Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
All the papers go to recycling. I have to make three separate trips downstairs before they’re all gone, but it’s worth it.
Next, I throw Paul’s office door open. All his files go into the shredder. His computer, his monitors, I pack up to be donated to a charity. I don’t want any proof of the fact this man ever lived here. Because he didn’t. Not really.
It takes me six hours to get the apartment in order and completely Paul-less. By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. I drag myself into the shower and let the scorching water hit my skin. When I get out, I choose a nice dress and put some makeup on.
I’m just putting my lipstick back into my makeup bag when the doorbell rings. I smile at the mirror, knowing who it is, and walk briskly down the hallway. The place is spotless. Clean, tidy, and completely me. It smells of the cinnamon-and-vanilla candle I lit up earlier, a scent Paul never liked—cinnamon made him nauseous—and open the door.
Arya stands on the other side of it, holding Louie, who is not so tiny anymore.
I immediately reach to take him from her, and he gurgles happily, nestled in my arms. The weight of him is delicious, and I laugh when he shoves his chubby fingers into my mouth.
“Louie, keep your hands to yourself.” Arya tugs her scarf free and flings it over my couch. “I have a feeling I’ll need to say those words a lot, considering his daddy’s success with the ladies before we got together.”
“Come on in.” I laugh, stepping aside so she can enter.
When she walks inside, I realize she isn’t alone. Chrissy is here, too, marching with her signature fat-burning-tea tumbler and electric cigarette in hand.
“I thought you were in Los Angeles with your boyfriend.” I snatch her into a quick hug before she escapes.
“Oh, I was.” She waves me off, plopping onto the couch. “But then Arya told me you were coming back, and I couldn’t help myself. Especially when I heard the reason for your arrival. Now, look at this place. It’s almost as though Paul’s never lived here!”
The three of us look around in amazement while Louie wiggles, trying to break free and roam the place.
“It was time,” I say.
“I’m really proud of you.” Arya gathers me into a squeeze. “For all you did today, and all you’re about to do. Now, hand me my bundle of booger, please. I have something I need to give you.”
I hand Louie back to her, albeit reluctantly, then open my palm between us as she fishes for the thing I asked for in her purse.
“Are you sure Christian is not going to mind? About you giving this to me, I mean?” I ask. It’s a violation of privacy and possession.
Arya lets out a laugh. “Oh, he’ll mind. I’ll never hear the end of it. But can he really be mad at me for long? I don’t think so. Besides, once he understands what’s at stake, he’ll be delighted. Trust me.” She curls my fingers around the key. “The doorman’s name is Alfred. If he gives you trouble, tell him to call me.”
And just like that, I have the key to Arsène’s apartment.
Now all I need is to unlock his heart.
Of course I wanted Arsène to be home when I arrived in New York. But as soon as I landed and called Arya to let her know I’d arrived, she told me that Arsène mentioned to Christian that he’d be in London until late tonight to sign off on an agreement selling Calypso Hall.
A pinch of sorrow squeezed at my belly. Calypso Hall is in need of some TLC, and it’s true it wasn’t always a thriving establishment, but it holds so much charm. There’s beauty to it. Something I cannot put my finger on. And besides, it belonged to his mother. To Patrice. His very last piece of her. The real her.
But I do want to be here, waiting for him, when he arrives back from London. Mainly because I remember him once saying that no one’s ever waited at home for him. He was always a lone star, moving in the dark, vast universe.
Using the key Arya gave me, I push the door to his apartment open. A rush of pleasure floods me. It smells just like him. That unique Arsène scent that makes my knees weak.
His apartment looks exactly the same way it did the last time I was here.
Glancing at my phone, I realize I have a few more hours to burn until he arrives. I decide to give myself a tour of the place. Arsène never did, and seeing as last time we parted ways he told me he wanted me, I find it hard to believe he’d take issue with it.