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

by Inglath Cooper

  The woman gives us an odd look, as if she’s trying to figure out exactly what we are to each other.

  Neither of us decides to elaborate, and we are silent as she opens both rooms and points out the minibar. “Would you like ice brought to the room?”

  “I think we’re good,” I say.

  “Very well, then. I shall leave you to relax. I hope you will take time to explore the grounds a bit before it is dark. Are you having dinner in the château this evening?”

  “Um, would you like to do that, Dillon?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says.

  “I’d be happy to make the reservation if you can tell me what time you would like to eat.”

  “Maybe eight o’clock?” I say.

  “Yes,” Dillon agrees. “That sounds great.”

  “Very well, it is done. Again, welcome to the château. Please do not hesitate to call the front desk if you need anything.”

  Once she leaves, the door clicking silently shut behind her, we turn to look at each other, the awkwardness we had felt during lunch today clearly ascending again.

  “If you’re more comfortable,” I say, “we can shut the door between the rooms.”

  “Of course not,” Dillon says, smiling. “You are the guy I shared a bed with one night, aren’t you?”

  I smile. “I believe I am that same guy.”

  “Okay then,” she says lightly, “no secrets to hide from you.”

  “Would you like to walk around and check the place out before we get ready for dinner?”

  “I would love to do that. This place is like a puzzle I can’t wait to solve.”

  As soon as our suitcases arrive, we leave the room and head for the elevator and back to the main lobby. We find a brochure at the front desk that provides a layout of the property.

  “I don’t think we’ll cover the whole thing before dinner,” I say. “Which way do you want to go first?”

  The woman who showed us to our rooms overhears our conversation and says from the front desk, “If I may recommend the lane to the left of the château. It will lead you to the orchard at the back of the property. The sunset from there is very beautiful.”

  “Sound good?” I ask, looking at Dillon.

  “Yes, perfect.”

  We thank the woman and leave through the front of the château and then follow the map toward the recommended lane. In the distance, we can see a grove of trees.

  “That must be the orchard,” Dillon says. “Oh, I wonder if the trees have peaches on them.”

  “Let’s go look,” I say, and we head that way.

  It takes us ten minutes or so to reach the edge of the orchard, and sure enough, the trees are heavy with fruit not yet ripe.

  “That has to be what heaven will smell like.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I agree.

  We wind our way through the rows of trees, and it’s a little magical witnessing the beauty of the fruit.

  “It’s a miracle, don’t you think?” Dillon says. “How much fruit one tree can bear. Do you ever wonder why there’s hunger in the world when we can grow things like this?”

  “I think that’s more of a people problem,” I say, “than God not giving us enough tools for food.”

  “That’s sad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I say. “But then most things in this world are people problems.”

  We walk on a while longer, quiet as we simply take in the beauty of the place.

  Dillon breaks the silence first. “It’s so easy to think that our own little piece of the world is the best there is and that there’s no need to see other places, but that really isn’t true, is it? There’s so much to see in this world and so many wonderful things we miss if we don’t venture out.”

  “It does take some courage, though. I think that’s why a lot of people don’t leave what they know. It’s risky, scary.”

  “True,” Dillon says, “but the most rewarding things in life come with a little risk, don’t they?”

  We’ve stopped under one of the trees most heavily loaded with fruit. Dillon turns to face me, and suddenly we’re caught in a stare of awareness. The sun is setting behind us, pink rays of light streaming through the tree branches, darkening the color of the fruit even more. I realize how very much I want to kiss Dillon in that moment, and I can see that she sees this on my face. Her lips part, and she says my name, softly. I take the invitation I hear in her voice and lean in, down, down until my mouth finds hers. We kiss for a long, drawn-out time, and she tastes every bit as sweet as I imagine the fruit on the trees around us will taste when they’re fully ripe.

  When I finally pull back, I feel how much she wants me to continue. But I lift my head and blow out a rush of air.

  “We should stop,” I say.

  “Should we?” she asks, her voice teasing and serious all at the same time.

  “Not because I want to,” I say.

  “Why, then?”

  “Because there will come a point not too far into this where stopping will feel like it’s not an option.”

  “And if I said I don’t want you to stop?” she asks softly.

  “Hmm.” I make a low sound in my throat and reach for her hand. “Come on, we’ve got some exploring left to finish.”

  I start to run then, pulling her along behind me. It would take only another word of protest from her, and I would stop right where we are and finish what we started.

  Dillon

  “Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.”

  —John Keats

  I TAKE EXTRA care getting ready for dinner, spending quite a few extra minutes in the shower, shampooing my hair, conditioning it, and then blow-drying it straight once I’m out. I spend extra time with my makeup, too, not wanting it to be so heavy as to be noticeable, but hoping I have succeeded in smoothing out my skin’s imperfections and giving myself more eyelashes than I was born with. I wear the basic black dress I had brought with me. It’s sleeveless and hits at mid-thigh, the neckline simple. I hope it’s elegant instead of too plain, but it’s the kind of thing I’m most comfortable in.

  I throw on a pair of low-heeled sandals, add a spritz of perfume and knock on the adjoining door between our rooms.

  “Come in,” Klein calls out.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling my eyes widen a bit at the sight of him. He looks gorgeous. He’s wearing jeans and a white-collar shirt with a navy blazer. “This too formal?”

  “No. You look great.”

  “Thanks. You look amazing,” he says, taking me in with eyes that clearly remember our kissing in the orchard a couple of hours ago. But then I’m remembering, too.

  “Right then,” he says. “Should we head on down to the restaurant?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  We take the long corridor to the stairs, walking side by side, our hands close, but not touching. It’s not difficult to find the restaurant from the main lobby. The smells lead us straight to it. A young woman at the entrance greets us with a welcoming smile. “Welcome,” she says. “You have a reservation?”

  “Yes,” Klein says. “I’m not sure whose name it was put under, but either Matthews or Blake.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Matthews, we are so happy to have you.” She pulls two menus from the back of the stand beside her and says, “Follow me, please.”

  The dining area is an enormous room overlooking the backside of the château. A stone terrace is visible from glass doors. Tables are strategically arranged around the room to somehow make the vast area seem cozy. Each table has a warmly lit lamp at its center. There are several other guests already dining. The hostess leads us to a table for two in a corner of the room. “Your waitress will be with you in just a few moments. Please do enjoy your evening,” she says.

  The waitress arrives within a few seconds, smiling a welcoming smile and handing us each a menu. She makes small talk in admirable English, telling us about a few of the feature specials for the evening. We listen intent
ly, and when she gives us a few minutes to consider the options and leaves the table, Klein looks at me and says, “This is going to be a tough one.”

  “I know. Everything sounds wonderful.”

  In the end, when she returns to take our order, we both ask for versions of our various choices, me an assorted vegetable plate, Klein a delicious-sounding risotto dish. When he suggests that I order some wine if I would like, I decline. “I don’t need it,” I say.

  “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t drink around me,” he says. “I understand that other people can have a casual glass of wine, and that’s all it is, and I’m fine with that.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “When you’re with intoxicating company, who needs it?”

  He laughs outright at this, and I roll my eyes at my own bad joke. “Sorry,” I say.

  “No, I’m happy to be thought of as intoxicating,” he says.

  We opt for a bottle of sparkling water with lime instead, and I don’t know if it’s the bubbles or my own ridiculous level of happiness that makes me realize yet again that I do not need alcohol to be completely happy around him. Talking with Klein is so easy. We drift from one topic of conversation to another, the seams in between as smooth and fluid as if we have known each other all our lives.

  At one point, I question this. “Why is it so easy to talk to you? I mean, I know we have a lot in common, the music business, of course, but I don’t know,” I say, lifting my shoulders, “it just seems like I’ve known you forever.”

  He looks at me for a long, drawn-out moment and then says, “That makes me happy to hear that, Dillon. I actually don’t have a lot of close friends. I’m glad to know that you and I have that.”

  His words should buoy me into another level of happiness, and, in a way they do. I wonder, though, if he wants me to know that friendship is all that he has in mind. So what if it is? I can certainly use a friend in my life. Truthfully, neither of us is in a place to consider more. I think about that kiss earlier this afternoon and wonder if he’s regretting it or what it might have implied to me.

  I decide to let him know he doesn’t need to worry about that. “We all need friends, Klein. I know I do, and if you’re thinking that I’m assuming we might be more than that because of this afternoon—”

  “Dillon,” he says, quietly interrupting me, “I loved what happened between us this afternoon. But my life is kind of a mess right now. Honestly, you don’t deserve to be pulled into something I haven’t even gotten figured out yet.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “My life is pretty screwed up right at the moment. It would be wrong of me to let you think I am in a place—”

  “I don’t,” he says, gently cutting me off. “I’m happy to live whatever this is in the moment. I sure didn’t expect to come to Paris and end up doing this with you. But it’s been one of those unexpected pleasures I will always be grateful for.”

  Somehow I think I hear a gentle letdown in this, but decide that the right thing to do is enjoy what we have here and now for what it is, without expecting it to ever be anything more. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  We finish the remainder of dinner under a new haze of weariness. Maybe it’s just that both of us have decided we don’t want to be the one to break this unspoken path of neutrality, but somehow throughout the remainder of the meal, our conversation feels stilted, as if we’re back at a point of two people not really knowing each other, and so finding little to talk about.

  We opt out of dessert, and when the waitress brings the check, Klein insists on paying it. I start to argue, but decide I’ll just get the next meal. We walk back to the room, mostly quiet, except for a few impersonal comments on the château and its furnishings.

  When we reach the room doors at the end of the hall, we pause awkwardly. I pull my key from the small clutch purse I’d carried to dinner, wave it a little, and say, “Okay then, I’m really tired. I’m sure you are, too. So see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’ll see you in the morning.” He pulls out his key and inserts it in the door, swinging it in and stepping into the room, closing it quietly behind him.

  I step inside my own room then and close the door, leaning against it with my head resting on the wood. I shut my eyes and wonder exactly what just happened. Did I misread something? Say too much? I don’t know, but no point in trying to fix it now.

  A knock sounds on the door that connects our rooms. I startle in a moment of surprise, take a deep breath, and walk over to open it.

  Klein is standing there looking at me, not as he had in the hallway a few moments ago, but as he had looked at me this afternoon in the orchard. Something warm and happy unfurls in the center of my chest, and I bite my lip, heart thumping hard. We don’t say a word.

  He merely ducks in, his hands anchored on my waist, lifting me up and carrying me back against the wall behind us. I wrap my legs around him, my arms around his neck. He kisses me. All reserve gone now, we devour each other. Any of the doubts we voiced to this point have dissipated like dust in the wind.

  The truth is, I don’t want to think about anything except how amazingly good it feels to be in the arms of a man who clearly wants me, a man I cannot deny wanting more than I have ever wanted anyone in my life. I don’t bother trying to hide this from him. I kiss him back with complete abandon. My fingers find the top button of his shirt, undo it. I hear his quick intake of breath, feeling a sharp stab of pleasure for the realization that I can make him respond this way. I don’t even know how long we kiss like this before his hands find the zipper of my dress, slide it down tentatively as if a question is attached to the action.

  I make a sound that lets him know it is exactly what I want. The zipper slides to its end, and he slowly, carefully, lowers the shoulders of my dress down my arms where it stops at my waist. He drops his gaze to my breasts, mostly hidden behind a black lacy bra. The old self-consciousness grips me, but I realize in that moment that no one has ever looked at me with such longing, such desire. I drop my head back in invitation. His mouth finds my neck, kissing his way down to the top of my left breast. I can barely breathe at this point, afraid that if I do so, he will stop, take it as some audible sign that I want him to, but nothing could be further from the truth.

  But then again, I’m thinking of the times I had nearly thrown myself at Josh, how clear it had been that at some point he had stopped wanting me, and I stiffen unintentionally.

  “What is it?” Klein asks, pulling back to look down at me, his hand at the side of my neck.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not you. It’s just me thinking about how awful things with Josh got, and how there was a time when they weren’t like that.”

  “Hey. I’m not Josh, and I can’t even begin to imagine what he was thinking. I mean, to have a woman like you and—”

  “Don’t,” I say, mentally flinching a little. “I didn’t say that to make you feel sorry for me.”

  “Sorry is the last thing I feel for you,” he says softly. “Have I not made that clear enough?”

  I force myself back to the present, leaving the memories where they belong, in the past. I look up at him, and I cannot deny that this thing happening between us feels very, very real.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring all that baggage into this.”

  “It’s okay.” He takes a defining step back. “But I think it’s probably a good idea if I say good night.”

  “That’s really the last thing I want you to say,” I admit.

  He leans in, kisses me deep and full, and then with a sigh of resignation, says, “I’m going now, back to the other room, closing the door between us. I very strongly suggest that you lock it.”

  I reach out to put a hand on his arm in protest, making a sound of disappointment. But I know that he’s right, and so I let him go.

  Klein

  “Monitor motives.”

  ―Daren Martin

  I AM AWAKE WITH the sun and unable
to go back to sleep. I decide to go outside and take a walk in the early morning fresh air. I leave through the massive front door of the château, grabbing a cup of coffee made available for guests. The steaming cup is warm in my hands, and I take a sip, enjoying the robust taste of the French coffee.

  The sun is rising on the horizon of a beautiful green field to my left. I follow the path we had taken yesterday to the orchard, breathing in the sweet scent of the fruit I can smell even from this distance away. I nearly finish the coffee by the time I reach the orchard’s edge, and I take the last sip, pressing the paper cup together and sticking it in my jacket pocket.

  My phone dings, and I consider ignoring it, reluctant to let its intrusion into the peace here affect me. But there’s always that worry that something is wrong somewhere. So I glance at the screen, tap into my message app. It’s from Riley.

  Hey, I’m sure you’re not up yet, and it’s late here, but I was thinking about you and just wanted to see how you’re doing. Make sure you’re keeping up all your healthy habits, vitamins and such. You know, I really admire your discipline and dedication to stay healthy now that you’ve got that back again. Anyway, we may not be together anymore, but I do still care about you.

  I swipe out of the app, tuck my phone into the other pocket of my jacket and walk on into the orchard. My steps faster now. I’m surprised to hear from Riley, given our last communication. Why she considers it her mission to keep me healthy, I don’t know. Something about the message bothers me in a way I can’t explain. I guess it’s just an ex-girlfriend letting me know she still cares about me. Nothing horrible about that, but I know Riley, and there is always a purpose to everything she does. It’s just who she is. It took me a long time to figure that out, but once I did, I found myself always questioning her motives.

  I think of our baby, and a rise of grief swoops through me. I wonder if it will ever not feel this way. I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter that I never met our baby. Never even saw him or her. This loss I feel is the same as if I had held the baby in my arms.