Chapter 12

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

—Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet 17

About a month later, I found myself touching down in Charles de Gaulle Airport at a little past ten in the morning. The wheels of the airplane hit tarmac, jolting everyone, and almost simultaneously the passengers started to clap.

A sense of palpable relief was evident in everyone as it struck home that we’d arrived safely, alive. Or maybe only I felt this way, and I was projecting. It hardly mattered either way, as I joined in.

The few days prior to the trip had been a terror to live through as I’d spent hours in front of my laptop obsessively Goggling plane crash statistics and their fatality rates. It was a wonder that I’d managed to get any work done, seeing as I worked myself into a frenzy imagining various scenarios that all ended in disaster.

But I was unharmed (groggy from the cocktail of meds I’d swallowed to put myself to sleep over the eight-hour flight, yes, but virtually whole) and as we formed a queue ushered on by the pretty hostess, it dawned on me that I was in Paris.

The realization settled as the fog of fear that I’d had around me cleared, and as I climbed down the airstair behind a woman that smelled like camphor into open space, a sense of awe stole through me.

I was in the City of Lights, Haute Couture and most importantly, Love.

Elijah’s handsome face flashed through my mind at this last thought, effectively dampening my childlike delight, but I shook off thoughts of him.

He’d arrived ahead of me, but I imagined there would be time enough to think of him, seeing as the whole purpose of my trip dictated that I’d be spending a better part of the following three weeks in close proximity with him.

There was no need to rush.

Rita had had the foresight to suggest that I send my luggage ahead, and as I trudged into arrivals I felt grateful for not having to worry about anything more than the carryon I had slung over my shoulder, which contained a worn copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a small pocketbook of popular French phrases, my MacBook, and its charger.

Lugging three weeks’ worth of clothes through CDG seemed like the perfect way to start a nightmare, and as soon as I was waved through by an immigrations officer after a cursory glance through my documents I caught sight of an impeccably dressed gentleman with a sign that had my name on it, written in large, bold strokes.

Our eyes met, and after a moment’s hesitation I gave a tentative wave, cutting a path towards him until I stopped just paces away.

“Bonjour,” I started easily enough, pointing at his sign. “Je m’appelle Aurora Martin.”

He blinked, and for a moment I thought I must’ve botched up my introduction until his moustache twitched as his mouth began to rise up in the approximation of a smile.

“It’s a pleasure to see that you are well, Mademoiselle Martin,” he said in fluent though slightly accented English. “My name is Louis and I’ll be taking you to the Hotel Du Pont. Please, follow me.”

Louis tucked the sign under an arm, turned imperiously and led the way, leaving me to follow red-faced in his wake.

As soon as we got outside, the horn of an olive-green Bentley Mulsanne gave a low beep, and Louis rushed ahead of me to hold open the back doors. I felt that this much fanfare was a bit on the nose but muttered my thanks to him before slipping down into the sleek leather interior of the car that, quite frankly, left me breathless.

A complimentary bag which contained a bottle of wine, along with a card embossed in pretty French script sat in the space beside me and I let myself entertain the theory of how David’s betrayal was not as bad as I’d let myself imagine, because if he hadn’t cheated, for example, I’d be in my old city, working at the backwater firm that I’d had to settle for after graduation because of the flexible hours it offered.

There would be no all-expenses paid business trips to one of the world’s biggest metropolises, or chicly dressed chauffeurs and luxury vehicles.

For the first time the thought of him didn’t register the same way a wound which had begun to fester would, but instead it felt like gratitude, and I wondered if this was what the healing they talked so much about felt like.

•

Elijah stood waiting beneath the awning at the entrance of the Hotel Du Pont, and as soon as I stepped out of the Bentley I froze, nerves short-circuiting when his colorless gaze immediately zeroed in on me.

Standing by the doorway of the hotel in a short-sleeved polo shirt that was tucked into high-waisted Riviera-style slacks and finished off by a pair of classic leather sandals; he was a vision of timeless privilege, style, and wealth.

He looked every bit the French debonair, and as I took him in a part of me startled when I realized that he was doing the exact same to me.

Without a doubt I was sure that I cut a less impressive figure in my beanie, oversized sweater, leggings, and sneakers, and I fought down my insecurity, resisting an urge to dive back into the Bentley and order Louis to just drive like they did in the movies.

Instead I squared my shoulders, thanking the chauffer as I closed the door behind me and forced one leg in front of the other, ascending the stairs until I stood close enough that by simply reaching out, I could’ve run a hand across the soft fabric of his shirt.

My fingers flexed and I curled them in on themselves, swallowing as I tried to calm my heart, which had started to race. This close to him it would’ve been a lie to claim that I wasn’t wholly and completely under his spell, but after a tension-filled moment he broke the silence, bringing me back to reality.

“How was your flight?”

I looked away, taking a few steps back as a sense of awareness of our surroundings rushed in and it dawned on me that we were standing in front of one of Paris’s most popular hotels—anyone could be watching.

Passersby sidestepped us, shooting us the occasional stick eye, but I gathered that they were too dignified to actually cuss us out of the way, and a second later I recalled that Elijah had asked me a question.

“It was good,” I replied, nervously running my tongue over my chapped lower lip. “Restful.”

His eyes darted down, following the movement, and I thought back to how he’d confessed to still remembering the way I tasted.

The memory had me take another step back, and I would’ve tumbled down the stairway if it wasn’t for Elijah’s quick reflexes.

He reached for my outstretched hand, pulling me towards him into the smooth, hard expanse of his chest, and for a moment it felt like all I could do was breathe as images of myself sprawled at the foot of the smooth stone staircase, neck turned to an impossible angle as people screamed flashed through my mind in brief, frantic bursts.

I imagined my parents would commission Paula to come up with something for my headstone, imagined her pulling a quote from one of my all-time favorite books because she knew me so well, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five: “Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.”

For a second, for one dangerous second I stood perilously close to bursting into tears as Elijah cradled my body against his. And then I remembered who he was.

We didn’t—we couldn’t—be doing this, especially in light of the history we had, the obligations he had, and I held on for one moment longer before pulling away.

He resisted for a fraction of a second but relinquished his hold on me easily enough, and once more we stood apart, two grown adults who didn’t quite know how to act around each other.

At his sides both of Elijah’s hands made strange back-and-forth flapping motions, and when I looked up I noticed that for the first time since I’d known him he was refusing to meet my eyes.

They continued like this for what felt like a full minute even though it must have been mere seconds before coming to an abrupt stop, at which point Elijah cleared his throat.

“I’m happy to see that you enjoyed your journey,” he said, neatly folding away everything that’d occurred in the last few minutes. I decided to follow his cue.

“Come,” he continued, flashing me an indecipherable look. “I’ll take you to our suite.”

It took a moment for his last sentence to sink in and I felt my mouth fall open, but Elijah saw none of it as he’d turned and was already making his way towards the revolving doors, leaving me with no choice but to go after him.

As soon as I rounded my way through the revolving doors and into the lobby of the Hotel Du Pont, my mind stuttered to a halt until only one word called out, over and over again like a mantra—immaculate. And God it was.

Wide and spacious, with a lit chandelier that took up a quarter of the beam ceiling, everything screamed wealth, and this time I muttered a word of silent thanks to David for giving me an outlet to finally break away from him.

My thoughts came to a sharp stop when I noticed a small group of staff headed by a stunning brunette, who I assumed to be the concierge. She had on a stylishly cut white blouse, tucked into a pencil skirt that fell right below her knees. Her long legs ended in a pair of dangerous looking stilettoes, and as her and her little group of underlings started to converge in an orderly line front of us I swallowed weakly.

It came as no surprise to learn that Elijah spoke fluent French, and I could feel a knot of something that felt dangerously close to jealousy tighten in my chest as I witnessed his easy mastery of the language unfold before me in real time as he conversed with the concierge who hadn’t thought to consider that I warranted anything more than a raised brow at our entrance together.

I could feel the eyes of the other staff members bore into me and prayed that my face wouldn’t go hot with embarrassment.

The slight brought out all kinds of vindictive feelings in me, and I imagined what it would feel like to sidle up to Elijah, grab onto his arm and stare her down until she ducked her head away in embarrassment. Of course, I discarded this thought as soon as it formed in my head.

It was a petty fantasy, nothing more; and I’d never been in the habit of bringing other women down over a man—though even if I had, there would’ve been no basis for it in this situation, because as I’d made it clear several times (to myself most of all) the relationship between Elijah and I was strictly professional.

Their back-and-forth continued for a moment longer, and then they both turned their eyes to me almost at the same time. I was a deer caught in headlights, but I straightened my posture, taking a page out of Paula’s book. Never let them see you sweat.

“Welcome to Hotel Du Pont, Mademoiselle.” The concierge simpered, with a smile so sharp you could’ve cut diamonds on in. It wasn’t giving a friendly vibe, but I inclined my head at her, and she continued. “My name is Renée, and we are happy to see that you’ve arrived safely.”

Again I nodded, and I watched on as her rouged smile slipped imperceptibly at my lack of a verbal reply, but if I was being honest it had nothing to do with her. I’d just gotten off an eight-hour flight and the thought alone of a toothbrush felt like no small mercy.

I had no time to entertain innuendoes and mind games from anyone, and after a beat Elijah cut in.

“I can take it from here, Renée. Thank you.”

He did not wait to see if she’d caught his dismissal before striding past her. This time her smile dropped completely, and as I hurried after him I was reminded of the morning after our night together, how quickly he’d gone from curious and engaging to cold, distant.

In the midst of all my worrying I’d forgotten that moment, but confronted with this version of him again, even from the sidelines it was easy to remember how small he’d made me feel and as Elijah led me past the group over to the front desk clerk—where he verified my reservation—I remembered how, after David, I’d promised myself to never let another have that kind of power over me again.

That one time with Elijah had been a fluke, but as long as I had a say in how things went it wouldn’t be happening again. Whether I wanted it to or not remained irrelevant.