Philippe's phone suddenly rang, but the call only lasted for less than a minute. Afterwards, he turned to her, saying, "That was my assistant. I had asked him earlier to see if he could find a way to contact the organizers of your parents' retreat."
Charlee-Mae watched him scribble down her parents' contact details on the hospital's notepad. His handwriting was neat and masculine, and everything lined up so perfectly straight one would have thought he had used a ruler while writing.
Philippe handed her the note when he was done, and it was then she realized what her husband had written. "N.C. huh?"
He looked at her curiously. "Does that mean anything to you?"
Charlee-Mae sighed. "N.C. is their code for nudist camps." She saw Philippe's brows shoot up, and her lips twitched. "I told you, didn't I? My parents are over the top, and mm...I guess you can also say they're very liberal? More French," she teased, "than American."
"Then I'm sure your parents and I will get along perfectly."
"I wouldn't know about that." Her lips pursed. "You seem a bit more...proper than the average Frenchman?"
"How so?" Philippe's tone was extremely pleasant. "Have you considerable experience dating Frenchmen to make such a comparison?"
"Oh my." Amber eyes sparkled up at him. "Are you jealous?"
"Of course not." But this time, his voice was stiff, and even worse, Philippe suspected there was a trace of truth in her words. He had never been jealous. Not even once. But thinking of Charlee-Mae with any other man did bother the fuck out of him—-
"Emily in Paris."
Philippe frowned. "Qui est-elle?" Who is she?
Charlee-Mae giggled. "Not who, but what. It's a show on Netflix," she explained, "and that's basically where I got all my knowledge of Frenchmen from."
"Ah."
Her husband now looked and sounded very relaxed, and that told her all she needed to know. He was jealous, and it was so, so cute!
Philippe's gaze narrowed at his wife. "I don't think I like how you are looking at me."
Charlee-Mae was all innocence as she asked, "How am I looking at you?"
"Like you think you already know everything there is to know about me."
"And is that not how it should be," she parried back, "between married couples like us?"
"Mm." Jade-green eyes gleamed down at her. "Does that mean you also believe I have you all figured out?"
"Well..." Charlee-Mae's eyes were once again filled with mischief. "That's the thing, monsieur."
Heat surged through his loins, but Philippe was no longer surprised by this. His wife's accent was still horrible as hell, and it was simply one of life's greatest mysteries that he nevertheless found such a sound incredibly arousing.
"There is nothing to figure out about me."
Philippe's lips twisted in a devilish smile. "I have a hard time buying that. Women tend to take pride of how com...plex they are."
Charlee-Mae couldn't help grinning. "You were about to say 'complicated', weren't you?"
"See? You are now making things complicated."
His wife laughed. "Fine. Most women are complicated or, as you say, "complex", but..."
There was a pause, and when Charlee-Mae looked at him expectantly, Philippe played along and asked obediently, "But what?"
"But we become simple creatures the moment we fall in love."
This time, Philippe's expression only changed to one of blandness, and although it made Charlee-Mae nervous, she told herself that perhaps this was also the reason why he had not been the slightest bit romantic in last night's note. Maybe, she had been right the first time, and Philippe was different from the typical Frenchman, and he preferred not to speak of his feelings at all.
Even so—-
"When a woman falls in love," she continued determinedly, "a man only has to do two things to make her happy. One: love her back, and two—-"
"Buy her jewels?"
His sardonic tone made her look at him questioningly. "I won't say there aren't any female gold-diggers, but isn't it your choice to date them or not?"
"And I don't. I bed them, but I don't date them."
"Spoken like a true womanizer."
The muttered remark had Philippe studying his wife in amusement. "And are you the one jealous now, ma femme?"
"Yes, I am," she snapped.
Philippe's lips pressed together in a straight line. This was not the first time a woman had been jealous over him. And while such admissions - or even outbursts at times - used to irritated him, Charlee-Mae's jealousy was yet another different thing about her. He liked that she was jealous over him, and he could not think of a single fucking reason why that was.
"My amnesia has obviously made me forget everything about you," his wife was now saying in an adorably grumpy tone, "so could you kindly refresh my memory and tell me again exactly how many women have there been in your life?"
"Countless."
She didn't smile. "I'm not joking."
"Neither am I."
Her jaw dropped. "You've dated—-"
"I've fucked countless women."
"And you never counted them—-"