by Beck, Jamie
“You can’t make that promise, Logan, although I love you for trying. But honestly, I don’t feel sexy, let alone have the energy for romance yet.” Maybe after her next checkup she also wouldn’t worry as much about getting sick again. “It’s too soon. I won’t drag anyone new through recovery with me. Even I’m not that selfish.”
“It’s not selfish to want to be loved, for however long it lasts.”
“Okay, we’ve gone into weird brother-sister territory here. If you’re feeling a need to be mushy, go hang out with Claire. I’m going to sleep now.”
“Fine. But on a serious note, talk to Mitch about this work stuff if for no other reason than so you can kick ass on the rest of the tour. You’ve put too much of yourself into this project not to give this your best shot.”
She refused to agree with him or call him out on his own motives for wanting their book to succeed. “Good night.”
“Sleep well.”
After hanging up, she tossed her phone aside. Seconds ticked by as she swung her calves in little circles, thinking about Mitch’s expression on the sidewalk. That gorgeous, stricken face of his that did all kinds of unwelcome things to her heart. Not to mention how aggravating it was—humiliating, even—to have to admit to herself that, despite her justifiable ire, she felt something more.
With a determined shove, she pushed off the mattress, slipped into her shoes, and stole down the hallway to his room for a showdown.
Room 204. She stared at the number, hand raised, ready to knock. Her heart seemed to be pumping itself up into her throat, but not from indignation or anger. From something much more dangerous, if the heat between her legs meant anything. Good to know she could still feel that, but it was not appropriate in these circumstances.
Stepping away from the door, she turned and trotted back to her room. Clearly she had yet to regain control of her brain and emotions, which had sped away like a twisting roller coaster two years ago and still hadn’t pulled back into the station.
Tonight was not the time to talk—not when the idea of stepping into his hotel room aroused her to the point that she might now have to take the edge off by herself when she got to her room. Something she also hadn’t done in ages because chemo had pretty much killed those urges along with the cancer.
Thank God she’d already rebooked herself on an earlier flight tomorrow.
Mitch groaned when he rolled over to turn off the alarm. His body had doubled in weight overnight, or so it seemed. Dread and exhaustion—a killer combo. With effort, he rubbed his dry eyes before peeling them open, then squinted at the daylight slipping through the slit between the blinds.
Bright white light. Despite the nagging sense that he had to shower and pack, he couldn’t make himself move.
He scrubbed his hands over his face as if that would wash away the memory of Peyton’s revulsion. Her memoir lay beneath his phone on the nightstand, where he’d set it down around four o’clock this morning. Given how he’d fucked up, he couldn’t complain about the late night or the resulting nightmare he’d had of his dad crying out his name from behind a door Mitch couldn’t open.
Regardless, he’d fix things with Peyton today. She couldn’t avoid him on the plane. Telling her his story would suck almost as much as flying, but maybe, once she learned why he’d been unwilling to read the blow-by-blow details in her book, some sympathy would lessen her anger.
Pushing himself up against the headboard, he then grabbed his phone to clear out the in-box. It didn’t shock him to see a text from his mother, but his eyes went straight to another note—from Peyton.
Mitch,
I switched my flight and took off before 6:30 this morning. I’m going to a tasting at Champagne Le Gallais today in Boursault, about ninety minutes outside of Paris, but I’ll be back in time for tonight’s party. I figured there was no need to prep since you never read the book. In truth, I’m grateful to you because now I’ve less guilt about my laissez-faire attitude. If you’d read my book, you’d know that the biggest lesson I’ve learned is that, at a minimum, people should choose to do with their lives what makes them happy. If all work and no play makes you happy, then you are living the dream. But as long as I’m in Europe, I’m going to make sure the agenda includes some things that make me happy.
P
He stared at his phone, frozen. A prank—surely—and not a pleasant one. Without thinking, he called her. Straight to voice mail.
“Peyton, it’s Mitch. Is this a joke? It’s not funny. Please call me.”
He stared at the phone. When glaring at it didn’t result in a return call, he tossed it on the bed and hit the shower. Hot water didn’t help. The washcloth nearly tore his skin off from his scrubbing so hard and fast, then he nicked himself with the razor, too.
Still no call.
After confirming that she’d checked out, he hailed a taxi. On the way to the airport, he got her reply.
Got your message. Checking in to our Paris hotel now. See you this evening. Happy to meet you in the lobby by 6. There is plenty to see in Paris. I recommend you don’t waste your entire day working in your room.
It wasn’t often he found himself speechless. It didn’t matter that he had no one to talk to . . . he was sputtering anyhow.
“Sorry,” he mumbled to the taxi driver, who glanced at him like he might be a little unstable.
Bit by bit, the layers of civility gave way to his building fury. Peyton was lucky there were still eight hours for him to cool down before he saw her.
This was not good. Peyton stood along a deserted stretch of D222, a two-lane country road that cut through Boursault, staring at the flat tire on her rental Passat. Four forty. Not quite enough time to get back to the hotel by six with this unexpected problem. She knelt down again, as if a second look would magically fix the flat.
As luck would have it, it had happened in a spot without cell service—not that she’d know whom to call for help without being able to access Google. Any other day, she’d have made the most of it and enjoyed counting the rows in each vineyard, which stretched as far as the eye could see in a patchwork quilt of golds, tans, and greens. Now she shook her head at the foolishness of taking the side roads for their beauty. There should be a town up ahead, but it could be a mile or farther away. It’d be faster to change the tire than to walk in search of help.
She knew little to no French, so she prayed that the manual would contain English instructions, too.
After reaching inside the glove compartment, she retrieved the manual, then popped the trunk to find the spare tire and jack.
As she sat on the road beside the flat, she breathed in the loamy air and recalled the excellent champagne she’d tasted earlier. A pretty damn magnificent set of silver linings to offset her current predicament.
She held her phone overhead once more, searching for any signal. Nada.
At least Mitch wouldn’t be stressed quite yet. Not long ago, she’d texted him some photos of the vineyard and the Château de Boursault, a neo-Renaissance-style castle built in 1843 by Madame Clicquot Ponsardin (the Veuve Clicquot—or Clicquot widow) on a wooded hill summit, along with a selfie that included a flute of champagne, telling him she was on her way back to Paris. And, worst case, he’d know where to start the search for her remains if she ended up attacked by wildlife along the roadside.
She was on her knees, bracing the tire opposite the flat with a decent-size stone she’d found not far from the road, when she heard a bicycle approach from behind. Help! She spun around to find a preteen girl.
“Excusez-moi. Parlez vous anglais?”
“A little.” The girl came to a stop.
Peyton was about to ask if the girl knew how to change a flat when she burst into a chuckle at how unlikely it was that she could translate that in any understandable way. She recounted the problem while gesturing to the tire and then her phone, but when the girl cocked her head, Peyton waved her off. “Never mind. Have a good day.”
“Je vais vous env
oyer mon père!” The girl pedaled away, leaving Peyton to figure it out for herself. “Bonne chance.”
Several minutes later, hands now grimy and one nail chipped to the quick, she’d loosened the lug bolts. She was wiping her forehead with her forearm when the sound of a small engine buzzed through the air. Moments later, a man on a blue vintage Honda motorcycle appeared from the direction that the young girl had gone. He stopped in front of Peyton’s car. Tan workmen’s pants. A touch of silver glinting in his brown hair. He looked to be about forty.
“Bonjour.” He toed his kickstand and approached her.
Her instincts—and the smile lines around his mouth—told her not to fear him. “Hi.”
“My daughter sends me for to help.” He pointed at his chest.
In that moment, she might’ve thrown up her hands to her new Lord and Savior. “Oh my gosh, yes! Please . . . and thank you.”
He smiled at her, sun-kissed skin wrinkling the corners of his eyes, then motioned for her to make room before picking the jack up off the road and getting to work. Part of her wanted to lie back in the nearby grass and watch the clouds roll by for five minutes, but this experience had taught her she needed to learn how to change a flat.
She crouched beside him and watched as he placed the jack, raised the car high enough to replace the tire, then put the lug bolts back on, tightening them twice in a star pattern.
“Voilà!” He handed her the wrench and brushed his palms together as if that would clean them.
“Thank you! Merci beaucoup!” She fished around her purse and pulled out twenty euros, but he waved it off.
“Non!” He strolled back to his motorcycle and started it up, pointing at the spare tire on her car. “Must be slow. Au revoir!”
“Bye!” She watched him speed away, fantasizing for another moment about the quiet life he might live here in the French countryside. Perhaps employed by one of the nearby vineyards, or maybe he was a local teacher? He had a daughter, apparently. Did his wife pack picnics for them to enjoy—bread, cheese, wine . . . ?
Mitch! Going slow didn’t exactly work well for her, but she wouldn’t risk blowing out the tire and causing an accident.
She rolled the flat tire around the car and tossed it in the trunk along with the tool kit. Dirty hands, knees, and clothes. Not the best look for her publicity event, but she would scarcely have time to get to Paris and return the car, let alone make it to the hotel for a quick shower.
This side trip might have been a mistake, yet she couldn’t regret it. Otto and Emma Müller—tourists from Berlin she’d met at the tasting—had given her several recommendations of trendy new eateries for when she got there next week. The divine double-blended Brie she’d sampled earlier had been buttery, and who could complain about tasting three different champagnes?
Until the tire blew, it’d been a banner day.
Her phone rang at 6:10, a full ten minutes past when she’d expected Mitch’s frantic call. No doubt he was standing in the lobby, checking his watch every thirty seconds, calling up to her room, pacing around and going out of his mind.
“Hello, Mitch.”
“Where are you?” His terse whisper-shout reminded her of when her dad had caught her sneaking into the house at 3:00 a.m. senior year, after she’d met Billy Baxter on his dad’s sailboat for a little midnight fun.
“About twenty minutes outside of Paris.”
“What!” he shouted, rather than asked. Now he’d probably stalked into some corner of the lobby where he wouldn’t become a spectacle.
“Sorry. I got a flat tire in the middle of nowhere.”
“Are you okay?” In that moment, he sounded concerned about her instead of the tour.
“I’m fine, and I learned how to change a tire. But I’ll have to meet you at the party. I’ll never make it back to the hotel before it starts. Given the tire incident, I’ll have extra paperwork to deal with when I turn in the rental car.”
She waited during an interminable pause. Finally, he asked, “Was this side trip really worth it?”
“As the pictures I sent prove, I had a terrific afternoon, met an interesting German couple, and learned about champagne. I’d say that is about ten times better than sitting around a hotel lobby discussing bloggers and cancer. So yes . . . totally worth it.”
She heard what sounded like a muffled curse come through the line.
“You don’t get to be pissy, Mitch,” she reminded him, then drew a breath to beat back the anger rising at the memory of why she’d ditched him in the first place.
Instead of backing off, he doubled down. “I’ve never had anyone make my job as hard as you have. Most authors want their book to sell. They want to be prepared for questions and readings. They respect what I do and try to help me.”
“And I suspect most publicists are well versed in the author’s work, right?” Whenever cornered, she had her father’s tendency to lash out. Mitch wasn’t wrong to chastise her, though. She just couldn’t admit that to him right now.
Silence. Almost half a kilometer’s worth.
“I’ll see you at the restaurant. Your editor booked a private room, and there will be at least a dozen bloggers waiting to meet you. I hope they aren’t too offended by your attitude.” He hung up without further pleasantries—an unusual breach of manners.
She’d pushed him past his limit. Instead of feeling a smug sense of satisfaction, her stomach turned over. That sick feeling only increased with each minute she spent in traffic. At 6:55, she was still forty minutes from the venue. She not only had caused him stress but now would embarrass herself, exactly as she had when she’d snapped at La Central.
When she burst through the doors of the private room, all eyes from the restless crowd clustered in small groups flew to her. She reached down to cover the quarter-size grease stain on her skirt, but nothing would hide the fact that she’d lost most of her makeup to roadside sweat.
She approached Mitch with more caution than she’d used to approach Claire in the immediate aftermath of the Todd debacle. “I’m very sorry.”
He greeted her with a broad smile—a phony one, she knew, but he was a pro—gesturing to the woman on his left. “Peyton, this is Melissande.”
Her French editor. Smile and kiss some ass.
“Melissande, lovely to meet you. I’m so sorry for the delay. I got a flat tire and—”
“It’s fine, but now we begin?” Melissande’s no-nonsense gaze grazed the length of Peyton’s body. Down to business, like Mitch. Not that Peyton could blame her, given the situation. She’d effed this up for everyone, including herself. “Everyone is waiting.”
“Of course.”
“Good, I will make an introduction.” Melissande nodded with the sort of aloofness many Americans still associated with the French, very unlike the stranger who’d rescued Peyton on the side of the road.
Peyton stood beside Mitch, impersonating a ventriloquist. “I know you’re angry. I am very sorry I ran late. Believe me, though, I wasn’t trying to be irresponsible. If I hadn’t had the flat, all would’ve been well.”
He stared straight ahead, his political-rally smile also on full display for the room. “When this event is over, I’ve already invited Melissande for drinks to smooth things over. I’d like you to suck up to her, but I can’t force you. After that, it’s best for both of us to have a cooling-off period. I’ve never failed before, so I’m still trying to decide how to fix our situation. Tomorrow morning at nine, you and I can meet in the hotel lobby to make some decisions about how we continue on this tour together. Savant will be expecting to hear from me within the next twenty-four hours anyway, and if we can’t come to some workable arrangement, it won’t be a pleasant conversation.”
This didn’t bode well for the rest of the tour, but she hadn’t time to think of it now. Not after Melissande turned the room over to her.
About fifteen men and women stared at her, waiting for her to speak. Screw it. Sometimes the best way through an awkward situa
tion is to jump right into its center.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming and for waiting. I apologize for being late. As you might have figured out from looking at me, I’ve just learned how to change a flat tire. Who knew breast cancer would one day lead me to a rural route near Boursault to learn that handy skill? But there was a silver lining. I enjoyed some excellent champagne and am looking forward to a much-needed warm bath. Until then, let me give you a little background about this project, and then you can ask me absolutely anything.”
A few smiles soothed her nerves, so she shared how Logan had first approached her with the project idea, which he’d initially conceived as a work of installation art about the various costs of cancer—the emotional, physical, and financial. As the evening wore on, she kept trying to catch Mitch’s eye, but his attention remained fixed on either Melissande or his phone.
In every way, he’d made it clear he was done with her, disappointed by her behavior, embarrassed for both of them. She’d made him and herself look bad in front of all these people, which had never been her intention.
Her worst fears about this tour were coming true, but she had no one to blame but herself. It was past time to pull herself together and do her job. Not only as a point of personal pride but also because now she could barely breathe at the thought of never seeing Mitch’s soft smile again.
Chapter Nine
Mitch stepped out of the shower and towel dried quickly after another restless night. Last night over cocktails, Peyton had managed to charm Melissande, who promised to go back to the marketing team with some of Mitch’s ideas for Peyton’s book. A decent result given the wrong foot on which their evening had started.
As humiliated as he’d been standing in a roomful of impatient, insulted bloggers without his author, he couldn’t lay all the blame on Peyton. He’d pushed her toward her tantrum. If she’d let him, he’d take a step toward making up for that today.
He tucked in his shirt, zipped up his khakis, and pulled on a belt, then grabbed his jacket and key before heading out the door. The boutique Hôtel Providence, a refurbished nineteenth-century townhouse hidden away on a street in the tenth arrondissement, was less than a half mile from one of the boulangeries Peyton had written about in her travel journals. Surprise pastries couldn’t hurt his cause, and might help soften her up.
