“Men are even crazier.”
I snorted under my breath, flashing back to a showdown over a lobster tank. A hang-gliding incident involving powerlines in Bolivia. An unfortunate run-in with a renegade swan.
“You’ve got that right.”
And speak of the devil...
My phone buzzed away in my pocket, and I hastened to dig through the designer threads draping me to respond. No less than six women scolded me in various languages as I did so, but in the end, I came up triumphant—giving each one of them a winning smirk before peering down at the screen. Sure enough, it was Nick.
You get my presents? Told you, I like to spoil.
I shook my head with a little grin and held the phone closer to my chest, shielding the conversation from anyone who might be looking in.
You call this spoiling? I’m covered head to toe in wax, a woman I don’t know is rubbing some sort of paste into my scalp, and I’m nursing a chemical burn from a woman named Helga.
There was a brief pause, followed by:
Please send photographic evidence at once.
I choked back a laugh, then had a miniature tug-of-war with a fierce-looking woman who was trying to claim my hand. In the end, I surrendered it—typing with my other.
Lol. Next time you want to spoil, try sending chocolates. Not the 23rd Battalion.
Another pause. I could picture him grinning down at the screen. Sipping his morning cup of coffee from out on the balcony as he gazed out over the entire city. Completely oblivious to the girlish hell that had settled over my little apartment.
You like chocolates?
I perked up with dread at the smell of fresh wax and quickly angled my body in the opposite direction, tucking my other leg up beneath me for safe keeping.
Everyone likes chocolates.
There was a miniature scuffle as someone grabbed my other leg—the one that had gone into hiding—and began mummy-taping it over with hot wax. I braced against the arm-rests of my chair, preparing for the worst. And just as the strip pulled away from my leg, a high-pitched yelp burst through my lips.
The price of beauty...
Thirty minutes passed when I received another text from Nick.
Get the door...
Knock. Knock.
I looked up with sudden curiosity just as Stacy answered the door. The doorman handed her a medium-sized box and she thanked him.
She glanced over at me. “Hey! You got a present! Truffles.”
“I did?”
“Aw, it came with a card and everything.” She flipped it open, oblivious to the laws of privacy, and started reading the message meant for me. “Wow—this is some pretty adorable stuff. It’s even written in Nick’s own hand.”
I twisted free of the women holding me, and held out my hand.
“Please give me that!”
She did so. Only after removing a chocolate for herself.
The card was on simple stationary stock. But yes, it looked like it had been written by Nick himself. I marveled at this silently—baffled by the perfectly timed delivery with his texts.
‘Truffles for the woman who never fails to take my breath away.