Cruising along on auto-pilot almost–3,947 words today; 13,775 total. A good cushion in case I don’t get in any writing time on Friday or Saturday.

So, yesterday I introduced a little angst in this romantic thriller or thrilling romance. Today, then, a little sappiness:

“How much whiskey have you had?” he asked.

“Enough that I miss you. A lot,” she said, and hated that she’d said it the second she did.

“I’m flattered,” he replied.

“So, I hope I didn’t inconvenience you,” she said. “You know, interrupt anything?”

It’s the whiskey talking, she told herself. She needed to hang up and soon.

“Only my dinner,” he replied. A pause, then, “Mai, if you want to ask if someone’s here, ask it.”

“None of my business if she, it were,” she said.

“I’m alone,” he said, “eating leftovers from last night’s dinner, which I had alone as well.”

“Look, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

“No, Mai, it’s all right. Don’t ever hesitate to ask me something you want to know,” he said.

Who the fuck is Pamela Higgins and why did she warn me about you, she thought.

To him, she said, “I won’t.”

“Did you get the key to the flat in Paris?” he asked.

“Yes. It came the other day. I know that area. Should be lovely,” she said.

“Good. You can get there first and let me in. I’ll come bearing gifts,” he said.

“I told you not to bother,” she said.

“It’s an expression, but what flowers do you like?” he said. “I mean, just in case I want to employ another Valentine op cliche.”

“It’s Paris, Alexei. Has to be roses,” she said.

“Roses, indeed.”

“You know, you really are rather sweet,” she said.

She heard his soft laugh and wondered why he hadn’t laughed in front of her.

“And you’re drunk. You need to sleep that off or poor O’Saidh will have to hold a cold cloth to your forehead in the morning,” he said.

“More like hold me head while I puke,” she said.

“Lovely image, dedushka, and here I was, wishing I were there,” he said.

No, she told herself, don’t say you wish he were here, too.

“I wish you were, too,” she said. Damn.

“Somehow we’ll have to muddle through the next couple of weeks until Paris,” he said.

“We’ll always have Paris,” she said.

He laughed, full-throated and uninhibited, and she so wanted to see it. “What’s so funny?” she said.

“Nothing, nothing at all, just you making drunk transatlantic phone calls to tell me you miss me. Get some rest, and I’ll see you soon. Take care, Mai, and remember what I told you about taking Holt’s shit.”

“‘Bye,” she said, but it was already to the carrier wave.