“A squeezy uterus sounds like a medical condition.”
To that, a choked laugh escaped her, warm and happy to my ear even half a world away.
“I know it sounds weird. I never understood it until Roman and I were together for a while. But then all a sudden, you see a sweet baby, and you get the squeeze.”
“I’m pretty sure my uterus doesn’t squeeze. I see babies and I think of dirty diapers and spit up and a sporadic sleep schedule.”
“Yeah, but you’re not with anyone.”
“And I never will be,” I reminded her.
Raven used to take that claim at face-value, acknowledging that not everyone was meant for long-term relationships, that some were happier alone.
But marriage and a happy home life had turned her into a hopeless romantic who not-so-secretly had her heart set on me finding the right man who would get me to settle down. And then maybe I could have a couple kids, and we could raise them together.
It was a cute image, I will admit.
Except I never saw any of that in my future.
“You know me, the only thing that brings me joy is destroying a man.”
I could practically hear the eye roll she was giving me. “Alright. Fine. So how is this man-destruction going?”
“He threw a kink in the works,” I admitted because I was comfortable admitting flaws to exactly one person in the world, and she was it.
“Did someone get the better of you?” she gasped, as shocked as I was still feeling. “A man got the better of you?”
“It kills me to admit it, but yes. Yes, he did. He approached, talked, and left in this infuriatingly cocky way. Like he knew he was getting the upper hand.”
“So now, of course, you must make him pay.”
“Naturally.”
“I know you need to stay up all night to plan this man’s demise, but try to get some sleep. And keep your wits about you. I will check in before bed and when I wake up again. Text me if anything feels weird. I can’t be there quickly, but I can be there.”
“You’re the best, but everything is going to go fine. I underestimated my opponent. It won’t happen again.”
“I believe you,” she agreed. “Alright. The coffee pot is crooking its sexy little finger at me. I have to go. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I agreed, hanging up, dropping down on the foot of my all-white bed, bending forward to undo the straps on my heels.
On a sigh, I fell backward on the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan, wondering what my next move would be, what his reaction to it might be.
Typically, very little thought actually went into a job.
I had the opposite sex figured out by my sophomore year.
There were three motivators for them.
Sex.
Food.
And whatever it was that made them feel manly. Being good at football. Kicking ass at some war game on their gaming console. Knowing more about obscure slasher movies than anyone else. Whatever it was that gave them superiority.
Sex was easy.
Food could be bought and re-plated.
And in my personal experience, that third one, that was one of the most powerful of them all.
It was why comic book guys nearly jizzed their pants when they came across a good-looking girl who shared their passion. Why men put a ring on the finger of the girl whose favorite season was football.
They wanted you to like what they liked. But not know more about it than they did.
This little character quirk also explained the existence of chameleon women. You know the ones. With each and every relationship they have with a man, they become someone else. More specifically, they become exactly what that man wants them to be. The girl who once hated sports suddenly wore jerseys around all the time and just had to be home to watch the game. The one who couldn’t stomach watching even a small bit of fictional gore suddenly excited for the next fight night. The girl who had always been a hardcore cotton candy pop fan getting gothed out and hitting metal shows because she had a thing for a bass player in a local band.
Clearly, these women were lacking in self-confidence. But that being said, one could learn a lot from them. Because their methods worked. They worked every time, if they deployed them correctly.
The problem was, Fenway Arlington didn’t seem to have a niche that could be exploited.
He seemed to do—and enjoy—it all. From VIP sections and fancy champagne to dive bars with live music.
I guess one could call him an experience chaser. He was always looking for the next exciting thing.
That meant that it was now my job to find things to do and see and experience in Paris that he’d somehow never done before.
Decision made, I shucked off the dress, donning jeans and a tee, then making my way back out of the hotel, hitting the streets, talking to local late teen and early-twenty-somethings, figuring out what was hot, what was new, what might be just interesting enough to pique Fenway’s interest.