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

by Inglath Cooper

  I’ve co-written with plenty of other writers in Nashville, so this isn’t a first for me. But somehow it’s different. It’s like I don’t mind revealing parts of myself to her that I would be reluctant to share with a stranger, someone I didn’t know before we walked into the writing session together. With Dillon, it’s like I’m writing with an old friend. Someone I’ve known the majority of my life. Someone who knows the shadows and fractures and ugly parts, as well as what’s come since.

  But I haven’t known Dillon all my life. We’ve actually spent very little time together in the big picture of things, and yet I’m comfortable with her. I have the feeling that she accepts me for who I am and not just the shiny, polished up Nashville country music star version.

  I glance at my phone at 2:52 A.M., noting the moment when it feels like the song is completely finished. I sit back in my chair and put my guitar on the floor. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never written anything this good.”

  Dillon smiles, and her face is lit with the same kind of happiness I’m feeling right at the moment. “It’s amazing, isn’t it,” she says, “when something comes together and feels so right.”

  “This is all you,” I say. “You asked the questions, pushed the buttons, forced me to look at things that I would never have looked at on my own, or with anyone else I’ve ever written with.”

  She drops her gaze, and when she looks back up at me, I can see exactly what my words have meant to her. “That makes me feel so good, Klein, but this is your song. No one else could sing this but you. It’s your story.”

  “I really don’t know how to thank you.”

  “There’s no need,” she says, “and you know, I don’t want writing credit for this because this one isn’t mine.”

  “Oh, it is,” I say, “and you will definitely be getting co-writer status.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she says. “Honestly, it was such a pleasure to spend these last few hours creating something that turned out so right.”

  “Want to play it through one more time?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Just one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to sing it with me.”

  “Oh no,” she says. “You sing.”

  “Nope. That’s my final request before we send this out into the world.”

  “Fine,” she concedes, reluctant.

  “Seriously, come on over here. Sit by me.”

  She gets up from her chair, reluctantly walks over to sit on the corner of the bed. “I’ll whisper sing, how about that?” she says.

  I laugh. “Real singing.”

  She places the laptop on the coffee table in front of us, positioning the screen so that we can both see the lyrics I typed up in their final version.

  “Okay,” I say, and strum the intro. I start, and it takes Dillon a line or two to sing the words where I can actually hear them. But before we reach the end of the first verse, I glance over at her. Her eyes are closed, and she’s feeling the words as well as singing them. I realize how much I’ve loved this entire process with her, starting with the title and a few words, and then creating this song we’re now singing. How I haven’t felt this kind of energy for my music in a very long time.

  When we reach the last word of the outro, I put my guitar across the bed and say, “Wow. That was amazing.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Dillon says. “Who needs drugs or alcohol? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No need to apologize. I agree. This is way better than anything alcohol ever did for me.”

  “I’ll be happy if you never play that anywhere outside of this room. It’s just really nice to have made it with you.”

  “I don’t think I can keep this one locked up.”

  She looks pleased by this.

  “I think I’m ready for bed. Are you tired?”

  “I should be,” she says, “but I’m still a little wired from the coffee and the writing. Maybe I’ll take a hot bath. That usually puts me right to sleep. Would you like to brush your teeth or do whatever in the bathroom before I use the bathtub?”

  “Brush my teeth, and I’ll be done,” I say.

  I go in the bathroom and close the door, reaching for my shave case and pulling out my toothbrush.

  I stare at it for a moment, my thoughts hanging on Dillon, and how different she is from Riley. I glance in the mirror and see the truth in my eyes. I had known from the beginning what kind of person Riley was—that she thrived on fame and money and status. And that had never been me. Still wasn’t, and I wonder what had made me think I wanted that in the woman in my life, and why it had taken me so long to figure out that I didn’t.

  I think about Dillon again, picture the absolute joy on her face when we unraveled another line of the song and discovered that it worked. It’s been a very long time since I’ve enjoyed doing anything with anyone as much as I enjoyed writing that song with Dillon. And I realize, tossing my toothbrush back into the case, that I don’t want to go to bed yet. I don’t want this night to end.

  Klein

  “So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

  And so I dream of going back to be.”

  ―Robert Frost, Birches

  WE END UP at the hotel’s indoor swimming pool.

  It’s located in the spa, which is open for guests twenty-four hours around the clock. I’m already in the pool waiting for Dillon. She’s in the women’s dressing area, changing.

  I swim a couple of laps from one end of the pool to the other, feeling completely wide awake now. Dillon stands at the top of the stairs by the entrance to the pool, dressed in one of the spa’s oversized white robes. She walks down the stairs to stop beside me, looking down with a shy smile.

  “You’re lucky I put a bathing suit in my suitcase.”

  “I am lucky,” I say, looking up at her with a smile.

  She rolls her eyes and says, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I considered not bringing one, but then I always take a bathing suit on any kind of trip just in case there’s time to jump in a pool somewhere.”

  “So, jump in,” I say, my tone teasing now.

  Her eyes widen a bit, and then she says, “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “You know.”

  “What?”

  “Flirting,” she says.

  “Oh, is that what I’m doing?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “So hop in, and I’ll stop.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you, but okay.”

  She walks over to one of the poolside lounge chairs, slips off the spa slippers, and then unties her robe. I make myself look away. One, because I know she wants me to. Two, because I’m afraid I’m getting myself in trouble here. Even so, I can’t stop myself from looking up when she walks down the stairs.

  She deliberately avoids my gaze, dropping quickly into the water and swimming for the far end of the pool. She does two laps back and forth before stopping in the middle, arms wrapped around herself, breathing hard.

  “Impressive,” I say. “You swim for exercise?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I try to do five days a week. My knees stopped liking running, so I had to find something that would still get my heart rate up, but not be so hard on the joints. I jog here and there, but mostly when it’s somewhere I want to see.”

  “You have a strong stroke.”

  “I was a terrible swimmer at first. I had to work at it to get remotely respectable. I even took some lessons at one of the clubs in Nashville, me, and all the other six-year-olds there.”

  I laugh. “Hey, sometimes you got to ditch the pride to get where you need to be.”

  “That is very true,” she says. “What do you do for fitness?”

  “I like to run, and I hit the gym a few times a week. Don’t want to be the only band member who can’t lug a piece of heavy equipment on stage.”

  She looks at me, a little surprised. “You
still do that?”

  I shrug. “I like to be a part of the whole picture, and I did those things from the very beginning. I don’t see any reason to change that up.”

  “Some people would see plenty of reason.”

  “I’m not those people.”

  “No, you certainly are not,” she agrees.

  “I didn’t tell you that for admiration or anything like that. It’s just that I see myself as a regular guy, and regular guys don’t stand around waiting for other people to do things for them.”

  “That’s not what Josh would say,” she says, the words coming out so fast that I wonder if she would like to take them back.

  “I’m sure he’s done his version of hard work,” I say. “He wouldn’t be where he is if that weren’t true.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened between you two?” I ask before I can give myself time to reconsider. “I mean I know he had an affair, but what went wrong before that?”

  She folds her arms across her chest and looks off at the other end of the pool. Several long seconds pass before she answers, and when she does, her voice is so low that I wonder if I have imagined her answer.

  “These,” she says, waving four fingers across the center of her chest. “These went wrong. They’re not real. They look it in this bathing suit, though, don’t they?”

  I have no idea what to say, so I just keep my face blank and wait for her to go on.

  “I had breast cancer about three years ago, and these are the outcome of the surgery I decided to have when all was said and done. They weren’t enough for Josh. I think it was the whole not-really-real thing that got him. In the hospital after my mastectomy, the nurses were changing my bandages. Josh caught a glimpse between the crack in the curtain. I remember the look on his face, and how utterly horrified he was. And every time I think about how I looked after that surgery, that’s what I remember because his expression was an exact, honest, description of what had been done to me. Of who I had become.”

  I hear the break in her voice and slosh through the water to stand in front of her. I feel as if my own chest has cracked open. I reach out a thumb to wipe the tears leaking from her eyes. I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me, holding on tight, as if I can absorb the pain of hurt in her voice. Pain that is still so clearly there. I feel the sobs start, her shoulders shaking under their weight.

  “Hey,” I say, pulling back to look down at her and brushing my hand across her cheek. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I opened that up. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. I don’t know why I told you. You certainly didn’t need to hear all of that. I mean, I’m fine.”

  “Are you?” I ask, and I realize how very much I need to hear that this is true, that she is fine. I take her hand and lead her to the side of the pool, lift her up, and set her on the edge. I hoist myself up to sit next to her. “I never heard anything about you being sick.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know,” she says. “To be honest, after Josh’s reaction, I was kind of terrified to tell anyone because I didn’t want them to see me as that songwriter with cancer. I just wanted to keep being me. Dillon Blake, the girl I’d always been.”

  My heart hurts with sympathy. “How long were you sick?”

  She shrugs. “All said and done almost two years. Everything is good now as far as I know. Last scan said so, anyway.”

  I hear her attempt at nonchalance, but there’s nothing light about this. “I can’t even imagine how painful what you went through must have been. And that’s what should have mattered. Your pain. Your suffering. Not how you looked.”

  Tears stream down her face, and I don’t even bother to wipe them away. I just pull her up against me and wrap my arms tight around her, so tight that I might somehow keep the pain she still feels about that time in her life from breaking her in half.

  I hold her for a long time while she cries quietly. I don’t know how long we sit that way before she says in a soft voice, “I really should not have unloaded all of this on you.”

  “I wish I had known. Even as a friend, Dillon, I would have liked to have been there for you.”

  She pulls back, looking at me, and this time, she’s the one who puts a hand to my face and leans up to kiss me, softly, and with gratitude, at first. And then with increasing passion, pressing her body against mine. There is no hiding the fact that I want her.

  I brush my hand across her flat stomach and then, upwards to the curve of her breast. She gasps a little, and I say, “Does that hurt?”

  “No,” she says. “No. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just—I haven’t been touched since—”

  And it is then that I would really like to choke the life from Josh Cummings. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I never thought Josh deserved you.”

  “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

  “No, I am not,” I say. “You know that night at the Bluebird when you came up to me about the signing, and then we talked in the parking lot?”

  “I remember.”

  “I knew you were married, and yet, I still wanted to ask you to come home with me that night. And I would have if I’d thought you would say yes. I would have tossed you in my truck and taken you back to my place and not let you out for a very long time.”

  She laughs. Surprised, and a little disbelieving. “No, you would not have.”

  “Oh yes, I would have,” I say. “I could barely think about what you were saying about signing with Top Dog because I was too busy looking at your face and noticing how great you looked in that pair of jeans. And yeah, the sweater you had on that night, it was hard not to notice what was beneath that as well.” I drop my gaze to her swim top. “I’m looking at you now and thinking exactly what I thought that night.”

  I raise my gaze to her face then, note the flush stealing up her cheeks. I keep my gaze on hers, not closing my eyes until just before I sink my mouth onto hers. Dillon releases an audible sigh, slipping her arms around my neck and pressing her breasts to my chest.

  I slip back into the pool and anchor one hand on each side of her waist, sliding her forward into the water so that I’m standing between her legs. Luckily, there’s no one else around. It’s the middle of the night. I am aware that this could get out of hand fast. But I don’t want to stop kissing her, and I don’t.

  We go on for several minutes until Dillon finally drops her head back, and says, “We have to stop. We’ll get arrested for indecent exposure.”

  “I’m not exposing anything. Are you exposing anything?” I say, smiling.

  “Well, no, but I could see things moving in that direction.”

  I don’t bother to hide my disappointment. “Okay. You’re right. It’s almost morning, but why don’t we head to the room and get a couple of hours of sleep before we figure out what we’re going to do with a full day in Paris?”

  She leans up and kisses me once more, and then, with clear reluctance, turns and climbs the steps out of the pool.

  Josh

  “There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”

  ―Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

  IT’S TEN IN the morning in Paris, nowhere near daybreak in Nashville, but I haven’t slept all night anyway, so I might as well make the call. Since Riley sent me that damn photo from that gossip rag magazine yesterday afternoon, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I question her motivation, but it’s probably not that difficult to figure out. Klein broke up with her, and she’s jealous that he’s hanging out with Dillon and hoping I’ll have some influence over ending that.

  Her attempt to get me to intervene should not have mattered. Dillon and I are getting a divorce, so why would I care what she’s doing with Klein aside from the obvious business interests, of course? The question is, then, why have I not been able to stop thinking about it? And what is this hammer
of jealousy that keeps pounding me in the heart? I really thought I didn’t care what Dillon does anymore or who she’s with. I realize that I have no right to question anything she does. I know I’ve hurt her terribly. Maybe I need to be forgiven, to hear from her that she doesn’t see me as the monster she has every right to see me as.

  I pour myself another cup of coffee from the pot I’d made over an hour ago. It’s not as good as it was fresh, but I take a fortifying sip and pick up my phone, calling Dillon’s number. By the fourth ring, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to answer. When I hear her voice, I’m silent for a long moment, not sure what to say.

  “Josh,” she says, her voice groggy.

  “Are you still asleep?” I say, and then taking the edge from the question, “Isn’t it like ten o’clock there?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and I can hear her trying to wake up. “Late night.”

  “Ah,” I say. “What kept you up so late?”

  She sighs and says, “Josh, what do you want?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping we could talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About us.”

  “There is no us,” she says. “Remember?”

  “Yeah, I know. I just—”

  “What?” she says. “You just what?”

  “I guess I’ve been thinking that it seems a shame to throw away what we had.”

  “Oh, and what has you thinking this, Josh?”

  “I don’t know. You being gone. I saw that picture of you with Klein in a magazine.”

  She makes a sound of disbelief. “So you’re telling me now that you’re jealous after I spent how long throwing myself at you to no avail as your wife? You didn’t want me, Josh. Why would you want me now? Because someone else is trying to play with your toy?”

  “Don’t be crude,” I say.

  “I’m not being crude. You’re like a little boy, Josh. Even when you’re tired of your toy, you don’t want anyone else to have it.”