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29
AVERY
Pushingthrough the flow of business travellers at the airport, I head to baggage collection where a man in a well-cut suit holds a sign with my name on it. Disappointed my daydream on the plane about running into Bryn's arms isn't happening, I head over. I doubt I'd have run into his arms anyway.Sure, Avery.
Introducing himself as Jean, the burly man escorts me out of the airport. The Paris spring blows rain into my face, and the faceless tarmac and passengers climbing into and out of cars could be anywhere in the world. I told Bryn no to Paris and he promised we could go elsewhere. Wrapping my arms around my head as the cold rain smarts my face, I head across the car park with Jean to the expensive looking sedan. Luggage stowed in the boot, I hop into the back seat, and we drive away.
No Bryn.
The man hands me a handwritten letter in an envelope, which I open with damp hands as he drives the car away from the airport.
Sorry I couldn't meet you. Enjoy your not-Paris trip.
Confused by his absence, I attempt to call Bryn but only get voicemail. Is he meeting me wherever the hell I'm going? Or does he think I don't want to see him?
Frustrated when he doesn't answer, I shove my phone back into my pocket. Mid-morning? I bet he's in bed, lazy bloody rock star.
I lean forward to speak to the driver. “Where are we going?”
“Rouen,” he says in a heavy French accent.
Sitting back, I search for a travel site on my phone. Rouen, the capital city of nearby Normandy isn't exactly a short drive but is smaller than Paris. Tourist guide sites tout the city as vibrant, and as historically romantic as Paris but without the crowds or price tag. Perhaps Bryn understands me more than I think.
We arrive almost two hours later, where the modern outer suburbs rebuilt after the war give way to the preserved old Rouen as we head deeper into the city. Medieval buildings several stories high lean together across small streets as if they might touch. The Notre-Dame cathedral dominates the skyline, gothic spires towering over the buildings below, while posters surround the tram stops advertising student nights – the juxtaposition of the city's historic and modern worlds clear. I'm not a big fan of history, but here I feel as if I'm transported back in time, and can't fail to be impressed by the architecture around.
Jean pulls the car up outside a magnificent pale stone building, a hotel dominating the narrow buildings around. With numerous small towers, and intricately carved gabled windows, I feel as if I'm entering a palace.
With a good-bye and thank you to Jean, I drag my suitcase across the cobbled street and I'm immediately accosted by a young concierge who takes my bag and guides me to reception. The dark-haired woman behind the desk studies me with curiosity, double-taking when I tell her my name.
“I have this for you.” She slides another letter across the counter, which I read as she checks me in.
I booked you a separate room but if you want we can have that sleepover later? I'll be here at 6 p.m. Make sure you're ready for a date with a hot rock star.
I hastily stuff the letter away, attempting to catch up with my reality. Five hours ago, I was in dreary London, now I'm in a five-star hotel in an historic, beautiful part of France.
Waiting for a rock star.
* * *
Bryn arrivesa little after 6 p.m., a knock on the door pushing my already elevated heart rate higher. I've spent several minutes attempting to attach one earring; my hands are shaking that much. Unsure where Bryn is taking me, I decide on midway between casual and smart, zipping myself into a knee-length blue dress covered in a pattern of tiny pink and white flowers.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, I answer the door. The second our eyes meet, I'm engulfed by the attraction I have for this incredible man, everything from the last two months dragged away by the look he gives me—and the huge smile that lights his eyes. There's a pause, a momentary awkwardness followed by a Bryn bear hug.
“I'd kiss you but you might run away,” he whispers in my ear as he holds me tightly.
I wrap my arms around Bryn’s waist and place my cheek against the cool leather of his jacket as he strokes my hair. I'm unsure how long we stand together, lost at the edge of the world in one of our own, and my defences against Bryn crumble.
I disentangle myself and step back before I kiss him and am lost completely. Bryn looks no different to my memories, but something is different—his eyes are no longer guarded, his stance more relaxed.
The longhaired guy in denim, leather, and combat boots, with tattoos visible at the edges of his sleeve, doesn't fit into the five-star surroundings. The prim and proper lady on reception looked down her nose at my travel clothes. I can only imagine what she thought of Bryn.
“I'm almost ready,” I say, tearing my gaze from his and turning back to the room.
“Awesome.” Bryn crosses the room and flops back onto the large bed, stares at the ceiling. “Do you like the room?”
“It's lovely, thank you.”
He sits. “A bit old fashioned. Look at the wall—needs painting.”
