Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Emilia
What was even happening? We’d just checked into the most exquisite hotel I’d ever seen after arriving in Paris.
Paris, France.
The Paris, France.
Our rooms were right beside one another, and it was like something out of a movie. I had the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, and Bridger had agreed to stay an extra day.
Beatrice had responded exactly as I’d expected.
Beatrice
Bonjour, Em! Hells to the yes. Enjoy yourself.
Beatrice
You’ve earned this.
Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.
Beatrice
How’s the broody billionaire? Maybe you could have a Parisian fling?
I work for him. He also can’t stand me most of the time.
Beatrice
Who are you trying to convince… me or you?
Love you!
Beatrice
Love you! Have fun! If you can’t kiss your grumpy client, then kiss a Frenchman. You know what they say… when in France.
I thought it was when in Rome.
Beatrice
Are you going to Rome?
I’m not.
Beatrice
I’d mentioned to Bridger that I had some more design options to share with him, and seeing as I’d slept almost the entire plane ride, and then our talk had gotten pretty heavy, we’d agreed to have dinner downstairs in the hotel, and we’d go over the plans then.
I opened my suitcase, grateful that Lulu had come over to my house last night after I’d texted in the group chat about my unexpected trip.
She’d brought me some things to take on the trip and helped me pick the rest. I ended up with more than enough clothes to wear, even including the extra, unplanned day.
Thank goodness for her, because I wouldn’t have had a clue what to bring. It was cold here, not as cold as it was in Rosewood River, but still quite chilly.
I pulled out the black leather leggings she’d brought me, my black heeled boots, and my cream sweater and placed them on the bed.
I quickly freshened up my makeup and pulled my long hair into a sleek chignon at the nape of my neck. I pushed some gold hoops into my ears and finished off the look with red lipstick.
I slipped into the outfit, and I smiled when I glanced in the mirror.
It was an elegant and classic look.
Very Parisian.
I reached for my black clutch just as a light knock on the door had me moving that way.
When I pulled the door open, I made a conscious effort not to gape at the man.
He wore a pair of dark jeans and a black cashmere sweater.
His gray gaze moved from my head to my feet, and he licked his lips before meeting my eyes. “You hungry?”
“Yes. I’m starving. How about you?”
“I’m hungry. And you’ll quickly learn while working with me that I go from hungry to hangry very fast.” He held the door open as we made our way down the hallway and stepped onto the elevator.
Once the doors closed, his eyes were on me. Looking at me like he was cataloging every inch. Memorizing every detail.
“Do you date?” I asked, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.
His lips twitched the slightest bit as we rode down to the ground floor.
“Define ‘date.’”
“You know, take a woman out for dinner, and then spend time with her, romantically,” I said, my throat dry in response to his eyes on me.
“Spend time with her, romantically”?
Why did I have to make it sound so weird?
The doors opened before he could respond, and he placed his hand on the small of my back, leading me through the gorgeous lobby. Huge crystal chandeliers hung above, bringing out pops of gold and amber in the white marble floors below.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I made a reservation for us at the steakhouse here, and then if you’d like to go explore a bit, we can do that after.”
At the moment I was more interested in exploring Bridger Chadwick, which was saying a lot, because I was beyond excited to be in Paris.
We checked in at the hostess stand just as a man hurried over and shook Bridger’s hand, treating him like he was a celebrity.
“This is my designer, Emilia Taylor,” Bridger said, before turning to me. “This is Pierre, and he owns the hotel.”
“A designer. And you work for the brilliant Bridger Chadwick?” Pierre said, his beautiful French accent on full display.
“Yes. I’m working on his home in Rosewood River,” I said as he held my hand in his and shook.
“You should keep her in mind on that remodel you’ve been talking about for the hotel in New York,” Bridger said, his voice light, but there was no trace of humor. I wanted to laugh. He’d given me my first break. I was hardly qualified to design a hotel of this level.
“Will do. Do you have a business card, Ms. Taylor?”
I blinked up at him, processing his words. He was serious? Bridger’s gaze locked with mine, and then I reached inside my purse.
“Yes, yes, of course I do.” I pulled out a business card, suddenly self-conscious that it wasn’t anything fancy.
“This guy only hires the best, so I’ll definitely be in touch.” Pierre led us to our table at the back of the restaurant.
Bridger thanked him and then pulled out my chair, and it surprised me that he sat in the chair beside me instead of across from me.
Our waiter walked over immediately, and Bridger ordered a bottle of wine, and he did it so confidently that I didn’t argue.
Because I’d just found out the best little tidbit ever.
Bridger Chadwick spoke French.
Fluently.
He and the waiter went back and forth, and then Bridger turned to me with more swagger than any one man should be allowed to have. “Are you okay with me ordering for you?”
“Yes,” I said, eyes wide as I listened to them speak to one another.
The waiter collected our menus, and then Bridger turned to look at me. “I don’t take women out romantically, which I believe was your question.”
Talk about a subject change.
“Okay. I have many questions at the moment, so buckle up, Chadwick.”
He chuckled as our waiter returned with the wine, which Bridger sampled before nodding. The server poured us each a glass.
I took a sip, and if the man ordered food the way he ordered wine, I was going to be living large tonight, because this was the best freaking wine I’d ever had.
“You have many questions?” he asked, as if he was giving me the floor.
“First off, let’s discuss the easy things, and we can circle back to the dating discussion.” I set my wine glass down and rubbed my hands together. “You speak French?”
“I do. I come here often.”
“Interesting,” I said. I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a man who spent time in Paris. I don’t know why; I guess this man was just full of surprises.
“I think so.” He shrugged. “It’s a beautiful city.”
“Did you take French in college?” I asked.
“I took Spanish. I taught myself French later, when I started visiting Paris more often.”
I tore off a piece of bread and groaned when I popped it in my mouth.
“Do you always make noise when you eat?” he asked, tearing off a piece of bread for himself.
My eyes widened. “I don’t know? Do I? Is it annoying?”
“Yes, you do. It’s not annoying, it’s… uncomfortable.” He wiggled a brow.
“Uncomfortable?” I asked, before he continued staring at me and speaking without words, and then it hit me.
“Ahhh… it’s like food porn.” I laughed, and his lips remained in a flat line, giving nothing away, like usual.
“It’s not the food I’m responding to, Emilia.”
I felt my cheeks heat as I reached for my wine glass. “So you don’t date?”
“I don’t do your version of dating.”
I nodded as our salads were set in front of us. “What is your version of dating?”
Why was I asking this?
I was attracted to the man. I obviously had been for many years.
But I hadn’t known him to have a girlfriend since high school. Although we’d both gone away for college, so maybe he’d had a serious girlfriend then.
But the last few years in Rosewood River, I’d heard talk about him being single. About him breaking a few hearts.
Women loved him. The unattainable broody bachelor.
It was a known thing in our small town.
I’d always been intrigued.
He finished chewing. “Sex.”
Wow. He didn’t mince words, that’s for sure.
He didn’t sugarcoat it.
“So you just call a woman up and then meet for sex?” I asked, because I wanted to know, but he was watching me with that unreadable expression that made me laugh. “Asking for a friend.”
“Usually you just meet when you’re out.” He chuckled. “How about you. You probably do the whole courting thing, right? The formal plan, followed by flowers and bullshit compliments. A fancy dinner and then what, it’s months before you hop in the sack?”
“Wow. You make it sound so glamorous,” I said.
“Is that how it works? You just wait to get to the good part and then go your separate ways anyway?” he asked.
“That’s a shitty attitude, Chadwick.”
“Is it? I mean, you’re still single, so maybe you’re doing it wrong.”
“You’re single, too,” I grumped.
“Because I want to be.”
“How do you know I don’t want to be single?” I snipped before taking the last bite of my salad, which was spectacular. I made a conscious effort not to groan.
“Come on. You’ve got ‘white picket fence’ written all over you.” He said it so confidently that it was hard not to be offended.
Even if he was right.
I was a romantic. I wanted the happily ever after. I mean, I wasn’t willing to settle to get it, but I liked to believe there was someone for me out there.
“You know nothing about me.”
“That’s why I’m asking. I’m not judging you. If that’s what you want, I hope you get it,” he said.
“That’s maybe the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, aside from recommending me as a designer to the owner of this hotel,” I said with a laugh.
“You have a good eye.”
“Thank you. So, what is it that you want?” I asked as my salad plate was removed from the table, and the waiter used some sort of tool to scrape away the tiny crumbs around my place setting.
“I have everything I want.”
“That must be nice,” I admitted.
“It is. And I’m curious about something.” He took another sip from his glass as he appeared to consider his words.
“I’m an open book. Ask away.”
“When you go through this whole courting bullshit, what happens when you get to the good part, if it sucks?”
My eyes widened. “You mean, if the sex isn’t good?”
“Yes.”
I took the last sip of my wine, because holy hotness, this man was really going there. He reached for the bottle and refilled both of our glasses.
“You move on.” I shrugged.
“And what if it’s great, but you don’t like the person.”
“I don’t know. It’s never been great.”
“You’ve never had good sex?” His voice was deep and gruff.
Why was I telling him this?
“Nope. But I’m young. There’s plenty of time.”
“Maybe you should consider coming to the dark side, Emilia.” His gray gaze looked nearly black as it locked with mine.
Hello, my name is Emilia Taylor, and I’d like a one-way ticket to the dark side, please.