Page 34 of Take 2
I watch his ass as he goes back to his room and sigh at my closed computer. Murdery vibes would make sense. What’s really starting to come together in this script is something much more hopeful, though.
Chapter Fourteen
“HappyMother’sDay!”
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says from the other side of the world. “And thank you. What are you up to today?”
‘Good morning’ because why would my mother think I’m in Europe? “Nothing much. Just working and wishing I could have mimosas with you.”
“I guess I’ll have to drink enough for us both.” She’s probably well on her way to doing that.
“That sounds fair. I’ll let you enjoy brunch. Tell Daddy I say hi.”
“Okay, Bella. Love you!”
“I love you, too.”
I end the call and shoot a Mother’s Day gif over to Ryan’s mom. After all these years, we still text each other for birthdays, Christmas, and Mother’s Day. I slide my phone into the pocket of my dress and go back in from my balcony. A small blue purse already holds my wallet, room key, and ChapStick, so I slip it onto my shoulder and knock on Preston’s open door before peeking in.
He’s in the desk chair, twisting back and forth as he talks on the phone, his side of the conversation pausing while he listens to replies I don’t hear. “She needs to mind her own business, but I’m so glad you have a separate chat to talk about me. … Don’t give me that mother-daughter bullshit. … I’m an adult! You’ve watched my movies. Worse words are in them. … But I wrote the words. … Yes, I know. … Okay. … Love you too.” The call ends.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Dinner.”
Except dinner is not just dinner. The wine pairings with each of the six courses ease my anxiety over not being dressed up enough for this restaurant but also make me laugh too loud and too often.
On our way out, I hang onto Preston’s arm. “We arethose Americansright now.” There’s no denying it.
He laughs and lays a finger on my lips. “Well, turn your volume down.” Part of me wants to pull that finger into my mouth.Toomuch wine.
The cool night air on my face revitalizes me, but not enough to counter the swaying of the ground. Our driver recognizes us, and thank goodness for that because I don’t remember him.
Preston guides me to the car, and I whisper, “I still can’t believe we’re riding around Monte Carlo in a Mercedes instead of an Aston Martin.” I get into the car, and he goes around to the other side.
“Which Bond girl would you like to be?” Preston leans over the center console toward me.
“Golden Eyereally doesn’t have the best options.”
“Any Bond movie then,” he says. “Doesn’t have to be in Monte Carlo.”
I consider a moment. It’s a question I should be able to answer quickly, but putting together movies and characters and actress names is a little complicated right now. “I was always partial to Jane Seymour as Solitaire.”
“Good choice.”
Bond girls and martinis drift through my mind. Adventures and glamor and women a million times sexier than I could ever be.
“No,” Preston says. “You’re sexier than all of them.”
I scrunch my nose. “Did I say that out loud?”
He pats my hand. “We are going to take aspirin before bed.”
The car stops at our hotel. I don’t think it was far enough to warrant driving but walking right now wouldn’t have gone well. Preston appears at my door faster than I could possibly manage, and I worry that I am way more drunk than he is. That is unacceptable.
I take his hand as I rise out of the not-Bond car. In the elevator—the next place I’m aware of, though that doesn’t make sense—I say, “You are not as drunk as me.”
“I think I’m pretty drunk. I’m not sure what we had for dessert.”
