That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3)

by Inglath Cooper

  Industry faces she immediately recognizes are engaged in conversations around the room. Her gaze instantly finds Holden Ashford in the far right corner. Gorgeous, famous Holden Ashford. He’s talking to Sam Parker, the label head, and they appear to be having a fairly intense conversation. She wonders for a moment if Barefoot Outlook, Holden and CeCe’s band, is considering a label change.

  She hopes not, simply for the prestige they bring to the label. But it would be nice to see the jackass who runs it take the blow. Holden laughs and shakes his head then, so maybe not, she decides.

  A black, white, and tan dog with long legs trots into the room just then. Riley doesn’t know much about dogs. She’s never really cared for them, but she knows that people like people who like dogs. So she squats down and coos a hello. “You must be Hank Junior,” she says, recognizing his face from the magazine articles she’s read about this family. This dog is very much at the center of it. He allows himself to be petted, but his ears drop a little, and his tail stops wagging. And she wonders if he somehow knows that she doesn’t usually pay any attention to his kind.

  Apparently, he does, because he trots off again. She watches him go, stopping by a group of women talking. And then she sees CeCe MacKenzie-Ashford bend over and give him a hug. “Hey, there, sweetie,” she says.

  The dog’s tail begins to wave back and forth, and she envies that dog for a moment. He’s so clearly loved by CeCe, knows his place in this home. It hardly seems fair that a dog could have all that. But then she doesn’t doubt her own ability to land exactly what she wants. It’s just a matter of time. Klein lives in this same sphere of incredible wealth and notoriety. And one day, not too long from now, she’ll belong here, too. Both of us will, she acknowledges silently, placing a hand at the center of her belly and giving it a deliberate pat.

  Klein

  “But, instead of what our imagination makes us suppose and which we worthless try to discover, life gives us something that we could hardly imagine.”

  ―Marcel Proust

  IT’S AFTER ONE A.M. when I get back to the hotel.

  The doorman greets me with exuberant cheer, hotel guest protocols clearly mandating whatever the customer requires is met with complete staff approval. Including post midnight cheer.

  I slip into the elevator, start to tap my room floor number, then hesitate and push another floor altogether.

  I wait as it glides to a stop and opens. I step into the silent hallway, consider the wisdom in my decision, and start walking before I can talk myself out of it.

  At her door, I again hesitate, then rap once, hard.

  No answer.

  I try again, three consecutive knocks. I hear footsteps on the other side, sense her looking through the door’s peephole.

  A few seconds pass, and I am sure she’s weighing the wisdom of opening the door to me. And rightly so.

  But then the locks click. And the door swings in.

  She’s wearing one of the hotel’s luxurious robes. It’s pulled close against her neck and belted tight at the waist. She stares at me with wide blue eyes, eyes I’ve thought about at times in my life when I knew better. When she wasn’t available. When I wasn’t available. Her lips, deep red, full lips, are parted slightly, as if she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say.

  “Hey.” My voice rasps out the word, the effects of the concert still evident in my hoarseness.

  “Hey,” she says, surprise and a question underlining the response.

  “You’re still up.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “Ah, no,” she admits.

  “Jet lag?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’d like for her to elaborate, wonder if I have anything to do with her inability to sleep. I decide I’m being arrogant, and say, “I’m still jazzed. Wanna talk?”

  “Here?” she asks, throwing a hand back at the room.

  “Yeah. If that’s okay with you.”

  There’s a stretch of silence while she visibly weighs her response. “Ah, sure,” she says, stepping back.

  I follow her in, closing the door behind me. The room is soft with lamplight.

  She walks to the minibar, opens it, and says, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water would be great.”

  She leans in and pulls out a bottle, handing it to me. She moves to the coffee table in the center of the room and picks up a glass. “I was actually having some wine in the hope of sleeping before dawn. Do you mind?”

  “No, I’m good,” I say.

  “Are you sure? I don’t have to have it.”

  “I’m not bothered by other people drinking. Really. Go ahead.”

  She picks up her glass and takes a seat on the sofa. “Please. Sit.”

  I drop onto the far end, crossing a booted foot over my knee.

  “You were amazing tonight,” she says.

  “The crowd was great,” I say, deferring her compliment.

  “They were great because you were great,” she says, taking a sip of her red wine.

  The look of appreciation on her face makes me clear my throat and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to performing in front of that many people.”

  “You looked so comfortable up there. Like it’s what you were born to do.”

  I laugh a little. “I’m glad it looked that way. Sometimes, I still feel as if someone is going to figure out I don’t belong up there and call me on it. Report me to the imposter police or something.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “If you don’t belong up there, who would?”

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “There are so many talented artists in Nashville. You know it’s true.”

  “Yeah, there are,” she says. “And I get the whole imposter thing. When I got songwriter of the year, I kept expecting someone to tell me it was a joke, and they were just kidding.”

  “Really?” Now, I’m surprised.

  “Really.”

  “I watched the CMAs that night. I thought what you said was exactly what I would have said.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I grew up listening to country music in my foster dad’s truck. He’d be delivering sawdust to farms all over South Carolina, and I would ride with him, cranking George Strait and Alan Jackson every time they came on. We’d sing along together. He had a great voice. Better than mine, actually. I’ve thought so many times that he should have been the one who made it in country music. Not me.”

  “Did he ever try?”

  I shake my head. “No. He never saw himself like that. But he saw me that way.”

  “Did he encourage you to come to Nashville?”

  “He did. In fact, he’s the only reason I finally worked up the courage to catch a bus there when I did. The day I got off at the station, I spotted at least three other guys who looked just like me, fresh out of the country with stars in their eyes. Bad haircuts and all. I never thought I had anything on them.”

  She smiles. “That night I saw you at the Bluebird, you didn’t look like you had stars in your eyes.”

  “I felt like a fish out of water. And then when I met you, I thought for sure I would have a panic attack performing in front of you.”

  “In front of me?” she asks, clearly surprised.

  “Yeah. I was intimidated as hell.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she says.

  “It’s true.”

  She shakes her head a little. “You were incredible that night. Thirty seconds into the first song, I knew you were the next big thing.”

  “I sure didn’t.”

  She hesitates, and then, “Your humility is part of your appeal.”

  “My foster mom used to tell me that it didn’t pay to get a big head. And that if I did, God would be forced to find a way to get my feet back on the ground.”

  “You believe that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t like arrogant people. I never wanted
to be one.”

  “Me, either,” she says. And then, after a moment, “Not sure why I married one, given that.”

  “Josh got his share of confidence, I suppose.”

  “You could say that.” She takes a sip of her wine, then turns her gaze direct on mine and says, “Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew him at all. I had this feeling that there was something I didn’t know. Like there was a curtain I hadn’t yet managed to pull. Maybe I didn’t want to know what was behind it.”

  I study my water bottle for a moment or two, then meet her gaze. “Do you think we ever really know another person?”

  “I think we know parts of them, but I’m pretty sure everyone keeps something back. The stuff we think we’ll be judged for, or we think we might be rejected for.”

  “But if you love someone, shouldn’t you be willing to accept those things?”

  “If they’re acceptable. Sometimes, things aren’t.”

  I consider this, acknowledge the truth in it. “Some things are bigger than others, though.”

  “True.”

  The lamplight is soft around her, and I let myself take her in, fully, my gaze on hers. I let her see what I’m thinking, realizing as I do that I’ve never let her know I find her beautiful. In the past, there’s always been a reason to keep things on a professional footing: Josh, Riley, business. Tonight, I’m wondering if there’s still a reason.

  She looks down at her wine, blows out a soft whoosh of air. “Why are you here, Klein? In my room, I mean.”

  I could play off the question, make light of it, but I owe her more than that. “I’m not sure. I know why I want to be here, but I’m also pretty sure that’s unwise.”

  “Oh, we’re doing wisdom, are we?” Her gaze is direct, her smile soft.

  “Not sure it’s a label that applies too well to me these days.”

  “What have you done that was unwise?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Run one by me.”

  I tilt my head against the back of the chair and study the ceiling. “It might change how you see me.”

  “See. There’s that fear thing.”

  I look up then, meet her gaze head-on. “My track record with women is highly questionable.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Looking for love in all the wrong places?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Is it true Josh was having an affair?”

  “Ah, yeah. It’s true.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

  “Not the first one then.”

  “Apparently.”

  “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “No one deserves betrayal.”

  I think about this. “No.”

  I feel the moment awareness starts to hum. It’s a tangible current that crosses the space between us, the electricity nearly a visible line in the glowy light of the room.

  I can see the awareness bloom on her face, the way her eyes darken a little, her lips parting beneath a soft release of breath.

  “You’re heading back in the morning?” she asks, her gaze direct on mine.

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering for a moment if I really want to leave, if I’m ready to go back to Nashville and what has started to feel like an empty life there. What is it I’m considering?

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I-ah, I had planned to take a few days and see some of the countryside.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  Silence hangs between us. I stand, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “I should go. It’s late.”

  She stands too, pulling the robe tighter and making a move toward the door. “Yeah. You’ll have a flight to catch in the morning.”

  I walk to the door, stop, and turn to face her. “This might sound crazy, but would you mind if I went with you? Maybe just for a couple of days?”

  Her surprise is evident in the ensuing silence. And then, “Ah, you mean travel together?”

  I realize I’ve shocked her. Clearly, it was a stupid idea. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I should get back to Nashville. Hadn’t planned to be away longer. I’ll have plenty to catch up on.”

  She starts to say something, stops, and then says, “No. You should come with me. I’d really like having the company.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “I don’t want to impose on your plans.”

  “The plan was loose. Still is.”

  “I don’t go off the calendar too often.”

  She smiles. “Well, maybe this is a good time to start.”

  Conscience tugs at me as I tick through visual reminders of the commitments on my calendar. My stomach dips a bit at the thought of blowing off names who have been important to my career. The old fear of making a choice that decimates everything I’ve worked for pulls at me, and I wonder if some part of me wants to blow it all up. And I wonder if what I really do want is out.

  “If you’re sure,” I find myself saying.

  “I’m sure,” she says.

  We’re facing each other just short of the closed door. My intention of leaving recedes from immediate reach. Instead, I’m looking at her mouth, remembering with sudden clarity how many times I’ve thought about what it would be like to kiss her.

  I suddenly need to know.

  Want sends a flare of heat through my stomach. It radiates up to my chest, and I sway an inch closer. Her eyes are open, and she’s looking directly at me, as if waiting to see what my intent is.

  I show her, dipping in to brush my lips against hers.

  Touching her triggers the admission that I have wanted this beyond conscious memory. My logical brain shuts down and need takes over. I reach for her, my hands on her waist. She loops her arms around my neck, a soft whoosh of breath telling me she’s thought about this, too. “Klein.”

  My name on her lips dials up the heat inside me, and I sink my mouth onto hers, kissing her full and deep while I press my body into hers, making no secret of how much I want her. We kiss like that, hot, heavy, intent, until I realize that pretty soon there won’t be any turning back from where we’re headed. And there’s a bed a few yards away.

  I pull back, looking down into her want-dazed eyes, feeling a deep and undeniable satisfaction that I have put it there. “I don’t guess there would be any point in denying how much I want to stay, would there?”

  “Um.” She laughs a light laugh. “Probably not.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. I run a hand through my hair, backing toward the door. “I’ll be heading to my room.”

  She’s still standing against the wall, her lips parted, moist from our kissing. “You sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll thank me for it in the morning.”

  “Hmm.” In that lone syllable, I can tell she disagrees.

  But I know I’m right. Whatever is going to be between Dillon and me, it isn’t going to be casual. “So what time are we heading out?”

  She glances at her watch. “You up for a short night?”

  “At this point, yeah.”

  “I’ll set my alarm for a few hours from now and get us a rental car.”

  “We’re really doing this.”

  It’s not a question, so I say, “We’re really doing this.”

  And for the first time in longer than I want to admit, I’m looking forward to what is ahead.

  Klein

  “Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”

  ―Mineko Iwasaki

  I WAKE UP to the crack of light ducking in through the hem of the hotel room’s heavy curtains.

  Not sure what time it is, I throw myself out of bed, head for the bathroom and brush my teeth. I reach for my supplement box and take this morning’s allotted vitamins with a bottle of water. I then pick up the phone in the bedroom and order a pot of coffee from room ser
vice, determined to wake up.

  I open the curtains, blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight. I crack the window, the sound of Paris traffic humming through the opening. I’m hit with instant memory of what had happened before I left Dillon’s room. I remember what it felt like to kiss her. How I had wanted so much more. And then I think about Riley, and guilt splashes across me like a bucket of water in the face.

  I feel tarnished, as if I’ve done something so wrong that I don’t deserve to entertain the notion of being with someone like Dillon.

  I’m about to get in the shower when a wave of nausea sweeps over me. Pain stabs at both my temples, the kind of headache I used to get with a massive hangover. Only I hadn’t had a thing to drink last night, so I have no idea what to attribute it to. Dehydration, maybe. Probably should have had more water after the show last night.

  I think about the plans I had agreed to with Dillon and wonder now what I had been thinking. I can’t leave Paris and go driving through the countryside. I need to get back to Nashville.

  I’ve stopped the thought there because I can’t find the words to finish it. Back to Nashville for what? Riley and the awful reminder of what might have been? Just the thought rolls another wave of nausea through me.

  The phone next to the bed rings. I walk over and pick it up with a rusty hello.

  “Hey, it’s Dillon,” she says, sounding far more awake and cheerful than I am.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Did I wake you?” she asks.

  “No. I was just waiting for some coffee. I’ll sound more alive once I’ve downed a cup or two.”

  She laughs softly. “So I’ve already been for a run in the Tuileries Garden. And I had my coffee a couple of hours ago.”

  “You’re way ahead of me.”

  “Well, you are the one who worked last night,” she says. “So, about today. I just want you to know you don’t have to follow through on that. It was late, and—”

  “Have you changed your mind about wanting me to go?”

  “No, no, of course not. It’s not that at all. I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.”