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He shoots me a disgusted look. “I got you into this mess. You don’t actually think I would just leave you to get yourself out of it without help, do you? Whether you want to follow the plan my brother and the palace PR people cooked up or not doesn’t affect what I’ll do to help you navigate this thing.”
None of his response is phrased like a question and I decide it would be better for everyone if I don’t contradict him. After all, it’s not Prince Charming’s fault that every man in my life before him was a frog. How is he supposed to know that his brand of chivalry is completely foreign to me?
“Let me get my shoes and my computer,” I tell him instead. Because it’s easier and less personal, and that’s pretty much my modus operandi when it comes to anything that isn’t business. And because business comes first. Always.
Less than ten minutes later, Garrett’s security has cleared a path for us at the bottom of his driveway and we are on our way. But as Bastian turns down first one street and then another, I look behind us and see that we’ve pretty much got our own motorcade going at this point, only it’s made up of paps and photographers instead of government officials.
“What are we going to do when we get to the hotel?” I wonder out loud. “The areas we’re going to use are all public access if you’re a guest.” And considering how big this story has gotten already, I’m pretty sure none of the reporters on our tails has any problem renting a room at the Valarian if it means getting access to Garrett…and me.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that.”
I’m about to ask what he means when the SUV makes an abrupt left turn, straight into one of the only parking garages in the village. It’s only three stories high and I’ve never had to use it, as Tournemire isn’t exactly a happening place in the off-season. The gate is open when we make the turn and we cruise straight in.
If this is Garrett’s big move, I can’t help wondering what will keep the other cars from following us into the garage. But as I turn to look behind us, I watch the gate slam closed. Seconds later, a black SUV slams to a halt right in front of the gate. Two men climb out and position themselves on either side of the SUV—I assume to make sure no one sneaks by on foot.
We speed up to the second floor of the garage—it’s still roofed, so the helicopters following us can’t see what’s going on. Not that I even know if something is going on. I just figure we’re not in here for the hell of it.
Sure enough, four black SUVs—all identical to the one we’re in—are waiting for us. “Come on,” Garrett tells me as he grabs my hand and pulls me out of the car after him.
To my surprise, we don’t climb in one of the other SUVs, though. Instead, we slide into the back of an olive-green Range Rover—still with blacked-out windows. I watch, a little numb, as numerous bodyguards empty the wardrobe bags from the trunk of our SUV into the trunk of the Range Rover.
Then, we wait.
The other SUVs take off for the exit, including the one that we were in. Garrett’s security detail stays with that one instead of coming with us, so as we wait, he introduces me to the two bodyguards in the front seat of the Range Rover. Turns out Claude and Philippe are part of Garrett’s backup detail, the one that only gets called out in situations like this—or when he’s at a major public event. Which doesn’t explain why they’re dressed like American tourists, but I decide not to ask.
They seem nice enough, but the last thing I want to do is start any kind of conversation when I’m this tense. I take a few breaths, even manage to unclench my hands. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to relax right now. Partly because the pap thing has freaked me out from the second I woke up this morning and this whole charade is only making it worse, and partly because the more crazy shit we have to do, the later I’m going to be to my photo shoot.
I can only imagine what the model I hired must be thinking. Not to mention the people who work for me. I’ve always been the one who demands punctuality and no bullshit on shoots—it distracts from business and that I won’t tolerate—and ye
t here I am, bringing all the bullshit. All. The. Bullshit.
I start to text the photographer again—to give him an updated ETA—but the truth is I don’t know what that ETA would be. And when I ask, Garrett shakes his head like it’s anybody’s guess.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
I nod, because what else am I going to do? I agreed to this and I’ll see it through. But shit, I am so not okay right now.
Garrett must see it, because he wraps his arm around my shoulders and tugs me closer. I start to resist, out of principle if nothing else, but the truth is, I could use the comfort. Normally I’m a stand-on-my-own-two-feet kind of girl—it comes from having a mom who never could stand on hers—but I’m totally out of my element here. Besides, Garrett smells really good and if I have to sit here freaking out for God only knows how long, I should at least get the reward of being able to sniff him.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, my phone rings. And—speak of the devil—it’s my mom. For the fifth time since this whole debacle began. I didn’t answer her other calls, but I know eventually I’m going to have to talk to her, even though we’re not close. Not yet, though. Not when everything is still so new, so raw.
I swipe to reject the call, then lean a little more fully into Garrett. I don’t know what it is about him that comforts me so much, but right now I don’t have the energy to fight it.
Twenty minutes later we finally get the all-clear I didn’t know we were waiting for, and Claude starts up the Range Rover. “If all goes as planned, we should be at the Valarian in under ten minutes,” he says as he pulls out of the parking spot.
Thank freaking God. If we had to wait much longer, my head might actually explode. And not just because I’m paying the photographer and models by the hour.
When we get to the hotel, it’s almost empty—which is exactly what I was hoping for when I chose it. A luxury ski lodge during the winter, it’s pretty much a ghost town during the summer. Which suits my purposes perfectly.
I’d come here yesterday morning and picked out everywhere I wanted to shoot, then forwarded that info to Carlos, my photographer. I’d wanted to start in the outdoor fire-pit area and as I rush toward it—carrying two heavy wardrobe bags while Garrett and his bodyguards follow behind me carrying the others—I’m praying that he did as I asked when I texted him, which was set up for the shoot instead of waiting for me.
Turns out he did. When I finally burst through the hotel’s side doors and onto the patio, he’s got his camera glued to his face as he takes photo after photo of one of the models. Marina, I think her name is. The other one is lounging on the circular sofa surrounding one of the fire pits, feet up and head tilted back like she’s napping. But her hair is done and she’s in full makeup, so I’m pretty much ecstatic.
The next few hours pass in a blur as we whip through outfit after outfit. This isn’t high-fashion photography, this is catalog, and while I work hard to make sure each shot has some ambiance and artistry, we still have a lot of clothes to get through before calling it a day.
I expect Garrett to leave once the monotony of the shoot gets to him, but he stays the whole time. Out of my way, and mostly out of sight of any of the sparse hotel guests, but he stays nonetheless. Every couple of hours he brings me a drink—water or mint tea or once, a cappuccino just as I felt my energy flagging—and twice he’s also shown up with snacks.
It’s the strangest feeling, to have him here looking after me while I look after everyone else. It’s my job to make sure the models are hydrated, my job to make sure everything on set goes exactly as it should. But never before have I had someone here to make sure that I’m taken care of too.
