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FIT FOR A MOTHERFUCKING PRINCESS
LEVI
INSIDE, MARGAUX HURRIES to take Brie’s suitcase, giving me a look that says I’m a dumbarse for not doing it sooner, which is probably right. But I’m drunk and would likely just topple over with it, and I don’t need to emasculate myself in front of this woman. Not when she’s so obviously obsessed with my junk.
Margaux also chastises me for not wearing pants, and Brie snickers as she follows me up the stairs. I can see these two women are going to get along famously.
“Where would you like me to put her things, monsieur?” Margaux asks from the entryway.
I turn and look over my new house guest. “The Blue Room will be fine.”
Fit for a motherfucking princess.
Dog jumps around our feet, barking and weaving in and out of our legs as he races up the stairs, and then hurries back down again. When we reach the Blue Room, I push open the door. I make a sweeping gesture for Angry French Girl to enter.
It’s been cleaned within an inch of its life, seems as though Margaux already knew where our guest would be staying. I try not to be insulted that she chose the one room in the house that was farthest from mine.
“Your room, m’lady.”
She purses her lips and glares at me as she walks past. Margaux has left a welcome present for AFG on the nightstand, a white cardboard box with gold ribbon—which likely contains more of the handmade chocolate truffles from the village—and a bottle of wine. Red. My favourite. I walk around the obstinate French girl and scoop up the wine, screwing off the cap and taking a hearty swig. Rich, velvety Merlot slides over my tongue and down my throat. Margaux tsks. Her eyes are wide with horror, and her cheeks flame pink with embarrassment, so I leave AFG the chocolates and head for the door.
“Get settled in,” I tell her as I brush past.
“Where do you sleep?”
“Why, you wanna have a sleepover?” I slur, turning to face her. She frowns. Even pouting, standing there in her bright blue dress, she looks like a Disney princess—only I never saw a princess with quite so much anger. Except for maybe Belle. That bitch is hot. Does that make me the beast? “Relax, Belle, I’m in another wing entirely.”
I see the way her fine features relax, and I hate it. In this moment I hate her, because she reminds me that I’m an arsehole. That I’m undeserving. That even though I have money, I have none of her class. I’m not in her league, and I never will be. “When should I play for you?”
“Not tonight. I’m tired, and I have a new friend to play with.” I raise the bottle, stroke the neck suggestively. I walk away down the hall to the crumbling west wing, where I know she won’t follow.