More Than Words

by Mia Sheridan

  “I don’t even know her name.” I ran a hand through my hair as I looked back at him. “And it doesn’t matter. She was just a pretty girl, and there is no shortage of pretty girls anywhere in this fucked-up world.” So why the hell can’t I forget about this one?

  “Hmm,” he said, not sounding convinced for some reason I didn’t care to know about. But he didn’t elaborate, and instead picked up a travel brochure the limo company had provided, obviously willing to move the conversation to a different topic. The brochure featured a picture of a large castle on the front cover, and I assumed it covered nearby attractions. “Is this where we’re staying?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. My assistant booked it.” The only directive I’d given my assistant when I’d told her to book me a vacation spot in France was that it should be somewhere other than where the so-called jet-setters went but still somewhere with style. “All she said is that it’s spectacular.”

  “Liza?”

  “No. The new one’s name is Myrtle.”

  “What happened to Liza?”

  “What do you think happened to Liza?”

  He made a disappointed sound in his throat and shook his head. “You slept with that one, too? Jesus, Cal. How do you expect to keep anyone employed at this rate?”

  “Myrtle is seventy and has fourteen grandchildren.”

  “It depresses me that I’m still concerned.”

  I laughed. “Touché. I’m not that bad.”

  “Pretty damn close,” he muttered.

  “Myrtle does have this interesting blue hair. I’m sort of tempted to find out if the curtains match the carpet.”

  Nick groaned. “Ugh, you’re the worst. I’m surprised you haven’t put the moves on me yet.”

  I raised my brows. “Don’t underestimate the romance of France, mon ami. You won’t be able to resist me for long.”

  “Oh, I’ll be able to resist you—don’t worry about that.”

  I laughed. “Seriously, what about you? When’s the last time you went on a date?”

  “I was seeing a girl in L.A. for a couple of months. She said I work too much.”

  “She was right.”

  Nick bounced his knee. “I know. It’s just…building financial security means more to me than a relationship right now.”

  I watched him for a second as he looked back down at the brochure. I knew what he meant. He didn’t want to live the way we’d lived for so long—surviving day to day, no guarantees of a roof over our heads, no safety net, just each other and a fire that burned in our guts for more. Of course, I had enough money now that I was his safety net if he needed one, but I understood that he wanted to make his own way, too. “I know, Nick.”

  He looked at me and gave a small smile, a nod. “I know you do.”

  We lapsed into a comfortable silence, and I gazed out the window at a train speeding by, heading in the same direction. The blurred profile of a brunette caught my eye and my heart gave a strange jolt, but as quickly as I’d seen her, she was gone. I sighed, closing my eyes. I was obviously so tired, my mind was playing tricks on me.

  * * *

  I doodled a monster made of musical notes between the staffs, stared at it, and then threw my pen across the room, crumpling the paper—empty except for my bad art—and tossing that as well. “Goddamn it!”

  I stood, running the fingers of both hands through my hair and holding my head forward for a minute. I grasped my skull and shook my head, hoping that the movement might make something click back into place. Specifically, the creativity that seemed to have fallen loose and was free-floating through my brain, lost and unobtainable. I shook my head harder, using my fist to box my own ear so hard that a gasp of pain escaped through my lips. Fuck!

  The impressive balcony off my room overlooked a river, and for a minute I stood at the iron railing looking out into the night, watching as starlight danced on the water. The pain in my ear faded, along with the last vestiges of the hope I’d held as I’d sat down to write.

  Now what do I do? Nick and I had checked in to the castle featured on the front of the brochure that afternoon, and I’d taken a short nap. When I’d woken, my headache had lessened and I’d been filled with cautious excitement. While I showered, a melody—just the echo of something that floated on some inner breeze—had drifted through my mind. I’d stumbled out and tried desperately to catch it, to get it down on paper, but it was gone. As wispy as the fragment of a forgotten dream.

  Useless. You’re nothing but a waste of time.

  Useless.

  Useless.

  Useless.

  I turned away from the river and went back inside, putting my shoes on and grabbing my wallet. I knocked quietly on the door to Nick’s room, which was right down the hall, but he didn’t answer and it looked like the lights were off inside.

  There was an older couple in the elevator, and they gave me a polite smile. When I stepped inside, the woman pointed to the panel of buttons and said something in French that I assumed was, “What floor?”

  “Uh, le bar.”

  “Ah, oui,” she said, pressing the lowest button.

  As soon as we stepped off, I could hear the familiar sounds of music, laughter, and clinking glasses. I followed the noise and ended up in a lavish room with an ornate mahogany bar taking up the entire far wall. A mirror ran the length of the wall behind the bar, reflecting the multicolored bottles on glass shelves and the sparkling chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was stunning, and for the first time since we’d arrived, I took a moment to look around. This is what it must have felt like to be lord of the manor—king of the castle?—back when châteaus like this one were built in…what year? I had no earthly idea. I knew nothing of history, of eras, of titles, and the reminder of my lack of education depressed me as it always did. I had money and I had fame, so why did I always feel like an imposter? Like any success I enjoyed would be taken away once people realized I had no real talent? I always felt like I was only one step ahead of a universe that was looking to expose me for the fraud I was. It made me feel sick and alone. The dread was a block of stone that sat heavily in my gut.

  “Bourbon, neat. Make it a double.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  The drink was put in front of me, and I scrawled my signature on the tab, taking a sip of my drink, enjoying the smooth burn and turning toward the open room. There was a group of women standing by a seating area looking at me, whispering and giggling. When I raised my drink to them, I heard several squeals. “Five, four, three,” I muttered, barely moving my lips. I took a sip of my drink. “Two, and…” One of the women began making her way over to me.

  She had nicely rounded hips and smallish breasts, and she swayed seductively as she walked, pulling at the hem of her tight red dress as if she wanted to make sure it didn’t slide up her thighs. Which was amusing considering it was so tight I could see every curve, bump, and crease of her body beneath the thin material. She came to stand in front of me, giving me a coy smile and twirling a lock of strawberry-blond hair around one finger. “My girlfriends and I have a bet. They don’t believe you’re Callen Hayes, but I think you are.”

  “What do you win if you’re right?”

  She giggled. “With them? Just bragging rights. But I’m hoping you’ll sweeten the pot.”

  I chuckled. “Sweetening pots is my specialty. How do you feel about hot tubs?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jessica

  The Château de la Bellefeuille was a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, majestic and elegant, surrounded by expansive, formal gardens and situated next to the Loire River. I stood in the center of my room and spun around slowly, taking in the ancient stone walls, the pale green silk draperies and matching bed linens, and the simple but lovely French furnishings that looked to be refurbished originals. I was in one of the smallest rooms on the bottom floor, and even so, it was utterly charming. I could only imagine the splendor of the top-floor suites.

  I had arr
ived via train earlier that day, checked in to the château, and taken a long walk through the gardens. It was Saturday, and the other members of the team—some of whom were not living in France—were supposed to arrive Monday. I was delighted to have the opportunity to see parts of the village we were in before diving into work. I had always loved meandering through obscure places, without the rush of a tour guide. It allowed me to feel my way around. I’d eaten alone in the château restaurant and come back to my room, intending to turn in early, but I was too excited to sleep. All day I’d had this nervous energy running through my veins, a fluttery anticipation that had only increased as the train I’d taken had sped closer to the Loire Valley. As if the area itself was luring me, as if I was meant to be here. Just like the girl dressed as Philippe had described her feelings. I’d read only one of her writings, and yet I already felt somehow close to her—connected in some vague sense—and I was eager to know where her story led.

  I picked up a brochure on the writing desk and opened it, glancing at the professional photos of the château and reading the short history of the castle. Apparently, the king who originally had it built left it to two of his mistresses upon his death, rather than his children. It caused a great scandal, and despite the children’s many attempts to get it back, the mistresses—who were not friends and each occupied separate wings of the château—lived here until their deaths. A sound of irritation escaped my throat, and I tossed the brochure back on the desk. Men and their vast array of women! Did any man want to be faithful to just one?

  I hefted my suitcase onto the luggage stand and zipped it open, pulling out the dresses and various clothing items Frankie had insisted I take with me. I should have remembered to hang them up right away, but I’d been too intent on exploring this massive castle to remember the garments wrinkling in my suitcase. The material must have been spun by magical fairies, though, because when I held them up, there was not a wrinkle in sight. I placed them in the closet and then set the shoes on the floor below. Frankie had loaned those to me as well, and I eyed them warily. I supposed I was very lucky we were the same size, though I had doubts I’d be able to walk in the strappy, spiky-heeled, pointy-toed contraptions in front of me. Hopefully there wouldn’t be an occasion to wear such things. Frankie had insisted I humor her and be prepared for anything. Fashion-wise at least.

  I unpacked my pj’s and underwear and took my toiletries into the tiny bathroom, securing my hair into a messy bun. The shower felt wonderful as I washed the travel dust from my body, the bathroom filling with the steamy fragrance of my body wash.

  Back out in my room, I eyed my pj’s, that same buzz of anticipation causing me to hesitate. I just wasn’t tired. Which was surprising, considering I’d woken early and had had a long day of travel and exploring. I stood there, holding the towel tightly around me, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe a drink at the lounge would appease the restlessness. Being that I’d spent a lot of my working hours at a bar in Paris, it wasn’t my normal distraction. But hey, I’m twenty-four. Wasn’t that what other twenty-four-year-olds did? I’d at least have one drink and enjoy a little people-watching.

  I perused the clothing I’d hung in the closet and pulled out a silver dress with shimmery pale silver threads woven through the fabric. It was somewhat demure-looking, with an asymmetrical V-neck and a short A-line skirt, but when I pulled it on, it hugged my body in a way that made my waist look tiny and showed off my cleavage to its full advantage. “Oh, Clémence, you evil genius,” I murmured, turning this way and that in the full-length mirror and slipping on the silver shoes. They weren’t as uncomfortable as they looked, so I teetered into the bathroom, where I put on a bit of makeup and brushed out my hair, pulling it up into a twist and taking out a few pieces around my face. I studied myself in the mirror, feeling pleased with the effect, even though it was only for me.

  * * *

  The lilting strains of “La Vie en Rose” drifted from the lounge, luring me forward, the buzzing in my veins suddenly increasing and the surge of adrenaline causing me to stumble on the stone floor. Despite the instability of my borrowed shoes, I had the brief, intense urge to run, as if I were late for something and time was of the essence. “Get a grip, Jessica,” I whispered to myself. I needed to settle down, and quiet my excitement at being in this grand place, or I’d never be able to focus on the work I was here to do.

  I took a deep breath, the music and lyrics of the famous French ballad calming me as I entered the lounge, standing in the doorway for a moment. The room was magnificent, decorated in shades of royal blue, light blue, and gold, with a striking, ornate bar on the back wall. I felt suddenly uncertain as I watched groups of people laugh and chatter, the crystals from the chandeliers overhead causing the light to shift and shimmer. I bit my lip and moved farther into the room, that electric feeling settling into a warm hum that relaxed my muscles and made me want to sink into one of the comfortable-looking upholstered chairs in any one of the small groupings of furniture. Stay, it whispered.

  I stepped up to the bar, and the bartender turned my way. “Madame?”

  “Un verre de vin blanc s’il vous plaît.” The bartender handed me a carte des vins, and I chose a sauvignon blanc that came from a winery in the Loire Valley. I turned and glanced around the bar as the bartender was pouring my wine. There was a group of women gathered around a man with dark hair, and he was laughing and saying something that they evidently all found completely delightful, as they were laughing giddily and flipping their hair in unison. I felt an inexplicable jolt of annoyance and turned back around just as the bartender slid the glass of wine and my tab onto the bar. I signed the slip, taking my wine with a smile and a muttered, “Merci,” as I began walking away.

  “Excusez-moi, Jessica Creswell. Eh, Madame Creswell?”

  It took a moment for my name to register, and I turned back around in confusion to see the bartender holding my evening bag toward me. I’d left it on the bar. I let out a short breath, reaching for the bag and smiling in embarrassment. “Que je suis bête.” Silly me.

  I wandered away from the bar, toward the doors to what must be a balcony, glancing outside. The balcony looked out over the gardens I’d walked through earlier that day, and I considered taking my wine outside but decided against it when I noticed a couple standing at the railing, their heads bent together intimately. They were obviously enjoying the privacy. Feeling a strange sort of heat on the back of my neck, I tensed, a shiver running through me as I slowly turned around.

  I sucked in a startled breath as my gaze clashed with that of Callen Hayes.

  My hand trembled, and I brought my other hand up just in time to stop myself from dropping the wineglass I was holding. Oh dear Lord. It felt like all the blood in my body had drained to my feet.

  How in the world? How in the wide, wide world was this happening to me again? It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. He was moving toward me, eyes wide, his expression stunned, as if he’d just seen a ghost, and all I could do was stare back. Frozen.

  I felt caught in his gaze, paralyzed with this feeling of unreality, as he stepped between two women and moved closer…closer. Some part of me wanted to run away, and another, stronger part, wanted to move toward him so we’d come together sooner. This was…This was impossible. Only somehow it was not. Somehow, I felt this odd inevitability, as if a part of me had been waiting for this to happen. I couldn’t explain it, not even to myself.

  I sucked in a breath of air, watching him approach. He was gorgeous. I remembered the first time I’d seen him sitting in the back of that abandoned boxcar, bruised and alone. He’d been only a boy, but beautiful even then, and I’d been mesmerized. Just as I’d been in Lounge La Vue. Just as I was now. How was he here?

  “Jessica Creswell? Jessie?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

  My heart was beating a mile a minute, and I let out a whoosh of breath, gripping my wineglass so tightly I was surprised it hadn’t shattered. Callen Hayes was here…somehow, and he
’d obviously heard the bartender say my name. I swallowed, my eyes darting around the lounge, looking for what? A distraction? An escape? “Hi, Callen.”

  He shook his head very slowly. “Jessie Creswell? You’re…my God. You’re…Paris…You’re Jessie and you’re here. How?”

  “Yes…I…” What did he ask? How am I here? “Uh…well, I—I’m here for a job. I’m working here.” I shook my head. “Not for the château, but at the château…and I’m staying here, temporarily.”

  His eyes moved over my face incredulously. He still looked slightly shattered, as if he was having trouble putting the pieces together. I could relate. “What—what are you doing here?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, blinking as if he couldn’t quite remember. “Ah, I’m here on vacation for a couple of weeks. My God, this is…unbelievable. Jessie Creswell. And I’ve run into you twice now.” He paused, looking me over once again. I felt the heat of his gaze as it moved down my body, and I took a sip of wine, willing my heart rate to slow. “That night at the bar in Paris, you knew who I was. You tried to tell me.”

  The warmth of the wine slid down my throat, and I felt better, my hands more steady on the glass. “Yes.” I nodded. “It’s okay, though. I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.” I’d only hoped…

  “Of course I remember you. Just now…when I heard your name, I knew it immediately. I just…” His voice was so deep and smooth, and his eyes held something, some emotion I didn’t know how to read. “I haven’t thought about Santa Lucinda in so long, and…you’ve changed. You were always pretty, but you’re beautiful now.” A flush of happiness flowed through me at his words, and I looked down for a moment. When I met his eyes again, he was still staring at me. “You’re…all grown up.” He sounded almost shocked, as if he’d kept me in his mind as a little girl and he was having trouble connecting me with that child. I could understand. Perhaps I’d feel the same way if I hadn’t had time to process and accept the grown-up version of Callen Hayes.