Chapter 32 – cat
CAT
There’s no price tag on the floaty blue dress hanging in the hotel closet. It’s probably for the best—I’m sure it’s hundreds of dollars more than I’d feel comfortable spending.
It’s also exactly my size. Stalker Nate strikes again—I have no idea how he knew that. His personal shopper probably doubles as a secret agent, sneaking into my closet to check the size labels while I’m asleep.
Still, I’m glad he bought me something to wear to dinner tonight. I don’t know how many meals on this trip will double as meetings with Nate’s clients, so I plan to enjoy tonight’s dinner fully, when it’s just the two of us.
We’ve only been here for a few hours, but Paris is already everything I hoped it would be.
On our drive from the airport, we passed the Eiffel Tower and even caught a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe.
There were so many gorgeous bridges and cafés and parks to see, I barely knew where to look.
I squealed so much, I must have sounded more like a teacup pig than a human woman.
I have to remind myself that this is a work trip.
I’m sure I’ll find time to sneak out to a bakery for a croissant, but we’ll probably be too busy to do anything else.
We’re only here for two full days, really.
If I don’t get a chance to window shop the designer stores along the Champs-élysées, it’ll have to wait until next time.
Because I’m absolutely coming back.
I slip on the blue dress, which feels soft and silky against my skin. I give a little twirl, watching my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognize the beautiful, sophisticated woman looking back. Maybe it’s the dress, or maybe it’s how Nate makes me feel.
Reluctantly, I shrug on my worn fall jacket. It’s a shame to wear it over the gorgeous dress, but it’s too chilly to go out with my sleeves uncovered.
With a final glance to make sure my hair is smooth, I open the door and stroll into the beautiful suite.
The walls are covered in pale blue jacquard wallpaper, set off by the antique woodwork.
The view is to die for—if I walk out on the spacious balcony, there’s a view of the Eiffel Tower and the city rooftops.
The sky is just starting to turn a dusky pink, and I can’t wait to see the tower once it’s lit up for the night.
Nate sits on an antique-looking couch, his long legs crossed as he skims through Le Monde. He puts the newspaper down when I enter, looking me up and down with approval.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs. “But I have a different coat for you, if you don’t mind.”
He hands me a large white shopping bag with the outline of a fox drawn on it.
I reach in and pull out a beautiful black woolen trenchcoat.
It’s classic and sophisticated, but simple, not too over-the-top.
I can tell from how soft the fabric is that he spent far too much money on it.
Thousands of dollars maybe. I can’t help but think how many simple, inexpensive coats I could buy with that money—coats for people without anywhere warm to stay.
I shake my head. “I can’t accept this, Nate.”
“It’s too late. Jacques doesn’t accept returns.”
I raise my brows. “Jacques?”
“My favorite boutique coatmaker. I always buy a new coat from him when I come to Paris, so I ordered one for you, too.”
It’s such a thoughtful gesture that I can’t bring myself to say no. “That’s so kind of you.”
He takes the coat from me and holds it up. I shrug out of my jacket and he helps me slip into the new coat. It’s buttery soft cashmere wool, and now that I’m wearing it, there’s no way I’m giving it back. It fits me perfectly, both the size and the style.
When I look at the mirror inlaid in the wall, Nate and I are both reflected. It’s the first time I’ve ever thought we looked like a natural pair that belonged together, both of us in our elegant coats.
“Thank your stylist for me,” I tell him.
“Not this time. I picked the coats myself. We should hurry, though. Our reservations start soon.”
He takes my hand and slides it into the crook of his arm, then leads me out to the narrow elevator. That’s the only downside I’ve found to Paris—the elevators are ancient, tiny, and downright terrifying. I decide a distraction is in order.
“I haven’t seen any emails about our schedule for the next few days,” I say. “Are the meetings off the books? I don’t have to know everything, but I’d like to know what I’m preparing for.”
I feel the muscles tense in Nate’s arm. “I’ll fill you in over dinner.”
Hmm. There’s something he’s not telling me, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
The other diners are perfectly Parisian chic in their draped silk blouses, structured wool trousers and blazers, and undone hair. A few women wear cocktail dresses like mine, and for a second, I think I might actually be able to pass as French.
Then I see the view from the restaurant and gasp so loudly that everyone in the restaurant immediately knows I’m a tourist.
But how can I not? The Eiffel Tower is sparkling through the windows, lighting up the night sky. It’s utterly magical.
Nate smiles down at me. “You like the view?”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s unreal.”
The ma?tre d’ leads us through the dining room to a door in the back.
Through it’s a private dining room with two chairs set up so Nate and I can sit on the same side of the table, both admiring the view.
Candles everywhere cast the room in soft light, and there’s a big vase of pink peonies and roses in the center of the table.
It’s all beautiful, but did we really need a room all to ourselves?
I’m sure this restaurant is one of the best in the city, so how much more did Nate pay to get us a private room?
I know how much we would charge for this at Terrace.
Nate’s dumping thousands of dollars out all for dinner with me, a dinner I don’t really need.
He could feed hundreds of people.
Instead, he’s wasting it on me.
Nate pulls my chair out for me before the ma?tre d’ can get to it, and I try to dispel my spiraling thoughts with a coy look up at Nate as he slides my chair into the table.
“Careful,” I warn. “Chivalry looks good on you. Might start rumors.”
Despite the ma?tre d’s presence, a tiny chuckle escapes him.
“A brut rosé to start, and the chef will be out soon with your first course.”
“I ordered ahead,” Nate says before I can ask.
Ordered ahead?
And booked a private dining room?
Guilt knots in my stomach. I know I’m being irrational.
It’s not like I told him to spend money on me—a nice dinner like this is just pocket change to him.
But being given all this, knowing how many people are outside, hungry and cold…
it just doesn’t sit right with me. I settle into my seat and try to swallow my guilt while a server pours us champagne.
God, I think all those new articles about me being a gold digger are getting me a hell of a lot more than I thought they were.
The champagne is delicious, of course, but everything still feels a little too perfect, and I just can’t seem to relax enough to enjoy it.
What would they say now? If they could see me here in this room with the clothes that aren’t mine, eating an extravagant dinner I didn’t pay for?
Would they say I’m trying to trap him?
Or worse, would they say he’s trying to buy his way into my panties?
Stop, Cat.
It doesn’t matter what people think, I tell myself, repeating the affirmation in my mind as I sip my champagne.
But Nate obviously planned the evening with meticulous detail, and it’s all too romantic to fully buy it as a business trip. The pink flowers, the Eiffel Tower view, the new coat—Nate chose everything specifically for me.
And there it is.
I feel silly that I didn’t see it before.
“We’re not here because you have meetings for UPS, are we?” I ask quietly.
Nate takes a long sip of his champagne and then sets it down, straightening in his chair. “No. We have no meetings on the calendar.”
“So you lied to me? Why tell me it’s for work? So I’d feel like I had to go?”
“God, no,” he says, looking at me with shock. “I wanted to surprise you. This was supposed to be nice.”
Nice?
“Then why do I feel like you tricked me?”
The door opens and we both shut our mouths. The chef, an older man in a white coat and Ratatouille chef’s hat, approaches our table with a silver tray of food. He places two dishes in front of us.
“For your first course, I have bacon, gruyere, and roasted onion tarts paired with a 2021 Beajoulais,” he says in a heavily accented voice.
“Merci,” I tell him as he unscrews the bottle and pours wine into a fresh set of glasses.
Once we’re alone again, I whirl on Nate. “Why are we really here, Nate?”
There’s no way he came here for no other reason than to surprise me.
“Because of your Eiffel Tower statue,” he says and my jaw drops.
“Your Pont Alexandre III computer background,” he continues. “The lock screen of the Louvre on your phone. It’s your dream to go to Paris. I’m just sorry I could only get away for a few days. It’s hardly enough time to see the city properly.”
I gape at him. I know I should be thrilled. It’s a big, romantic gesture from a man who speaks with actions, not words. He might as well be announcing his intentions—this thing between us, it’s more than just sex. It’s something bigger, maybe even bordering on a real relationship.
This…this isn’t something you do for someone you don’t want to commit to, is it?
Oh god. I can’t breathe.
I take a swallow of the red wine to settle my nerves, but it’s all just too much.
It’s way too much, especially to waste on me. I’m turning all my guilt and shame into anger, and I’m hurling it all at Nate. I know I’m being unreasonable, but I can’t seem to stop it.
He lied to you! It’s Pippa’s voice in my head again, and she’s right.
And he’s being ridiculously frivolous with his wealth when he could be putting it to good use.
And did I mention he lied to you.