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p on the springy bed, I showered and changed into jeans, a fresh T-shirt, boots, and a worn, brown leather jacket. My heart was crashing in my chest so loudly I was sure my taxi driver could hear it as he took me to Le Bristol Hotel.
The hotel was a white behemoth of classic French architecture with bursts of red flowers overflowing from every wrought-iron balcony. A far cry from my little place down the road.
“A fine hotel,” my cabbie said as I counted out the Euro for his fare. “One of the best in Paris.”
“How much per night?” I asked.
“Depends,” he said. “Room or suite?”
“Suite,” I said, smiling fondly. Holden Parish wouldn’t be caught slumming it in a regular hotel room. Even in a five-star hotel.
“Mm, maybe five thousand Euro per night.” The cabbie grinned with obvious pride. “Very nice hotel.”
My stomach did flipflops as the cab pulled up to the hotel’s elegant entrance. I paid the cabbie while a man in a maroon uniform opened the door for me.
“Uh, thanks,” I said.
I handed him a two-Euro coin. It didn’t feel like enough, but I reminded myself I’d just paid him two bucks to open a door. I’d entered a different world at Le Bristol Hotel. The polished lobby floor was so gleaming, I was afraid I’d scuff it with my work boots or drag grease from the auto body shop.
I went to the concierge.
“Can I help you, monsieur?” the man in an impeccable suit asked in English before I could speak.
“Am I that obvious?” I asked with a smirk. “I’m here to see Holden Parish.” Suddenly, I was on the damn verge of tears just for saying the words. I cleared my throat. “Is he here?”
Please God, let him still be here…
The concierge smiled thinly. “Indeed. But I’m afraid I cannot let non-guests up to the floors without invitation. Your name?”
“River Whitmore.”
“A moment.” He picked up a sleek black phone and pressed a button. “Monsieur Parish? Monsieur River Whitmore vous attend à la réception.” He listened, at one time pulling the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. “Très bien, monsieur.” He hung up and fixed me with a tight smile. “He’ll be right down.”
I blew out a steadying breath and jammed my hands in my pockets, pacing a small circle over the perfectly polished floor. Elegant men and women came in and out; others sat at small tables over cocktails and coffee.
Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. Then forty-five. I was about to try again with the concierge when the elevator opened with a refined bing and Holden was there.
His hair was still silver and damp from a fresh shower. He wore impeccably tailored white slacks, white shirt, and—despite the warm spring day—a black vest and a black-and-white striped jacket. My breath caught, and my blood heated instantly.
The absence had only made him more fucking perfect, his body filling out his clothes better, his shoulders and chest broader. But his green eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed—the last year had been filled with alcohol, late nights, and parties.
And other men?
Holden approached slowly, strolling casually, though I watched his Adam’s apple bob in a hard swallow while his eyes drank me up.
“Hey,” I said, my throat dry.
He kept his face impassive. “I should ask what you’re doing here but I have a guess. My journals?”
“You sent them to me for a reason.”
“It was a mistake. I was drunk.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?” he said, struggling for his usual flippancy. “You have a theory?”
I lost my voice. Without letting myself think, I rushed to Holden and wrapped my arms around him. He stiffened and then sagged against me. Tears threatened to squeeze out of my closed eyes as I inhaled him, relishing the feel of him in my arms and under my hands. Cloves, expensive cologne, and shower soap filled my nose, and beneath that—him. His body felt bigger in my arms. Stronger, even if his eyes told another story.
