Eight

Once the door of the private jet slides open, I am blessed with a view of the limousine waiting for us. The chauffeur in black suit is standing by the side, a hand on the door handle, ready to open up. I chuckle at the sight, I have never had a chauffeur, I don't even have a car and I can't help but think about how much my husband is worth.

Brandon's hand comes around my waist to steady me as we walk down the short stairs and a small smile flits to my lips. As soon as my feet lands on the pavement, I tap his shoulder. His head turns in my direction, eyebrow arched and I place a chaste kiss on his lips which stops him in his track. 

His surprise is barely concealed, I giggle and drag him gently for us to resume the journey to our car so I can avoid explaining myself. I have no idea why I did that too.

The driver sends a nod our way when we approach him, his lips pull into a straight line, then he opens the door. I go in first and Brandon joins me. He pulls me closer so there's no space left between us and his hand palms my hip. Once Brandon gives the driver our location, a small window slides up to provide us with privacy and I smile.

His fingers work their way into my curls, he tugs on the bun and my hair cascades down to my chest. I bite my lip when he starts massaging my scalp, something about it sends a chill up my spine, which spreads throughout my body. It is comforting, not in a sexual way but in a way that makes my body relax and intensifies the urge to take a nap. I want to wrap my arms around him.

"Have you been to France?" he asks.

Moans of contentment slip from me at his delicate touch, this is the best scalp massage ever and I manage to shake my head. I don't want to tell him that though I haven't been here, I had envisioned us coming here for our honeymoon in hopes of us falling in love with each other, just like my parents did. Paris helped with their poor love life.

My eyes part open and I angle my head in his direction, he's already staring at me. I can't help but think of a near-future with us together as real lovers. Asides from his hate of virgins and gifts, he doesn't treat me bad.

"Ma and Pa, they... My parents," I quickly correct when his eyes narrow. "They had their honeymoon in Paris." He nods, his hand moves from my scalp to my shoulder and my lips pull into a scowl. I miss the feeling of his fingers in my hair already.

Brandon lets out a laugh and squeezes me briefly, I don't want to jinx it by making a loud observation but he seems different. We have been in this city for less than one hour and I can already spot a difference in his demeanour. He's calmer, more forgiving. 

On the jet, when he looked right through me, I had feared for my status as his wife. I had believed it was over until his request.

We drive past buildings of different sizes; tall, gigantic and medium. Beautiful and mundane looking, each of them holding my attention captive for a few seconds before I move on to the next building of interest. A couple holding hands step out of a store, the man kisses the lady without notice and her cheeks light up in the faintest shade of pink.

Her words are lost on me as our car speeds past them and I sigh, my shoulder sags, it is too early to hope for anything but if I am lucky, some of the love floating in the air might creep into Brandon's cold heart. 

My head is now resting on his shoulder, if I'm causing him any sort of discomfort he doesn't act like it. As usual, he keeps his cool and a part of me looks forward to seeing him lose complete control. He will be fun to watch when that happens; I can't wait for it.

"Do you believe in love?" I suddenly ask.

His answer takes a while to come, when it does, it shows he has thought long and hard about it. Either that or, this is a question he has been asked one too many times.

"Yes," he murmurs and my head raises, that's a surprise. "But I don't believe it is for me."

The butterflies that started dancing in the pits of my belly at his first utterance fall back to a deep slumber and my heart sinks. If Brandon doesn't believe love is for him, I am almost certain he will make efforts to fight it but not to worry, I have been told about my doggedness, I will fight for both of us. Maybe our love story will start here too.

"What if you find yourself falling in love?"

"It can't happen," he says without mincing words. A moment of silence passes, his conviction has got me gobsmacked. "What about you, Elna, do you believe in love?"

Now that I know he's no longer angry with me, hearing my full name from his lips lights up a fire inside me. The butterflies in my belly flutter just enough to let me know they are still present. I like the sound of it when it's coming from him, makes me feel special. He's the only one who calls me Elna.

"Yeah, I do," I nod and giggle when his shoulder tenses. "I am in love with love." A low chuckle escapes him. "My parents love story started here in Paris, thirty years later and they are still in love. I want that too."

Ma calls me her miracle baby; it took her a long while to conceive me. After six years of having miscarriages, they gave up, only to have me make my surprise entrance months later. Ma didn't even know she was pregnant.

The reminder makes me smile, I know the story all too well, Ma's struggles and prayers to make me stay, it was told to me as my bedtime stories. I was reminded each time I messed up and now, I will do anything in my power to make them happy.

"El..." Brandon starts and my heart tightens, his tone promises bad news. "I can't love you."

"I like it when you call me Elna," I say. "Why did you pick us; why did you marry me?"

Brandon's fingers run up and down my arm, leaving a spark of electricity in its wake. I freeze while waiting for his response, my whole being eager to hear what he has to say. There has to be something about me, about us that piqued his interest. If he doesn't want love, if he can't afford to love me, why did he pick me?

The car slows to a stop, the door bursts open, putting a stop to whatever Brandon planned to say. I frown and clutch the robe around myself as we step out. Just a little more time, a few more minutes and I might have gotten my answers. Damn the chauffeur.

Our chauffeur nods at us one last time, shuts the door then drives off shortly after. I cup my palm over my eyebrows, chin tilted in the direction of the sky as I try to make out the top of the skyscraper we are standing in front of us but it's no use. With an arm around my waist, Brandon starts to guides me to the entrance and my head turns to our luggage standing behind us.

"What of our bags?" I ask in a panic-stricken voice.

"Someone will get it."