Page 18 of The Butcher

I tapped the screen of my phone on the nightstand to see the time. It was twelve-thirty. I looked at her, seeing her dead asleep with the sheets to her shoulder, the white pillows covered in marks from her makeup, her hair a mess from the way I’d used the strands like reins to a horse.

I texted Gerard, my head of staff.Prepare breakfast for two on the balcony.

His response was immediate.Of course, sir.

I set the phone on the nightstand then moved to the double doors that sectioned off the bedroom from the rest of my chambers. I closed them, so when Gerard delivered breakfast, he wouldn’t be able to see the two of us in bed.

She didn’t stir.

I left the bed, put on my sweatpants, tossed a shirt on the bed for her to wear when she woke up, and stepped into the other room where my laptop was on the desk in the sitting room. I opened it and did some work, checked some emails.

Thirty minutes later, Gerard let himself inside, and without acknowledging me to remain quiet, he wheeled the cart onto the patio over the Seine and set up breakfast, putting down a white tablecloth before placing the covered dishes on the table. When he was finished, he opened all the curtains so the sunlight came into the room. It was a clear day, a sunny morning for Paris.

Once he was gone, the doors to the bedroom opened. She came out, her face clean like she’d washed off in my bathroom. She’d gotten the hint about the t-shirt I’d left on the bed because she wore it, the black shirt fitting her like a dress. Her hair was brushed like she helped herself to my comb, not that I minded.

She moved to where her clothes sat, folded into a neat pile by Gerard. Then she looked out the window and stared at the table set up on the balcony, the sun reflecting off the murky water of the Seine.

“Hungry?” I shut the laptop and came around the desk.

Her eyes immediately shifted to me, looking right at my chest and abs as if I didn’t have a face. Her gaze dropped farther down, looking at the top of the sweatpants low on my hips. She drew a slow breath before her eyes flicked up to me. “I love a hot guy in sweatpants.”

She spoke her mind with no regard for my opinion about it, and that was damn refreshing. She didn’t put on a production for me, didn’t try to be quiet and mysterious, didn’t try to entrap me by playing hard to get or saying whatever I wanted to hear. She was genuine, down-to-earth, exactly who she was.

And anyone who was brave enough to be themselves was the bravest of all.

With the corner of my mouth raised in a smile, I walked up to her and bent my neck down to kiss her, my hand gripping one of her cheeks underneath my shirt. It was so plump and meaty in my grasp, and I grabbed her hard enough to leave a mark.

Her lips trembled against me like it hurt but she still liked it.

I opened the double doors to the balcony and pulled out the chair for her before I sat down. It was an unusually warm afternoon in the city when the sun was out like this, when the wind was blocked by the building so the air was stagnant. I poured the coffee then removed the lid over my plate to eat.

Her coffee was more milk than coffee, and my coffee was black.

She removed the silver platters that covered her dishes, and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Blueberry pancakes, a savory crepe, and a side of bacon and toast… Wow. Good sex, and now this? Guess karma is a real thing.” She drenched her pancakes in maple syrup and took a bite, closing her eyes as she savored it. “Damn, this is good shit.” She moved on to her crepe and took a couple bites of that, nodding as she savored the taste in her mouth. “Fuck yeah.”

I watched her, unable to stop the smirk from entering my lips.

When she felt my stare, she tensed. “Sorry…haven’t had breakfast like this in a while.”

I imagined she hadn’t eaten out much since she’d gotten her own apartment because it was too expensive. She’d probably had staff at her marital home, so this was a taste of her old life, a life she’d walked away from because her principles were more important.

I mostly drank my coffee and took a couple bites of my breakfast. It wasn’t until later in the day that my appetite kicked in. I usually started my day with a session in my personal gym, so that was probably why my stomach hadn’t woken up yet.

She drank her coffee then looked out over the river, seeing the people on the other bank having a picnic. When the weather was nice like this, people went out to enjoy the sunshine. Notre-Dame was visible in the distance, the cranes sticking out because it hadn’t been rebuilt since the fire that had caused so much damage. She enjoyed the view for a long time, taking a break from her food to savor the sight.

I watched her in the silence, the distant sound of voices barely reaching us from the road below. An ambulance went by and the sirens were loud, but then it was gone in a couple seconds and it was back to the quiet.

“I love this city.” She seemed to say it more to herself than to me, like a thought meant for herself had accidentally been expressed.

“What do you love about it?”

She turned at the question, her green eyes locking on mine. “Everything.”

“I want specifics.”

She looked into her coffee as she composed her response in her head. “That our modern lives are intertwined with the past.” She turned to the bridge in the distance. “Napoleon’s mark endures for centuries.” The big N carved into the stone was visible, even at this distance, his mark on all different kinds of landmarks, especially the Seine, so anyone who entered Paris by boat would still know the emperor. “The building we are in now has probably been here since the sixteenth century. I think that’sreally special, that you can see what Paris used to be even when you walk through the streets and the cars. The way the city is lit up so bright at night, that you can walk anywhere and never get swallowed by the dark. The way we’re obsessed with food the way Americans are obsessed with money. It’s the only place where people want to walk in the rain. The place of great artists and writers and poets…a place full of such creativity. I don’t care how expensive this city is, how small my apartment is. I’m not leaving for the suburbs because it’s cheaper. I’ll hook on the street if I have to.”

“If it ever comes to that, I’d be happy to pay for your services.”

---