Page 21 of Infidelity Rules

What the fuck? Seriously? I cannot be trapped in a porta-potty. This cannot be happening.

I’m in Paris, trapped in a public toilet. What the hell?

Marcus is waiting for me on a picnic blanket laden with fresh baguettes, fruit and cheese. And I’m trapped.

Why won’t the freaking door open?

And now the lights are going out. Oh my god. It’s pitch black and I cannot even see my hand in front of my face.

Can this possibly get any worse?

Yes. Yes it can.

Because now what appears to be toilet water is spraying everywhere and I’m getting soaked. In the dark. In a filthy public toilet.

This is utterly disgusting.

I’m on the verge of panic and start banging on the walls when the lights finally turn on and the door automatically opens.

I rush out of the bathroom, my pants soaked from the knee down and my shoes and socks sloshing with water, the source of which I never want to know.

I’m trudging back to the park, utterly contaminated with toilet water, when Marcus spots me.

“Hey,” he says, taking in my wet feet and stained pant legs. “Looks like you got yourself a free shower.” He grins and wraps me up in a tight hug.

“Not funny,” I say, as I melt into him.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Those public toilets are known for trapping people during the automatic cleaning cycle.”

“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes and grumbling. “You can go ahead and laugh. But you’re now covered in toilet water too,” I say, pressing my legs against him.

Marcus just smiles and gives me a long, soft kiss. He strokes my face and nibbles on my ear. With a whisper, he says, “come on, let’s get you cleaned up. We can finish this picnic in our room.”

What toilet water? What wet shoes? I have forgotten everything except the fact that soon I’ll be naked in the shower with Marcus.

It’s wild rumpus time.

.....

Several hours later we are flushed, spent and STARVING. It’s now well past 10 p.m. and Marcus has one more surprise, so he’s gathering up the picnic supplies and simultaneously feeding me bits of cheese and saucisson to keep my grumbling stomach happy.

It’s a gorgeous spring night, so, with picnic basket in hand, we head outside for our final night together.

Marcus takes me to a huge, grassy area stretching out from the base of the Eiffel Tower.

Dozens and dozens of people are lounging in the grass with piles of food and bottles of wine.

I hear a mix of French chatter along with English and several other languages I don’t quite recognize.

Marcus sets up the blanket and lays out a spread of cheeses, meats, honey, fruit and fresh bread. I snuggle up against his chest as we sip red wine and look up at the Eiffel Tower.

“Not half bad, huh?” he says, stroking my hair and pulling me tighter against him.

I’m tempted to ask how many women he’s been here with but decide I’d rather not know.

“It’s spectacular,” I say. “But what is this?” I gesture to the fast-growing group of people setting up on the lawn. “Have you been here before?”

“I haven’t,” he says, looking down at me. “But I’ve been hearing about it for years. It never seemed appealing to come on my own. And now I have you,” he says, nuzzling my neck.

Is it possible this is Marcus’s first affair? I’m not naive enough to think that, but maybe it is.

“Just wait until midnight,” he says, his jewel-blue eyes twinkling, even in the dark.

Ah yes, I think to myself, the Eiffel Tower always gets lit up at midnight, much to the dismay of French locals, I understand.

“What time is it now?” I ask, simultaneously excited to see the show but also wishing midnight would never come.

We apparently have just under an hour until showtime. We spend it talking and touching and kissing. I learn more about Marcus’s family, his time spent in the Navy and what drove him to become a pilot.

“My grandfather was a pilot and I grew up hearing his flight stories and making model planes with him. We spent a lot of time together. It was an escape from a house with three older sisters.”

I laugh. “That’s a lot of estrogen in one household.”

“What about you?” he asks as we gaze up at the stars. “What drove you to wine?”

“Besides my ex-husband?” I smirk. I can feel him smile next to me. I tell him about my lame degree, my fleeting thoughts of becoming a nurse like my older sister and my aborted attempt at the school of public health in Baltimore.

“Nothing felt right until I figured out I could make a living drinking and studying wine. It was a dinner I had here in Paris that inspired me. The wine pairings blew my mind and I knew I wanted to learn how to recreate that experience.”

“Speaking of wine,” Marcus says, pulling out a bottle of chilled Champagne. “It’s just about showtime.”

It certainly is. Marcus pours bubbly as the night sky explodes into what can only be described as a razzle-dazzle display of shimmering, twinkling, racing white lights. It sort of looks the way my insides feel whenever Marcus is around.

“To you,” says Marcus as we clink glasses. “My wildly beautiful redhead. You have rocked my world.”

I cannot stop smiling.

He called me his. And I rocked his world.

He has done the same to me.