Page 16 of Filthy Rich

“Fair enough,” I say, laughing as I reach for her pills and begin to count out her bedtime doses of all her various meds.

“And speaking of men…”

Oh, shit. Here we go again.

I make busy with her pill bottles, grateful I had any reprieve at all from her constant refrain.

“I know how you young girls are,” she continues. “A handsome older man says two words to you, and suddenly you think you’re Cinderella. Well, I’ve been there, honey. I’ve done that. Hell, I married the prince. He was no prince, trust me, but he was mine.”

“Mrs. Hooper…” I try, but there’s no getting a word in edgewise when she starts in like this.

“You’re well out of it. Men like Lucien Winter? They do what they want to do. Men like that forget as many women as they remember. More. I just don’t want you to lose sight of that. And if we meet any other handsome older men while we’re on vacation or when we get back to the city, I don’t want to see you losing your head and making a fool out of yourself again. Save yourself the trouble, honey. Learn from your experiences.”

“You’ve said the same thing to me ten times today, Mrs. Hooper,” I say, exhaustion and exasperation creeping into my voice as I move on to her finger stick. “And I keep telling you, I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to do anything.”

Another lie. I expected him to at least say goodbye.

But he didn’t. He just disappeared. Never to be seen again, I guess.

I keep replaying those last few minutes with him in my mind as I check her blood sugar, trying to understand what happened. The plane landed. People started getting up and grabbing their stuff. I went to help Mrs. Hooper with her things and the dog. The herd of passengers made their way up the jetway and were funneled into the customs line. I was aware of Lucien somewhere behind us the whole time.

And I thought…

I don’t know what I thought. Even now, I can’t articulate what I thought would happen. That he would request my phone number? Say he wanted to spend time with me in Barcelona? Ask to be pen pals?

Why would I think that? Because he was polite to me on a long flight when there was little else to do? It’s not like I ever caught him giving me a heated once-over or even looking at me twice. It’s not like he ever touched my hand or, I don’t know, brushed his leg against mine.

There was never anything. Certainly nothing to suggest he had any romantic interest in me.

I just never thought he’d disappear without a word. I thought he’d emerge from customs around the same time we did. I thought I could tell him that I hoped he enjoyed the rest of his trip and maybe…

My mind goes blank after that. Even my wildest fantasies know a brick wall when they see one.

Now he’s gone. Poof.

I should’ve known he’d be whisked through some special customs line for the extremely rich and privileged.

So it’s over. Not that the it was ever anything.

But tell that to my leaden stomach.

“A man like that goes for models, Tam. European royalty. Human rights lawyers. Socialites. And if you think that you?—”

“Mrs. Hooper. Please.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll knock it off,” she says with a final severe look to make sure I’ve absorbed every one of her dire warnings. “I just don’t want you moping the whole trip.”

“I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. I’m not moping.”

“Well, thank the good Lord for that.”

We settle into a welcome silence for a few seconds. After I bandage her finger, I go to throw away the trash, and that’s when I see it:

One of her precious Hermes scarves in the trash can.

I can’t swoop in to rescue it fast enough. “What’s this?” I cry, shaking it out and looking for damage. “Thank God I saw this before housekeeping came— Oh, no, there’s another one in the trash, too. What’s going on?”

But she’s now performing her nightly ritual of examining her face from all angles in the mirror, trying to determine when and if she should ask her plastic surgeon for another intervention.

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