Page 40 of The Bar Next Door
“At least it’s not the penthouse.”
“What do you think I am? The son of a European heiress?” I joke.
We exit on the eighth floor, and I lead the way to the unit at the very end of the hall, unlocking the door and turning the entryway light on before ushering her inside. I don’t even have time to give a word of warning before Madame Bovary comes bolting from within the dark depths of the condo, skidding to a cartoonish halt when she notices the new human in the doorway.
“Are you okay with dogs?” I ask pointlessly as Monroe bends down and starts fussing over her.
“She isso cute,” Monroe gushes, my question landing on deaf ears as she gets engrossed in playing with Madame’s silky strands of hair. “I never would have guessed you have a dog.”
The dog is loving it; her tail is going a mile a minute, and it only takes her a second before she’s clamouring to jump up and claim a spot on Monroe’s bent knee.
“She doesn’t actually liked to be picked u—” I start to warn as Monroe gathers Madame in her arms and stands. I stop myself and just stare in amazement as my dog settles in like a miniature Queen of Sheba, lapping up a stranger’s attention and submitting to the utter inconvenience of being carried around like royalty in a way she never has with me.
“What’s her name?” Monroe asks innocently, finally returning her focus to me.
I cough. “Um, Madame...Bovary.”
She throws her head back and laughs before calling me a Francophile nerd. I watch in bemusement as she kicks her boots off and pads out into the main room, leaving her coat on so as not to disturb Her Majesty by removing it.
“It’s more...normal than I was expecting,” Monroe comments, surveying the walls around her.
The condo’s design is sleek and modern, emphasized by the fact that I have almost nothing in it. It’s a two-bedroom unit, and while the place is spacious, it’s modest as far as luxury condos go.
“It kind of looks like a show home,” she continues, “except for this.”
She pauses in front of my floor-to-ceiling bookcase, one of the only things in the condo that’s filled to capacity. She has her back to me, her dark hair falling just below her shoulder blades. The city lights outside are bright enough that her shape is illuminated even in the dimness of the room. There’s something strikingly intimate about seeing her there in her polka dot socks, so at odds with the clean cut outfit and yet soher.
She shifts Madame Bovary in her arms and runs a finger over the book spines like they’re old friends, like she’s sweeping a stray hair off the forehead of a face she hasn’t seen in a long time.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want her to move. I want to study this moment like a painting in a museum until I know every shadow by heart.
“Hugo, Balzac, Flaubert of course,” she murmurs slyly, trailing her fingertips over my copy ofMadame Bovary. “You certainly like your Frenchies, but this little fluff ball I’m holding is proof of that. Oh, and here’s Machiavelli. Of course. I bet you’re his home boy. And what do we have here?”
Madame finally starts getting antsy, and Monroe gently sets her down on the floor before stretching up on her tiptoes and pulling a book down from the top shelf. I have to fight not to make a sound of appreciation at the view that gives me.
She glances at me over her shoulder like she knows exactly what she’s just done. “The collected works of Shakespeare in a vintage leather-bound set. How indulgent of you.”
She strokes the cover so sensuously shehasto be fucking with me.
“They were a high school graduation gift,” I reply. I need to focus on concrete facts right now.
“So you started early.”
Sacrament,is she ever good at making things sound dirty.
“Stop fondlingOthello,” I order, forcing myself to snap out of the trance and turn some lights on.
“Oh,Othello.” She sighs as she slides the book back into place. “I am one that loved not wisely, but too well.”
I let out a snort of derision as I cross over to the kitchen. “He says that after he murders his wife in a jealous rage. Hardly the definition of romantic.”
“Out of context it is.”
“Veryout of context.” I lay my palms down on the counter. “White or red?”
She taps her chin for a moment. “Hmm. I’ll be contentious and ask for rosé.”
I have to laugh. “How summery of you.”
