Page 39 of Filthy Rich

A satisfied grin. “It lived up to the hype?”

“Yes!”

“Good.”

“And thanks again for the perfume,” I add. He took me to a little perfumery, where I sniffed scents and selected my favorites to make a custom perfume that’s just for me. He even assured me that they’d save my recipe and make it for me again. As if I’ll ever be back here in a million years. Still, it’s the perfect memento for a wondrous day. “I love it.”

“I love it too,” he says with a wicked once-over. “I’m suddenly a big fan of lily of the valley. I can’t wait to get a better whiff of it.”

“There you go again,” I say, cheeks burning.

“I would’ve gotten you a bigger bottle, though.”

“The travel size was enough,” I say, still traumatized over the prices. “One ounce of perfume was a hundred and fifty euro.”

“I should’ve asked them to hide the prices,” he says, scowling. “Better yet, I should’ve told them to make a full bottle and just ignored you.”

“Anyway,” I say pointedly, reaching for my phone and pulling up my photos, “thanks for your patience while I took pictures.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I say, scrolling happily. We covered a lot of ground today. We saw all kinds of gardens, including an English rose garden, a cactus garden, a Gothic stone garden, and Princess Grace’s Japanese Garden.

Although, of course, everything around here is high on a hill.

We drove through Monaco with its luxury high-rise condos, palm trees and hot-pink petunias in pots everywhere. We visited the casino, with its wrought-iron grille work and fountains. We didn’t have time for Jacques Cousteau’s aquarium, but we did see the medieval castle with its white-uniformed guards wearing matching pith helmets. Then we stopped at the Cathedral and visited Princess Grace’s tomb.

I captured it all for posterity with my phone’s camera. I should print them all out, now that I think about it. I’ll need the dose of sunshine once the full wintry dreariness of New York arrives.

“Oh, this is a decent shot,” I say, showing him a selfie I took in front of the cathedral.

“You’re right.”

I scroll a bit further. “Oh, and here’s what one of you in front of the Cathedral.” The shot perfectly captures his moodiness behind his sunglasses as he stares off in the distance, thinking about God knows what. “I really captured your resting glower face.”

He gives me a flinty look with a tinge of amusement. “You did. Well done. But why didn’t you take any joint pictures of us?”

I busy myself with further scrolling, thinking hard. Of course I wanted some pictures of us together, but I didn’t want to give him the chance to refuse. A man like him who has women falling all over him? He probably needs to beat back models trying to take selfies with him to post on social media and increase their clout.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say lightly. “How would we even pose? What if I asked you to smile or lean against a tree and you hit me?”

“I would never hit you,” he says with a startled laugh.

“I can’t take that chance,” I say gravely.

“I want a picture of the two of us.”

This pronouncement takes me aback. We stare at each other across the table again. He seems very resolute about the whole thing. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “You’re the photographer.”

I give it some quick thought, then get up and go over to stand behind him. I sling an arm around his shoulders and put my head next to his. Then I raise my camera up high.

“You have to smile,” I say as I begin to click.

But he doesn’t smile. He startles me by giving me a quick kiss on the cheek that makes me giggle. I click away, hoping I got something decent. And there it is when I sit back in my chair and look: the perfect shot of the two of us, with me giggling and him full of that mischief.

“You understood the assignment,” I say, showing him.

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