Perfect Strangers by Geissinger J.T

Author:Geissinger, J.T. [Geissinger, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Suspense, Adult, Mystery
Amazon: B07V2PLDY2
Goodreads: 49730872
Publisher: J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
Published: 2019-09-29T00:00:00+00:00

The first rule of deliberately inducing intoxication is that it should always take place at home.

Many people make the mistake of going out to a bar or restaurant to get bombed, but not only is that a bad idea for obvious safety reasons, it’s expensive, too.

My father was so frugal he’d use the same laundry dryer sheet for a dozen loads. He grew up desperately poor and was always convinced every penny he made would be his last. I’m proud to say that I inherited several of his tightwad tendencies, though it was often a source of friction in my marriage because Chris was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

His parents bought him a Porsche for his sixteenth birthday. When he promptly wrecked it, they blamed the car and bought him an Aston Martin instead.

Imagine how nuts it drove him when I rinsed out Ziploc plastic baggies so they could be used again.

The second rule of deliberate intoxication is hydration. One must drink at least eight ounces of water for every alcoholic drink consumed. One of the worst parts of a hangover is the dehydration, so it’s important to suck back the agua while you’re busy getting snockered. Your head will thank you in the morning.

And the final rule—the one that can never be broken—is that you can’t deliberately get drunk alone.

You can accidentally get drunk alone, but if you’re doing it on purpose, you really need to have another person around. Otherwise, it’s just you and your chronic alcohol problem, and that’s no fun at all.

As my acquaintances in Paris are limited to Gigi, Gaspard, Edmond, and James—one half of the reason for my deliberate intoxication project and therefore disqualified— it takes me all of five seconds to decide who I’d like most to get shitfaced with and pick up the phone to call.

“Edmond,” I chirp brightly when he answers, “would you and your wife like to come over for cocktails this evening?”

He sounds excited by the prospect. “Ah, mais oui!” After a moment, he adds tentatively, “Who is this?”

“Olivia.” When the silence stretches too long, I start to feel a little desperate. “Estelle’s friend? The writer from America?”

Edmond exclaims, “My apologies, mademoiselle! You sound so much happier on the phone!”

I regret this choice already.

“Sorry for the short notice, but I just realized I bought all this bread and cheese today that I can’t possibly eat alone, and I’ve got enough wine up here to get an army drunk.” Or one writer teetering on the edge of insanity. “How soon do you think you can come?”

He says a French word that sounds zoomy and enthusiastic, which I take to mean now.

“Great! I’ll leave the door open, just let yourselves in.”

“What shall we bring? We can’t arrive empty-handed.”

“Nothing. Just your wonderful selves. I’m so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your lovely wife.” And getting cross-eyed drunk within the hour.

Flattered by my gushing, Edmond makes a cooing, grandfatherly noise. “Ah, mademoiselle, you are such a delight!

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