Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Can you make sure I’m there when you do?” she says. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call the doctor and see what he says,” I tell her.
“You aren’t sick, Vivienne. You finally like a man who piques your interest for more than one night.”
“It can be two nights. Even three. But I draw the line at four because then it becomes too much of a commitment,” I tell her.
“Why are you down here?” I hear Matthew’s voice.
“Vivienne called. She thinks she’s sick,” Karrie says, and now I hear Matthew’s breathing.
“Does she have a fever?” he asks close to the phone, so I know he’s hugging her.
“No, more like a stomach bug,” she tells him. “What woke you up?”
“I missed you,” he says, and I fake barf in the phone, making Karrie laugh.
“I’m going to let you go before I get more nauseated,” I tell her. “I’ll let you know what the doctor says tomorrow,” I say and hang up after she says goodbye.
I put my phone down and tie my long hair on top of my head and start my bath. I need to soak in the tub. Maybe since I haven’t had sex in so long, my body didn’t know how to react to him. I slip into bed, and my dreams are of him all night long, and when my eyes finally flip open the next morning, it is right before he fucked me. I groan and close my eyes, hoping to be taken back to that exact moment in the dream, but instead, my bladder starts to wake up, and I have to go to the bathroom. Grabbing my silk kimono robe, I slip my arms through it and make my way to the kitchen to start coffee.
I press the button to open the shades and then turn on the television, switching it to TF1, a French television station, then open my laptop. I grab my coffee and sit at the table while I go through my emails. Then I open my blog page and start something that I was thinking about last night.
Can one kiss give you butterflies, or does the fluttering in your stomach mean you have food poisoning? I kissed a man last night, or actually he kissed me, but I let him. I mean, there is just something about that first kiss that everyone talks about. I’ve had the lead in kisses many, many times before. You know the one when you spend the night eye-fucking each other and then actually kiss just so you can get naked? But that isn’t the kiss I’m talking about. At least not this time.
This time, all I did was have dinner with him, flirted with him as per usual, and then at the end of the night standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he just kissed me. There was no lead-up. I mean, maybe there was, and I had no idea. But regardless, he just kisses me, one kiss. Maybe it lasted a minute, or maybe it lasted five minutes, but the only thing I knew was that my stomach had the bizarre flutter. Even on the whole ride home, my mind played it over and over again. I even thought I was sick, but Google confirmed I wasn’t.
Now here is the question, can one kiss actually give you flutters?
I press send on the blog post at the same time that the doorbell rings. Getting up, I walk to the door and open it to see the doorman with a huge basket in his hands. “This was just delivered for you,” he says, and I reach out to take the cellophane-wrapped basket.
“Thank you so much.” I smile at him and carry it to the kitchen. A red bow on the handle of the basket but no card. I untie the bow and open the cellophane and see that it’s a French coffee press. I pick up the baby blue coffeemaker and find packs of coffee next to it—all gourmet and all French. There, tucked into the packs of coffee, is a white card. I grab it and open it, and I have to sit down.
We had dinner, so we should have breakfast.
My number hasn’t changed.
Use it.
Private Mark
Oh. My. God. This man is too much. I take a picture of the basket and send it to Karrie who answers me back right away.
Karrie: I can’t do coffee today, but I can do it tomorrow.
Me: That isn’t for you; that is what M just sent me.
She doesn’t answer me by text. Instead, she calls me. “What do you mean he sent it to you?”
“Exactly that,” I tell her and repeat what he wrote on the card.
“Are you going to call him?” she asks.
“No, I’m not going to call him,” I say, blowing out my breath. “What good is it going to do if I call him?”