Author's note: I don't own any of the WWE superstars; they belong to Vince McMahon. Any other characters belong to me. I am writing this merely for pleasure, not profit. If you sue me, you won't get a lot. Also, please go easy on me - this is my first WWE fanfic.

René Dupree looked at the pile of clothing that graced his hotel bed in disgust and muttered a few French expletives.
"Stupid Americans," he muttered under his breath as he picked up a piece of women's lingerie, wondering what the hell he was going to do with the misplaced laundry.
The item of lingerie he held was white, soft to the touch and had a delicate peach fragrance. It looked as if any rough treatment to it would damage it.
"Not peach, René. Pêche," he reminded himself in his native tongue as he breathed in the fragrance of the fabric conditioner which had been used, holding it close to his face.
Adjusting his knit boxer shorts with his other hand, René walked over to the window and sat on the window sill.
One foot was on the carpet, the other on the window sill. He stared out of the window, looking at the people below but not looking at the people below. They were moving about, doing their daily routines, seeing friends, going to work, shopping … yet, he remained in his hotel room. He wanted to be out with the people yet he wanted to be by himself.
He wanted to be with her.
He hadn't laid his eyes on her yet he wanted to be with her. He didn't know if that sounded strange or not. How could it be possible to want to be with someone if you've never seen them before?
He was in love with a stranger.
He tore his glance away from the window to look at what resided in his hand. It seemed to be super glued to his hand. He held it to his cheek, drinking in the softness and peach fragrance, keeping an ear out for a knock on the door, possibly coming from his mystery woman. The woman who already had a grip on his heart. He was thinking in French and English, but felt more comfortable thinking in French. Bringing his hand down, he rested the mysterious item on his thigh and gently traced one of the many patterns that adorned it, wondering what it would be like to do that if she was wearing it. The thought made him grin.
René didn't know Sylvan had re-entered the room until he felt him tap his shoulder, motioning towards what rested on his thigh.
"You're not planning on wrestling in that tonight, are you? Remember, you have class."
"This is class. It's French," he responded, motioning towards the lingerie. French and utterly gorgeous.
He stretched a little before getting off the window sill and glancing at his tag team partner.
"Are you going to tell me how you got that or do I have to force it out of you?"
René scratched his head with one hand, the other still holding the bra.
"In my own time, Sylvan. In my own sweet time."
"Oh, no, you don't. Not so fast. You aren't going anywhere until you tell me how you managed to obtain … that."
René sighed and shrugged his shoulders before looking at Sylvan, who wore a sort of cheeky look on his face.
"That happened to be in my laundry bag."
He wasn't at all surprised when Sylvan laughed.
"In your laundry bag? Gee, René, I've heard some storied in the past but that one - how do they say it? - takes the cake. In your laundry bag?"
"It's not my fault these Americans can't deliver laundry to the right hotel room, now, is it?"
Sylvan chuckled before replying, making René seriously consider slapping him.
"So, let me get this straight. You got some woman's laundry - lingerie - and she has your wrestling attire?"
René nodded.
"Have you got it back yet?
"No. But I'm sure I'll get it back. I have a little insurance policy."
"Insurance policy?"
René indicated the bra he held.
"This. If she wants this back, she'll have to come to me to get it, won't she?"