porn.”
Blake stopped beside me. “It’s a picture of your dick.”
“Funny pictures.” I pressed the button. “Not pornographic.”
“It’s a picture of your bare dick, Vance. That is the definition of pornographic.”
The elevator doors creaked open, revealing a sign taped to the back wall noting a two-person maximum. There was no way it could fit two people plus two suitcases.