I laughed, put the phone in airplane mode and then flipped over the envelope. Across the front was my name scrawled in an elegant slanted penmanship. Only it wasn’t my name, it was what he called me. “Ma jolie.” My pretty, in French. I miss it already. The phrase spilling from his bowed lips in the morning, his hair a messy tumble on the pillow.
Shaking my head took the pressure off the simmering emotions threatening to explode in a deluge of tears. I opened the envelope and pulled out a card. It was a replica of a painting, one of his actually. A town in France that he’d painted at some point and had been made into greeting cards. It was as funny as it was sweet. Egomaniac.
I opened the card and out spilled a handful of pictures. Photos of the paintings along with the one of us he’d taken himself. The selfie I’d made fun of him for. I was holding his face and kissing the daylights out of him. Strands of his hair had escaped the bun and mine were flowing wildly as we kissed. The sun shined down perfectly on us. I held the picture to my chest and let the tears fall. I would miss my Frenchie. Very much.
The last photo was a copy of me, the one he’d aptly named “Goodbye, love.” It was the perfect ending to a beautiful month. He didn’t write anything in the card. His pictures said all that needed to be said.
Like Wes, I’d never forget my time with Alec. I’d cherish those memories as a part of my life wherein I truly lived and loved.
I sifted through the emails about my new client sent from Aunt Millie. I clicked on the picture icon. Holy moly. Another hottie. This was one definitely Italian. As in, Italian stallion. Where does she come up with these guys, Hotties-R-Us? Anthony “Tony” Fasano was thirty-one, an ex-boxer, which was the picture I looked at. The man’s body looked like it had been cut from tanned marble. His skin was olive-toned, hair jet black like mine, but his eyes where a steely blue. He wasn’t as tall as I usually liked my men, only around five-foot eleven, but what he lacked in height he well made up for in raw male beauty.
Based on the picture of him standing and holding a boxing belt of some kind, he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. How is that possible? He owned a giant chain of Italian restaurants. That food is not known for being low cal. Maybe it was an old picture? Like Millie said, it didn’t really matter why he needed me. He just did. And I’d pretend to be his fiancée. God only knows why. A man like that, women would drop at his feet and worship for a chance to marry a rich good looking guy. Could be the same type of issue Wes had or maybe it’s just too many hoochies, not enough girl next door types.
Oh well. A few days in Vegas and I’d be off to see Anthony Fasano of Chicago, Illinois.
Bring on the windy city.
Mia’s journey continues in March (Calendar Girl).
Excerpt from March: Calendar Girl (Book 3)
The housekeeper that let me in brought me through the Penthouse apartment and beyond a set of double doors at the end of a spacious home on the fortieth floor. The elevator felt like an amusement park ride it took so long to get to the top. I’d bet good money the view was impressive.
Distractedly, the man set my bag on a padded bench in front of a monster sized bed, turned around and disappeared. That’s when I heard the sound of rushing water. Someone was taking a shower.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
That was the last thing I needed. To meet my new client when he was naked. I clenched a hand around the strap of my purse and planned to make a hasty exit when the door opened. A large form emerged from a wall of steam. The lighting around his silhouette created an ethereal picture that could feature very easily on the big screen. It stopped me dead in my tracks, held aback by the force of sheer wonder.
That’s when my client, entered the room, clad only in a small towel precariously dangling from his hips. Water droplets streamed down every scintillating inch of his muscular frame. My mouth went dry and my heart might have actually stopped beating. It was okay, for I decided right then and there it would have been a good way to go. Basically, in my twenty four years, I’d finally seen perfection in all its naked glory.