Chapter 20
CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT WAS A LARGE, BUSTLING international hub and yet its customs line was painfully slow.
The entire tennis world was descending upon Paris for two weeks and apparently someone forgot to warn the French Passport Control.
Penny could see fellow players, their coaches and families, along with dozens of tennis people—reporters, officials, and their ilk—all trapped and waiting their turn.
She looked over the faces, wondering if she’d find Alex in the crowd, but the familiar tall frame, broad shoulders, and sandy-blond hair were nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t surprising.
According to Dom he wasn’t scheduled to get in until later tonight.
She exhaled through her nose and felt her stomach tighten.
She hated having things so unresolved between them.
The French Open deserved her total focus, but she wanted Alex in her life, and that meant trying to strike a balance.
It wouldn’t be easy, but she was willing to try.
It would be a lot easier if he would just talk to her instead of the near complete cutoff of the last few days.
At the front of the line a haggard-looking civil servant with a stern face asked, “Passeport?” rolling the r at the end of the word in that effortless way only a native French speaker could.
She slid her passport across the counter.
“D’où venez-vous?” the customs agent asked.
Penny couldn’t speak French, but she’d done this enough to know what she was being asked. “North Carolina in the United States.”
“Pourquoi êtes-vous en France?”
“Roland-Garros,” she said simply.
The agent’s eyes flew up and lit with recognition. A tennis fan. The corner of the agent’s mouth lifted in what could almost be called a smile.
“Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”
“No.”
“Très bien. Bonne chance, Mademoiselle Harrison.”
Her passport was passed back across the counter with a new stamp adorning its pages. “Merci.”
Jack’s interview was just as fast, and they soon found themselves dragging two weeks’ worth of luggage and equipment toward the exit. They stepped out of the arrivals gate and into a rainy Paris morning. Raindrops dripping from the overhang assaulted them.
Penny let out a sigh of relief when she saw a man holding a sign with her name on it.
Having a waiting car was a large improvement over standing on yet another taxi line and hoping the driver wasn’t in the mood to take a creative route to their hotel like the last time they were here.
Her brother slash agent was the absolute best for thinking of it.
“You rock.”
“This wasn’t me,” Jack said, his eyes darting around as he shuffled her toward the car. “Things are different now, Pen. The tournament arranged for it. They want their stars getting to their hotels safe and sound.”
“Mademoiselle,” the driver said, drawing her eyes away from the rain as he held the door open for her.
“Merci,” she whispered, and slid into the back seat.
The driver edged the car away from the curb and soon they were humming along the highway through the outskirts of Paris—mostly open grass fields, modern office buildings, and shopping centers—a view you’d find around almost every airport in every major city.
Penny closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat.
The vibrations of the car nearly lulled her to sleep.
“Don’t conk out yet,” Jack warned a few minutes later.
She opened her eyes. They were almost into the city itself, and Penny didn’t want to miss it.
This was likely all the sightseeing she’d get.
At first the road was lined with buildings built in the last half of the twentieth century, brand names held aloft on their roofs by scaffolds.
Then the car sped through an underpass, made a sharp right turn, and they were in the real Paris—at least the part of Paris that everyone imagined.
The rain faded into a light mist, making the entire city glow.
The car pulled to a halt in front of their destination.
During her last trip to the French Open, she’d stayed at this very same hotel, and since she’d won the qualifying tournament that year, Penny didn’t see any reason to mess with good karma.
La Metropolitan was a beautiful boutique hotel only a few minutes from Roland-Garros, making the commute to and from the courts no longer than her drive to OBX, plus the upper floors of the hotel had some of the best views in Paris.
The driver opened her door, and as soon as she stepped out of the car, camera flashes barraged her. Shit, paparazzi, lots of them. They were yelling—mostly in French—and she barely understood a word of it.
Then a voice rang out clear as day: “Penny, where’s Alex?” The rest of the paparazzi took the cue, switching to English.
“Penny, do you know what Alex is doing in London?”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Did you cut the brakes on his motorcycle so he’d crash in Australia?”
Then, a bellhop launched himself out of the front entrance, dodging through the throng of frenzied reporters. “Allez,” he said, waving them toward the door. “Je vais porter vos bagages. Allez.”
Jack came around to her and she pressed into him as the crowd of reporters pushed forward. Stepping easily into the role of bodyguard, Jack snaked an arm around her shoulders and used his bulk to shove the camera-laden men aside, breaking a path into the hotel.
Her heart pounding, Penny stared at Jack in shock. “What the hell was that?”
“Like I said, things are different now, Pen,” Jack said, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“Next time we’ll call ahead, come in through the back or something.”
She nodded, still trying to catch her breath. That was so intense, a claustrophobic thrill—scary and beyond exciting all at the same time.
They checked in and followed the bellhop who’d rescued them into the elevator, up to the sixth floor, and then down a long hallway to her suite.
“If you’re with him, that crowd down there and the attention, it’s only going to get worse,” Jack said as soon as they were alone. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Penny wandered toward the balcony and rolled her eyes.
“I can see your reflection in the window. Don’t roll your eyes. Be honest with me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, brushing off the question. Of course she wanted to be with Alex. She’d been fighting it for months now, but whether what she wanted was good for her, she had no idea.
“Fine. I’m going down to my room. You need anything?”
Glancing around the luxurious suite, she grinned at her brother.
A large sitting room, the furnishings new and clearly expensive, an attached bedroom with a king-sized bed, an en suite bathroom with a shower big enough for two, and a soaking tub.
It was nearly as big as the entire second floor of her parents’ home. “I think I’ll be fine.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and finally alone, Penny turned back to the balcony.
Her suite was impressive, but the view—that was spectacular: the 16th arrondissement, spread out before her with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance as the sun began to peek through the fading rain clouds.
She sat on one of the chairs, a cushioned chaise lounge, and allowed her mind to go blank, letting the scenery wash over her—not fully awake, but not quite asleep either.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Indy: We’re here!
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, and a quick glance at her watch told her nearly an hour had passed by in a blink.
She was typing a response when a shrill ring from the phone sitting on the desk just inside the balcony door interrupted her.
“I’m so popular,” she mumbled, stepping back into her room to answer, as she texted her room number to Indy.
“Hello?” she asked, balancing the receiver between her shoulder and her neck.
“Mademoiselle Harrison, there is a package for you at the desk,” a woman with a French accent not unlike Caroline’s responded. “Shall I have it sent up?”
A few minutes later, a knock sounded against her door.
A bellman was on the other side holding a small square black velvet box wrapped with a cream-colored ribbon, a card tucked into the bow.
Then a flash of blond hair appeared behind him.
The bellman handed Penny the package, she slid him a tip, and with a nod, he was off down the hallway.
“Hey,” Indy said, smiling. “What’s that?”
Penny shrugged as they went back inside her suite. “I have no idea.”
The card slipped free of the ribbon easily enough and she opened it, smiling as she read the note.
For luck—Alex
Slowly, she pulled the bow free, but she paused before opening it.
It was definitely jewelry, probably a necklace, from the shape of the box.
Why would he send her jewelry? Was he apologizing for his near-total silence for the last couple of days?
No. She had to stop overanalyzing everything and open the gift.
“Wow,” Indy said from over her shoulder. “So, I guess he doesn’t hate you.”
“It’s perfect,” Penny said, running a fingertip over the old British coin attached to the long chain.
It was a 1936 penny, minted the same year Fred Perry won Wimbledon, the last English man to do so before Alex.
It was exactly what she would have picked out for herself, except that she wouldn’t have thought of it in a million years.
The gift was beyond thoughtful. It wasn’t some expensive, shiny object, but represented both of them.
Still, having him with her was what she really wanted.
“You’re going to wear it to the gala tonight, right?” Indy asked. “If you don’t, I will.”
“It’s a penny necklace, Indy. I don’t think people will get it if you wear it.”