New York Nights (A Heart of the City romance Book 2)

by C. J. Duggan

  I shook my head. ‘How could you?’

  I broke away from his hold. He was trying to explain, but I couldn’t listen to his reasoning. I stumbled away, skimming past people as I made my way toward the bus that would take me back to the hotel. Everything was a blur. I sat on the top level of the double decker, my eyes forward, staring aimlessly at a balding Italian man and his wife. I couldn’t look back to the tower for fear of catching a glimpse of Liam. I didn’t hear Liam calling my name, pleading for the bus to stop as it pulled away. I’m not sure if I was more relieved or hurt by the fact he didn’t pursue me, but I guess those kind of dramatics only happen in movies.

  The sky was grey and ominous. I swear it had been blue when we arrived. That’s how quickly things had changed. My bus rolled on, pausing only to give happy, snapping tourists one last chance to take a shot of the tower. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at it, not that I would have been able to see it anyway through my bleary vision.

  Maybe one day I would forgive Liam for breaking my heart. But tainting Paris, and ruining my experience of this city, that was something I could never forgive – ever!

  Apparently Paris is especially magnificent in the rain. I had yet to experience the pleasure in my short stay, but as soon as I stepped off the bus, the heavens opened up, soaking me to the bone. It seemed a fitting finale to my disastrous afternoon. In a moment of complete self-indulgence to my misery, I had refused the complimentary plastic poncho from the tourist bus, opting instead to let the rain pummel me. Ordinarily a person might squeal, laugh and run for cover, delighting in the glorious downpour in a foreign city. It was, dare I say it, romantic. But let’s face it, romance was dead, as was my ability to feel anything.

  I walked along the pavement from the bus stop to a pedestrian crossing, squelching a slow, sad path in my ballet flats, my pleated skirt clinging to my thighs, my long brown hair plastered to my face. Mercifully, the droplets of water disguised my tears. Our hotel was a few blocks away on Rue Lauriston. We were ideally located between the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. It only seemed like yesterday that we had booked the last room available with great excitement.

  Our hotel that we had booked.

  I guess I had to stop saying things like that now. In one afternoon, the life I’d thought I had had became completely redundant. Was that even possible? Had I stayed to face Liam’s explanations I might have found out more. If I’d challenged him, fought, screamed, demanded answers. But ‘Let’s see other people’? That was like a dagger to the heart, almost as bad as ‘I’m seeing someone else’. I tried not to entertain the thought that that could have been the reason behind his decision.

  I let my feet guide me along the narrow path, through the neighbourhood that seemed amazingly familiar to me even though I’d only been here for a short time. The past three days I’d been wide eyed, drinking in every detail of the impressive Haussmann-designed apartments and buildings; watching the locals go about their daily rounds to the butcher, florist or bakery in their effortlessly stylish way. The air felt thick. I fixed my gaze on the ground, willing my feet forward, telling myself that my reward would be to lock myself away in my hotel room and let my defences crumble down and scream and cry into my pillow.

  The red sign of our hotel was mightier than any beacon. I battled on, each step becoming more perilous as the soles of my shoes fought to gain traction on the wet footpath. It took immense concentration to quicken my pace without breaking my neck, but I was determined. That’s when I heard the distant sound of a fast-approaching car.

  It slid around the corner, the revving engine of the black Audi echoing in the small street, disturbing the peace and quiet, slicing its way through the dying light. It was enough to distract me, annoyed as I was by the recklessness of its approach as it sped along like a rally car, and in wet conditions too.

  I made sure to glare at the driver.

  ‘Bloody maniac,’ I grumbled.

  Stepping back from the kerb, I gasped as the car sprayed up a wave of putrid gutter water. Now I was mad. Madder than hell.

  I watched as the very same car pulled up in front of my hotel.

  ‘Right,’ I said. I was in just the mood to give the flashy lunatic behind the wheel a piece of my mind. And sure, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t understand a word I was saying, but if all else failed, flipping the bird was a pretty universal gesture. I neared the car, sleek and beaded with droplets of rain, the windows so heavily tinted it was impossible to see inside.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted, knocking on the driver’s window angrily.

  There was no response; the only sign of life was the heat that radiated from the vehicle itself. I glared at the window where I imagined a person’s head might be. Feeling pretty satisfied at showing my displeasure, I sacrificed the unlady-like gesture of flipping the bird and thought it best to just head into the hotel, leaving a watery path behind me.

  And I was about to do exactly that when the unexpected happened. The driver’s window slowly edged its way down, revealing a pair of intense, angry blue eyes that seemed to stare right into my soul.

  Yep, my day was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Two

  If I could have, I would have glued all Liam’s undies to the floor and set his favourite pair of jeans on fire, all the while tossing his other possessions over the balcony. Instead, with much less drama, I quietly spoke in a croaky voice to the doorman by the front entrance.

  ‘Can you please come and collect some bags from room twenty-five?’

  I was wet and deflated and completely rattled from the death stare the Audi driver had given me, which had sent me fleeing into the hotel. Guess I wasn’t as tough as I thought. I certainly didn’t feel it right now. What’s French for fragile?

  If it hadn’t been for Cecile, the warm, bubbly lady at reception, I would have sworn everyone in Paris hated me.

  ‘Bonjour!’ she said, beaming, showing the gap between her extremely white teeth. Her bright blue eyes lit up and I knew I had her full attention like always. ‘Oh, Mademoiselle Shorten, you got caught in the rain?’

  I sheepishly examined the squelchy footprints I had trekked through reception.

  ‘Next time, take an umbrella by the door,’ she added helpfully.

  Ha! Next time. There won’t be a next time. I am done.

  Despite the bitter edge to my thoughts, I smiled. It was strained, but no matter how bad I was feeling I could never take it out on sweet Cecile; she had, after all, been one of the very few highlights of my weekend.

  ‘Merci,’ I said, one of the very limited words I knew the meaning of, even after listening to the audio translator on the Eurostar from London three days ago. My memory for language was not great; I had managed to remember that paper in French was ‘papier’, and the door was ‘la porte’. Neither was going to get me out of a bind.

  My watery trail followed me across the foyer to the lift. Pressing the button to summon the slowest lift in Paris, if not the world, I brought the edges of my soaked cardi together, the chill from my wet clothes starting to work its way into my bones. The screeching, rackety shoe box–sized lift groaned its way down to reception, the door struggling to open as the tiny cavity of doom presented itself to me. I tentatively stepped in and, like every other time I had done so, I wondered if this would be the time I would be trapped in here. Would today be the day the lift gave up the ghost? With my current track record, I wouldn’t be surprised – it would be the icing on the bloody cake.

  The lift screeched its way up to level four, its doors sliding painfully slowly to the side, releasing me to freedom on the narrow landing. I couldn’t get out quickly enough. I would live to see another day.

  I walked down the narrow carpeted hall to our room. The dated, awkward spaces that had once seemed so quaint to me now just seemed dingy. It made me feel less bad about leaving marks on the already worn, rose-coloured carpet. In the short time that I had stayed here, I had realised that our door requ
ired a particular lift-twist-and-shimmy action in order to open it. Still, it took me three goes to get it open, with a few swear words to aid the cause. After finally hearing the magical click of the lock, I shouldered my way through, the door hitting one of the suitcases in the light, tidy yet small room. I negotiated my way through the mess of our bags and clothes to the bed. Side-stepping around it I went to the balcony door, wanting nothing more than to let some fresh air in.

  As I opened it, the balcony door hit the edge of the bed, allowing barely enough room to go out; it was something Liam and I had laughed about when we opened it the first time. Every new, quirky discovery had been met with carefree laughter because, after all, it was Paris: there could have been a rodent watching TV on our bed and it would have been okay. WE WERE IN PARIS! But now, as I shifted awkwardly through the small opening and onto the little rain-dampened balcony, I didn’t feel any form of whimsy or lighthearted joy at all, even though my heart never failed to clench at the sight of the beautiful apartment buildings lining the street. Opposite me, a slightly damp black cat lazily washed himself on the balcony, the window left ajar for him for whenever he was ready to return.

  Despite the traffic noise and the sound of a distant police siren, my mind was alarmingly quiet. My legs, which had felt like jelly, no longer shook, and although a breeze swept across me I didn’t feel cold. If anything, my cheeks felt flushed and my heart raced; was I getting sick? Was this a normal reaction to heartbreak? I couldn’t tell as I had no experience with being dumped, apart from David Kennedy ditching me in Grade Four for Jacinta Clark. Liam had been my first serious boyfriend and heartbreak was new to me, so I didn’t know if what I was feeling was normal. I felt like a robot. Was I completely devoid of emotion?

  My question was answered the moment I glanced down to the street, my eyes narrowing as I saw the black Audi that was still parked out the front of the hotel. The sudden rage I felt bubbling to the surface proved I wasn’t a robot. I was all right, just as furious as I’d been on the pavement, meeting those steely blue eyes boring into me through the slit of the car window. Without apology they’d stared me down, and it had worked.

  ‘Cocky bastard,’ I mumbled, my voice causing the cat opposite to pause mid-clean and look at me with his yellow eyes.

  ‘Shut up. I wasn’t talking to you,’ I said, smiling as he went back to his bath time. My humour was short lived. Hearing voices echo off the buildings, I gripped the edge of the railing, leaning over to get a better look at the commotion below.

  A man in a dark navy suit strode out of the hotel entrance. He seemed determined, purposeful and intent on ignoring the struggling doorman who ran after him with an umbrella in a bid to keep him dry. The man ignored him, clicking the button and walking toward his … black Audi. He was talking on his phone, loud and robust, as he argued with someone on the other end. He seemed passionate, and manic, his free hand gesturing animatedly, before turning to aggressively wave and dismiss the doorman, who backed away with what looked like a thousand apologies.

  The suit, whose face I couldn’t see from this angle, opened his car door, ended his conversation abruptly and threw his phone inside.

  What an arrogant bastard. I had seen it in his eyes, now I’d heard it in his voice and watched it in his stride. I almost wished that he would look up now, willed him to do so, so I could give him the finger this time, send him a ‘screw you, buddy’ scowl. The thought of doing such a thing almost made me feel giddy, but of course thinking and doing are two different things, and just as I stared down at him with a knowing look on my face, the last thing I actually expected to happen, happened.

  He looked up.

  I didn’t give him the finger. Instead, I yelped and stepped back so fast I tripped on the lip of the door and went hurtling through the narrow opening, crashing rather mercifully onto the bed, before slipping onto the floor and collecting the side table on the way, pulling the curtain down with me, the rod narrowly missing my head.

  I groaned, feeling the sting of carpet burn and a healthy dose of humiliation as I sat on the floor, the sheer fabric of the curtain draped over me like Mother Teresa.

  ‘Sacré fuckin’ bleu,’ I said, half laugh, half sob.

  Yeah, I showed him all right, I thought gingerly, and picked myself up, using the mattress as support. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to really look at his face, all I remembered was meeting those same steely blue eyes and panicking. I heard the loud engine of his car speeding down the narrow road, probably taking out women and children along the way without a care in the world. Men like that belonged on an island; an island that should be set on fire.

  I got to my feet, pulling back my curtain veil, and rubbing my arm, wincing at the bruises that were sure to come. I sighed, glancing out the window. The cat was gone. It had probably been spooked by the unco tourist flailing about and disturbing the peace, just as mine was suddenly disturbed by a knock at the door.

  ‘Luggage, mademoiselle?’

  Oh shit! Shit shit shit shit.

  I stepped once to the left and twice to the right, a dance that continued as I tried to get my head together.

  ‘Ah, just a second,’ I yelled a bit too frantically. I picked up the side lamp from the floor, trying to straighten the skew-whiff lampshade and wrestling with the curtain cape over my shoulders. I’m sure I looked like some demented form of the Statue of Liberty. Shoving the curtain and pushing the rod behind the bed, I quickly drew the drapes. Nothing to see here!

  Flustered, I gave in to the one fantasy I’d had walking back to the hotel: I grabbed every piece of Liam’s belongings and shoved them into his bag. Quickstepping to the bathroom I dumped his toiletries into his bag too. It kind of felt good, packing him away piece by piece. By the time I opened the door to the doorman I was breathing heavily, my hair was half dry and fuzzy and my clothes were patchy and creased. If the doorman wondered what a hobo was doing in residence on the fourth floor, he didn’t say anything. He smiled and gestured to take my bag, seemingly confused when he looked over my shoulder at where my stuff lay strewn all over the room.

  ‘Ah, just one?’ He lifted his finger.

  We weren’t leaving until tomorrow, heading back to London on the 11.05 train. I hadn’t thought beyond just wanting Liam away from me – I couldn’t even face him right now. I thought that his bag at the front door was a good enough hint as any; I only hoped he didn’t see the need to come and talk to me.

  I nodded. ‘Just one.’

  The door closed behind the doorman, leaving me standing in my room, my heart beating so fast it felt like it was robbing me of breath. I felt hot and manky, claustrophobic, so I peeled my clothes off quickly, hoping that would alleviate the feeling. I sat on the edge of the bed in my bra and undies, hands on my knees, shoulders sagged in defeat. What had I done? A knee-jerk reaction was typical of me, and in this moment a new kind of panic surfaced. Didn’t I owe it to us to talk? To try to work it out? After all, the biggest change in my life had been moving to London with Liam. Was I simply going to let everything go?

  My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled chime coming from the crumpled pile on the floor. I bent over, searching through the damp mess, feeling the lump in my cardi pocket that was illuminating the thin fabric.

  Mum.

  Quickly swiping the screen to avoid the loved-up picture of me and Liam, I tapped on Mum’s text.

  Just saw the pic on Instagram, you FINALLY got to see the Eiffel Tower, more pics please!! Xx.

  I stared at Mum’s message, confused. I didn’t post any –

  I froze, a sudden horror looming over me. ‘Oh no, he didn’t.’

  I swiped and tapped the screen urgently, a part of me fearing that it could be true, and just as I tried to tell myself it wasn’t, there it was. Loud and proud on Liam’s Instagram profile, a picture of the Eiffel Tower – a few, actually, from different angles, different filters.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’

  He was so distraught at b
reaking my heart, he’d gone on to take photos, whack a filter on them, even fucking hashtag them: #Eiffeltower #parislove #wonderwhatthepoorpeoplearedoing

  And he didn’t stop there: seemed like Liam had a busy afternoon being quite the tourist, while I sat here in my undies, cold, battered and bruised. I glowered at the screen, tears clouding my vision, barely believing how incredibly selfish he could be.

  I threw my phone down and buried my head in my hands. It was over, I knew it was, and more than anything I wished I could bring the numbness back.

  I wished I was a fucking robot!

  Chapter Three

  I woke the next morning on top of the covers, still in only my underwear. There had been no more knocks on my door. No messages, no phone calls, no pleas from Liam for forgiveness or to be taken back. When I dressed, packed and headed downstairs to check out, Cecile at reception told me awkwardly, and with a sad smile, that Monsieur Jackson had booked into another room late last night.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, putting the room key on the counter. ‘Has he checked out yet?’ I hated to ask but I had to know; I had our tickets for the painful trip back to London, something I could barely think about.

  ‘No, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Okay, well, um …’ Leave the ticket at reception and just go. ‘When he comes down, can you please tell him I am in the restaurant?’