Chapter 4 Arabelle
Arabelle
Chicago
After ordering room service, I fall backward onto the bed of the master bedroom of the hotel suite I’ve been staying in for the past week.
I’ve been doing promotional photoshoots and interviews for the dance company, which the new company director scheduled for me to get my name and face out there.
It’s almost set in stone that I’ll be named principal dancer.
Hopefully, this will be the final push I need.
I had been discussing it with Samuel before he suddenly left everything behind to take on a new position in a European theater company, as confirmed by the theater company.
No one, including the dancers or even the new director, knew anything about this new position or which company.
I arrived one morning at the theater, was informed about his departure before meeting with the new director and was then thrust into rehearsals.
Although I find it strange when he had so many new ideas for the upcoming season, I can’t say that I will miss him.
He was creepy as hell. Hopefully, the new director isn’t the same kind of man.
This is my last day in Chicago. Tomorrow, I’ll be flying back to New York, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it because my phone has been ringing nonstop for the past few days. When he calls, he wants something, and I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with my father.
I jump at the sound of a knock at the door. Since I’ve been here, the attendant has been flirting with me when he brings my food. I don’t believe he knows who I am, and I’m glad because I don’t want to scare him away. I’m not that comfortable around guys, but he makes it easy, and I like it.
I fluff my curls, straighten my oversized shirt to make sure I’m presentable, and then walk to the door. I’m not one for wearing makeup unless I’m performing, so if he’s the type that likes glitz and glam, I’m not that girl.
I check the peephole, but I don’t see anyone there or the room service cart.
“Hello,” I call out instead of opening the door. However, I’m met with silence. “Hello,” I call out again.
After a few moments with no response, I unlock the door, pull back the security latch, slowly open the door, then peek out.
When I don’t see anyone, I open the door wider and look back and forth down the hallway, but it’s empty.
However, when I close the door, I notice the red rose and black envelope on the floor.
I look down the hallway again before I pick up the rose and envelope. Just one day, I would like to see who’s leaving these for me. I’ve been getting a lot of roses lately, ever since my dressing room was decorated with them in the most beautiful crystal vases.
Excitement races through me as I close the door when I should be freaked out. The only people who know I’m here work for the theater. But I’m not freaked out. I love all the roses, and the notes are always so nice and eloquent.
I sit on the couch and smell the flower, then smile. I can’t pinpoint the fragrance, but they always smell so good, nothing like any flower I’ve smelled before. I’ve tried to track down the person who’s been sending them to thank them because they always bring me joy, but I’ve come up empty so far.
I place the rose on the couch beside me, then pick up the envelope and pull out the black card with lovely gold writing.
This rose, although beautiful, will never compare to the light of your soul that battles the darkness of my heart. You will always be my unattainable beauty.
I sigh. “I wish whoever this is would make themselves known.”
I’m not scared, though I can admit it’s a little creepy. They always know where I am. I should be scared, but I’ve received so many flowers and notes now that I actually look forward to getting them. Dale says I’ve got to be experiencing some type of Stockholm syndrome. Maybe he’s right.
Despite my petite frame, men are intimidated by me once they find out I have a career and can support myself.
Also, being recognizable to people, especially in the media, has made men shy away from trying to date me.
I understand because who wants to be on the cover of tabloids if you didn’t sign up for it?
The few who’ve tried didn’t stay around too long, and I never heard from them again.
Another knock sounds at the door.
Room service!
The sound of his voice sends a surge of excitement coursing through me. Every time I request room service, Pierre Gaultier, a cute server with a delightful French accent, brings my meals. He’s soft-spoken, very cordial, and has a killer smile.
I spring up from the couch in my excitement at seeing him again and completely forget about the rose and the note.
I look through the peephole before opening the door.
I stand back, and Pierre enters, pushing the food cart, then closes the door behind him.
The delicious aroma fills the space, and I can’t wait to dig in.
For the past few months, I’ve been eating light meals to keep my weight in check, but tonight I’m going all out.
I’ll need to put in extra effort to ensure I burn off the calories.
“Bonjour, Arabelle,” he says, and my stomach flutters. “How are you today?”
I can’t stop the smile from crossing my face. His dark hair, slightly disheveled, adds to his sexiness. And that voice, I can’t get enough of it. Hearing his French accent takes me back to my time in France.
“Hello, Pierre,” I say, almost unable to get the words out. “I’m doing well. How are you doing today?”
“It’s been hectic, but my shift is almost over, so that’s good. Where would you like me to set up your meal?”
“Over by the couch is fine.”
I motion to the small living area of the suite. He nods, and I follow him as he pushes the small dinner cart toward the couch.
“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
He removes the lids from the plates on my tray.
“Nothing.” I sit down on the couch. “Eat, then watch a movie. Maybe read a book, I guess.”
I don’t do much when I travel for work. Staying in, reading books, and watching movies is what I do in my spare time when I have it. My life is monotonous, filled with work and a constant stream of smutty books and old black-and-white films.
“What are your plans?” I ask as I open the bottle of water he hands me.
He takes a step back from the dinner cart, looks at me, then smiles. “I was hoping you would go with me to get a drink.”
“You want to get a drink with me?”
I’m not much of a drinker, but I do like the occasional glass of wine.
He laughs. “Yes, if you would like or if you don’t have a boyfriend?” His gaze shifts to the rose, then back to me. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”
No boyfriend, but I do have an admirer.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I would love to get a drink with you.”
He releases a breath, and a look crosses his face that I can’t make out before he masks it.
“I get off in a couple of hours,” he says. “Would that be a good time?”
I look at my watch, and it’s still pretty early, so I won’t be out too late. A couple of glasses of wine won’t hurt.
“Sure,” I say. “Give me your phone.”
He reaches into his back pocket, grabs his phone, puts in his password, and then hands it to me. I add my name and number to the contacts, then return the phone.
“Text me when you’re available.”
He smiles. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“It’s a date,” I say, and his smile widens.
He walks to the door, then leaves, and I settle down to eat.
“I can’t believe I have a date.”
I cover my face with my hands and scream. Even though it’s just drinks, it’s the first date I’ve had in a long time.