Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

The arm fell from around me, but his grip on my hand was tight as he pulled me inside, up the stairs and into a room that had matching silk jacquard in pale sage on the duvet covers as well as panels in the white walls.

This was not the pièce de résistance.

The gold and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room was.

This was their guest suite, and it included a heavenly bathroom and a charming breakfast table in the corner by one of the windows that faced the street. And since those windows faced the street, this was the room with the balcony.

“You okay?” I asked just as my phone rang.

“I’m going into town tomorrow to buy a hip flask,” he muttered.

He was joking, which meant he might not be having the time of his life, but he was fine.

I tried not to smile.

Sabre came in shouldering Remy’s bag and rolling mine on its wheels across a possibly priceless rug. He did this bumping it into one of the two cream, button-backed, gold-framed regency chairs that flanked the fireplace. Likely equally priceless.

“Me and Yves are raiding the bar, what do you want?” he asked his father.

I burst out laughing.

My phone had stopped ringing, but it started again.

I pulled my purse off my shoulder to dig it out.

“Whatever looks the most expensive, pour me a huge glass of it,” Remy ordered.

“Gotcha,” Sabre said, dumping Remy’s beat-up leather bag on silk jacquard.

I winced at the sight before I looked to my phone.

“Noel,” I said to Remy.

“Take it,” he replied.

I took it.

“Hey there.”

“You are Satan,” Noel stated. “First, the feathered de la Renta, that can happen in exchange for Fiona during awards season.”

“Fiona makes her own choices. Though I will present her with Oscar.”

“Do you want to be remarried in de la Renta?” he screeched so loud, I had to take the phone from my ear.

Remy’s brows went up.

I put it back and said soothingly, “I’ll talk to Fi.”

“Fine. But there is not a fucking venue in this fucking city that is not fucking taken on Christmas Fucking Eve.”

“Maybe we can do it in the backyard,” I suggested.

“Are you high?” Noel demanded. “Give me January first. I have an insane spot open on the first. It’s like, a miracle.”

“Um…”

I couldn’t say more because now that we’d discussed it, Remy was dead set on Christmas Eve for our remarriage ceremony.

“Oh my God, I’m going to fucking kill your fucking husband,” Noel threatened, because he knew he was acting under Remy’s orders for that.

“Think of this as a creative challenge,” I tried.

“Goodbye,” he replied and hung up.

“Let me guess, no luck on venues,” Remy deduced as I tossed my phone and purse on the bed.

“He’ll crack it,” I assured, and Noel might be going crazy, but not only did he secretly love it, he’d crack it. “Though, he said he has something promising for January first. What do you think? New year? New start? New marriage?”

“Same marriage, and we’re watching the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s because we’ll still be there on our honeymoon. That’s booked. And I got that room because of my name and a cancellation. I’m not changing it.”

I’d always wanted to see the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s, so I said nothing.

I moved to my suitcase.

“Don’t,” Remy grunted.

I stopped.

He then moved to my case, took it the three feet I could have rolled it to the sofa, hefted it up, and opened it.

I’d forgotten without really forgetting that he was like that.

Bea would be in fits, my husband not allowing me to lift my bag two feet to a couch.

But Bea could go spit.

I started unpacking while I asked, “Do you want me to go with you when you go to her?”

“Do you want to go with me?” he asked back.

I stopped with my hands pancaking my pajamas and looked at him.

“I want you with me,” he said softly.

I nodded.

Manon wandered in and promptly fell to her side on the bed like a wilting violet who had her corset on too tight.

“I always forget this place is so bluh,” she complained. “It’s gorgeous, but I can’t relax for fear of a docent coming in with a tour group.”

I swallowed a giggle and put my pajamas in a drawer.

“Your brothers have decided to get slaughtered, how about you join them?” Remy suggested.

“He wasn’t good for much as a father, but Pépé does make amazing cocktails,” she replied.

“It’s good he’s good for something,” I said under my breath.

“Oh my God, Mom, do I need to keep my eye on Sah and you?”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured, grabbing my toiletry bags and moving toward the bathroom.

I was in the bathroom when I heard Manon ask, “I don’t get it, Dad. With things the way they were, why’d you name us French names?”

I didn’t hear his response.

Though I did hear the tone of Manon’s, “Dad?”

So I dropped my bags and rushed out of the bathroom.