by Autumn Grey
The check-in went fast. The clerk handed me a keycard and a white envelope sealed with a red wax stamp.
The initials on the stamp said it all.
RSG.
Remington St. Germain.
My hand trembled as I headed for the elevator.
The beginnings of a fluttering simmered in my stomach. He was like an ever-present shadow at my side, and he used wax to seal his letters.
Talk about style!
I reached my floor with the bellboy in tow and swiped my keycard to enter room 404. I forgot to breathe as I beheld the room. A fireplace and a crystal chandelier graced the chamber containing a canopy bed, draped in white and red. Heavy, red velvet curtains hung on either side of French doors leading to a balcony, which afforded an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower.
Snapping my gaping mouth shut, I dropped my bag on the bed and then distractedly opened the envelope while soaking in the view before me. My gaze veered across the room to the white, baroque vanity on which sat an intricately faceted crystal vase with a bouquet of fragrant red and white roses.
I glanced down to the letter in my hand and came face to face with familiar, bold handwriting.
Had he arranged everything?
Shaking my head to clear my wayward thoughts, I grabbed one of my bags and opened it. I searched for my trainers, my jogging pants, and a tank top. It had been two days since I last did my usual morning run. I could already feel my thoughts clamoring inside my head. Jogging was my outlet. I didn't like staying inside my head for long because if I let my thoughts wander, they ended up muddled. I wanted to get outside to scatter my thoughts in a hundred different directions.
I grabbed my iPod and left the suite. After asking the receptionist where to find the safest and nearest place to run without interruptions, I took the small map she gave me and tucked it inside my pants pocket. I then shoved my ear buds into my ears, left the hotel behind, and soon was jogging on the sidewalk, savoring the sight of fallen leaves and the changing colors of the trees. My stomach growled as I dashed past a brasserie, reminding me I had barely eaten. Ignoring my growling tummy, I pushed my legs faster, knowing my reward would be a huge dinner when I returned to the hotel.
When I returned, I ordered room service and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, but halted at the door. Brilliant, beige marble tile covered the wall and floor. A wall-to-wall antique cherry vanity stood in the far corner, two sinks sitting on top with ample space in between. On one side was a shower big enough to fit four fully-grown men and next to it, a square bathtub so huge it could fit three people with room left over. Three shelves on the side of the tub were filled with books and magazines. A flat-screen TV was mounted to the wall. Installed into the ceiling was a window displaying the clear, starless sky above.
Forget the suite. I'd live in this room.
Of course, I intended to make use of the tub before I gave up this suite. But for now, showering was a priority, followed by dinner. Andrew would be arriving soon. I walked back into the suite ten minutes later dressed in a robe, and after checking the time difference between Paris and New York, I requested the receptionist connect me to my parents’ home number.
The line crackled for a few seconds before it cleared. My younger sister, Marley, answered the phone. God, I missed her. She was my best friend and confidant. Mom and Dad were visiting some friends. I told her to tell them I had arrived safely and would try again later. After disconnecting the call, I quickly dressed just as room service delivered my dinner.
My family had been my cheerleaders through the times I needed therapy and they had been there for me after my divorce. I hated how weak I had been at the time. However, I had later realized, in order to be strong, I had to be weak first and learn to fight my demons. It hadn't been easy, especially since I was dealing with self-esteem issues on top of everything else. When I was well enough to pick up the pieces of my life, I had visited my agent in New York. Even though it’d been almost six years since my last modeling gig, she'd been pleased to help me find some modeling jobs outside the country. When she told me Curves Fashion House had let go of their former “Face of Curves” and were still searching for someone who'd represent their brand, I had jumped at the chance. I needed space and distance to think about what I planned to do with my life once I returned back home. So, Marley had literally packed my luggage for me and sent me on my way.
Andrew arrived fifteen minutes into my meal. After pulling me to his huge body for a hug, he kissed my cheeks, and shrugged out of his coat, tossing it onto one of the chairs. Then he sat across from me as I continued with my meal. He raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment. "What the hell did you do to St. Germain?"
My drumstick-filled hand halted at my mouth. "Why? What did he tell you?"
He laughed. "I've known him for five years. I've seen him treat his women with respect, literally laying his money at their feet to make sure they were happy. However, allocating one of his precious, expensive suites for any of them in his hotel? I never thought I'd see the day."
"HE OWNS the hotel?"
Andrew nodded.
"Shit, no." My hand fell away from my mouth, my hunger dissipating. "What is he playing at?" I murmured, wiping my hand and mouth with the soft cotton napkin. Even the cloth felt classy.
Andrew's eyebrows shot up. "Apparently, he isn't the only one with their knickers twisted around their arse." He winked.
I rolled my eyes, took my tray to the table, and plopped back on the bed. "Is he always so… mercurial?"
He shrugged. "The Remington I've known for five years is laidback, almost to a fault. I can't wait to see how this plays out."
I grabbed the folder with my program for the coming weeks. "I can't stay here. This is just too much. Too expensive."
He lifted a hand, waving aside my concerns. "I'm sure St. Germain doesn't mind."
"Still, I shouldn't."
"What do you have against this?" He swept his arm across the room, sounding as though I was making a big deal out of nothing.
It wasn't what I had against the room. How Remington affected me was what I was against. I wasn't ready for any kind of heart’s entanglement, and in his case, Remington made my heart sprint the extra mile.
One thing I'd learned from my therapy sessions after being married to James was that whatever had happened in my life up to that point didn't define the rest of my life, or my future relationships. But also, I shouldn't go into a relationship blind, wearing my heart on my sleeve. So for now, I just wanted someone to flirt and go dancing with, have no-strings-attached sex, and then go back home and get on with my life. I had a feeling Remington was not Prince Charming, and he probably had no idea how to be that guy. He was the wolf who took chasing prey to a new level.
When I left for France, I promised myself I wasn't going to dwell on my failed marriage. What good would it do me? It wasn’t as if playing nice would give me James back. He'd already moved on. And to think I'd sacrificed my career for his cheating ass.
Taking a deep breath, I shook the memory away and focused on the folder now in Andrew's hands. I'd deal with Remington later. "Let's go through my schedule."
"Enough talking about St. Germain, I assume?" He grinned widely.
"Shut up!" I threw a pillow, hitting him in his face, but he kept laughing.
"You're allowed to move on with your life, Selene. Your ex was an arse."
I cocked one eyebrow at him. "I'm here in Paris, aren't I?"
"Touché, my lovely friend." He winked, and then lowered his eyes to the file. "Ready for tomorrow's presentation at Lycée Saint Bernadette's?"
With a huge grin on my face, I nodded. If there was anything I was looking forward to more than the fashion show, it was talking to adolescents and teens while here in France. Being The Face of Curves, I was asked to do presentations in schools, mixers, and other various events to promote the "Loving Your Curves is Sexy" campaign. I'd gladly accepted. The younger Selene who'd been bu
llied throughout most of her life was eager to come out and play.
Andrew and I went through the details on my schedule, and at some point, the phone rang. It was the concierge inquiring if I needed anything.
Remington must be keeping the staff on their toes. As much as his generosity overwhelmed me, it didn't stop my heart from dancing stupidly inside my chest from the knowledge someone was watching over me.
Andrew's serious expression turned smug as if he knew what I was thinking and feeling. I rolled my eyes, fighting a smile. Andrew was the closest thing I had to a best friend, other than my sister and Grace. I had lost contact with most of my other friends after leaving modeling years back. James’s jealously knew no bounds and he always said I'd leave him someday. Sometimes I wondered how can you hurt someone you say you love, someone who’s been your best friend your entire life?
UGH. There I went again.
After ordering coffee and pastries from the hotel's patisserie, we picked up where we'd left off, with a short interruption from the wait staff delivering our coffee.
The next time we came up for air, it was eight p.m. A cool autumn breeze swept through the room from an open window, ruffling the papers in the folder and nudging me awake. I was still jet-lagged and kept yawning every few minutes. Andrew tossed the folder on the table, stood up, and dug out a cell phone from his coat pocket.
"My number is in there."
Yawning again, I rose from the edge of the bed, took the phone from his hand, and then pressed a kiss on his cheek, following him to the door. "What time are we meeting downstairs tomorrow?"
"I'll meet you at Saint Bernadette's."
I frowned, and before I could say a word, he said, "St. Germain's driver will pick you up at eight a.m."
"But I thought we—"
"He told me to tell you Adele will drive you. Besides, I have to run some errands before the presentation." Andrew’s lips twitched in amusement. "He doesn't know how to react to you, which is a first. But he wants you. He just needs a few days to clear his head. Believe me, the determination I saw in his eyes… well let's just say, it's frightening."
I snorted. "Yes. He wants me like a hole in the head."
He leaned down to kiss my forehead, which was now heated by his words. I silently hoped my skin would scald his lips. "Goodnight, Leney." Yeah, he went for the kill with that one. He knew I'd soften up if he used my nickname.
Minutes later, a knock sounded on the door. The same waiter who'd brought coffee hours ago, arrived pushing a trolley with a bottle of wine on it.
"Compliments of Monsieur St. Germain." He flashed a boyish grin as though he was holding onto a dirty little secret.
"Thank you"—I squinted to look at his badge—"Èric. When did Monsieur St. Germain order this?"
"A few minutes ago. He sends his warm regards." He shoved a white envelope in my hand, and just like the first one I received when I checked in, it was sealed with red wax, his initials on it.
As soon as Èric left, I ran a finger under the seal, shook my head, and then carefully pried the envelope open.
Dropping the letter on the table, I took the bottle of Rosé wine from the trolley to read the label.
Château Armand St. Germain, and below the wine name Only the best for the lady with the letter R signed below the sentence.
Who the hell was Remington St. Germain? A dad, artist, hotelier, possibly a winemaker. What else was he? I seemed to be intriguing him, and I wasn't even sure how or why I'd captured his attention in the first place.
Color me fascinated. I made a note to ask Andrew tomorrow after the presentation.
I WOKE up at five a.m., and after an intense workout session at the hotel’s state-of-the-art gym, I showered and ordered room service. When I was done, I quickly slipped on a black pencil skirt, which hit slightly above my knees and I tugged down the soft, stretchy fabric. Then I put on a plum, ruffle-neck blouse, tying the ribbon on my waist. I headed downstairs and outside to find Adele waiting for me in front of the hotel.
"Madame Michaels."
"Bonjour, Adele. And please call me Selene." I smiled and slid onto the backseat of the car, relieved to have Adele with me instead of driving with someone I didn't know. Digging inside my bag, I pulled out the letter I'd written last night. "Could you please give this to Monsieur St. Germain?"
She nodded, taking the note, and putting in carefully inside her black jacket pocket.
We arrived at Lycée Saint Bernadette in the 3rd arrondissement with about five minutes to spare.
Andrew was hovering at the school doors, chatting with Grace. After a quick look in our direction as the car arrived in front of the school, his frown was replaced by huge smile.
"That was cutting it too close, Leney," he said, bounding down the stairs toward me as I opened my door.
"Traffic was a monster," I said, lifting up to kiss him on his smooth cheek.
"I thought you'd made up your mind not to take advantage of St. Germain's kindness anymore?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.
"Your friend is the persistent type, isn't he?"
"Only when he wants something badly," he said.
"Did someone mention St. Germain? As in Remington St. Germain?" Grace asked, brushing past Andrew, embracing me in a tight hug. "It's so nice to see you again, Selene."
"God, it's so nice to see you, too, Grace. And also to be here in Paris."
She smiled, her bright blue eyes filling with laughter as always. "You look well-rested. Did I mention yesterday how good it is to have you back with us again?" She linked my arm with hers, pulling Andrew with us toward the school.
I nodded, smiling. "Yes. But I don't mind hearing it again."
She bumped my shoulder with hers and laughed.
At five feet seven inches, Grace was a formidable presence in the Fashion industry. Just like me, she'd had a hard time growing up. She'd started her company over ten years ago, spreading within Europe the first three years. Two years later, I was recruited through my agent in New York for a fashion show in Milan where we met for the first time. Later the same year, I was honored with the title "The Face of Curves." Grace and I became good friends, until I left to make things work with James. When I told her I was getting back into modeling, she'd immediately offered me my former position. The outgoing girl had been let go after failing to maintain Curves' values. Respect others, respect your body, and above all, encourage others.
"So, St. Germain, huh? The handsome devil works fast, eh?" Grace said, pulling me away from my thoughts.
"You know him?" I asked, flicking a gaze toward Andrew as his phone buzzed in his hand. He excused himself when it started ringing and walked a short distance away.
She laughed. "Only that he’s Andrew's friend and one newspaper called him 'one of France's sexiest, single fathers.' Doesn't hurt he's as close to Michelangelo as it gets when it comes to painting."
Wasn't there anything Remington did wrong? A guy so perfect and talented had to have some skeletons in his closet. "He was generous to give me a room at his hotel. And his driver."
"Oh, look at you, sweeping the Sexy Father off his feet." We laughed at that, heading for the doors, which led to the school hall.
As soon as I stepped on the raised podium, I was in my element. The real Selene, not the one who was always Photoshopped in magazines to enhance or smooth her curves, but the one with a little tummy bump, which refused to go away no matter how much she exercised, and I loved it.
I was the girl. The girl who grew up in New York, who fought her way through childhood and teenage years, craving acceptance from society. The girl, who, after bowing to her high school physical education teacher's pressure to lose weight, finally discovered the world of fashion. The girl who'd purchase a monthly Vogue magazine, wishing she'd magically transform to be like the tall, slender models gracing the glossy pages. And when she'd finally realized that wasn't in the cards for her, she'd accepted herself. Eating healthily and exercising took priority as she began t
o model part-time for plus-size clothing. She learned to embrace her body, her curves, and she owned it. I owned it… because I was that girl.
When I was finished speaking, I took a deep breath, my pulse beating wildly in my ears as it always did after peeling back those memories. Looks were exchanged, but the room remained silent. I was beginning to worry I might have said something wrong when a tall figure unfolded from the seat at the back of the room, clapping. Seconds later the room joined and, I swear, my heart's thudding overtook the clapping hands.
Remington St. Germain. A small smile curved the corner of his lips, his green eyes filled with approval, and damn it, I couldn't take my eyes off him. My stupid heart threatened to leave my chest and dash down from the podium to hop on his lap.
What was he doing here?
Andrew. I turned in his direction, but he just shrugged and raised his hands as if to say, “I didn't have a choice.”
Taking a deep breath, I flicked a quick glance in Remington's direction, taking in how good he looked in a white V-neck T-shirt, hugging his toned chest, and a black coat.
Standing there, tall and hot, Remington was the picture of sophistication. If I hadn't seen him laughing with Adrien, I would have thought laughter was the rarest thing ever to grace his mouth.
I dragged my gaze from him. I had to in order to gather my thoughts, which were now splattered all over the place. I turned, walked out of the hall, and entered one of the classrooms designated for a question-and-answer session. A group of girls had already gathered inside, waiting. I needed to get my act together before facing Remington again.
"IF I didn't know better, I'd think you're avoiding me, Selene."
The poise I had maintained while talking to the girls shattered into tiny slivers at the sound of his voice.