Chapter 43
Clementine
The first thing I do is open the bathroom drawer. Not because I need anything, but because I want to see if the hand cream is the kind that costs more than I’ve ever paid in rent.
It is. Of course it is.
Two months ago, I was queuing for a single shower in a drafty apartment, tugging clumps of hair the size of tennis balls from the drain. Now I’m standing in marble and gilt, pretending this is my life.
Alec booked us the Belle étoile Penthouse Suite—the kind of place that is more urban legend than hotel room.
A rooftop terrace that looks out on the Tuileries, the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance, Montmartre rising like a postcard I’d stared at too long.
Every Paris landmark I’d memorized from watching Amélie, suddenly on the other side of the glass.
“You know, you’ve ruined flying economy for me forever,” I call, dragging a finger through the hand cream sample like it’s frosting.
“And hotels too. Did you stay in places like this a lot growing up?” I ask, brushing blush over my cheeks, eyes darting to the chandelier above me, the terrace beyond it, the velvet armchairs no one will actually sit in.
“Once or twice.” Alec’s voice drifts in from the other room. I hear the hiss of steam from the iron and picture him smoothing out a tux.
“Once or twice what? A year? A month? Did you have birthday parties in hotel ballrooms like this? Did you just…take off to Paris when the other kids went up to Stinson Beach?”
“Clementine.” His voice carries that low warning, the one that means he’s smiling even if I can’t see it.
“I deserve answers!” I grin at my reflection, refusing to let him off that easily. “What about room service? Did you order ice cream sundaes at two a.m. just because you could? Did you ever get lost in a place this big?”
“You almost ready?” He cuts me off right on cue.
“Are you?” I shoot back, but silence answers. Typical Alec. He’ll drop twenty-four thousand on a hotel room without blinking, but ask him to explain it, and he forgets to speak.
I take one step back.
The mirror throws me a version of myself I almost don’t recognize. A column of red silk clings close, a slit teasing up my leg, cutting straight down before spilling loose at my ankles.
The dress came with a matching scarf of sheer fabric, draped at my neck and trailing down my back.
I bought it last year after Giselle, a stubborn, shining protest against all that heartbreak. I never thought I’d have the occasion to wear it. And now here I am. In Paris. With him. Going to see Yo-Yo Ma in person. Like I’ve slipped sideways into somebody else’s story.
The door clicks behind me, followed by his voice. “Fucking hell, Clementine.”
I spin, and my jaw nearly smacks the marble floor.
Alec, who basically rotates between one pair of cargos, one pair of jeans, and the same five T-shirts he scrubs clean with the precision of a surgeon. Alec, whose idea of dressing up is swapping his fleece for a flannel or the one sweater he actually owns.
That Alec has vanished.
In his place is some impossible version conjured by Paris itself. His dark hair is slicked back, beard trimmed, and the tuxedo is molded to every hard line of his body like it was tailored for sin. On his lapel sits a tulip boutonniere, almost absurd against the breadth of him.
He looks devastating.
The sight knocks the breath out of me, because it’s so unmistakably him and not him all at once. I grip the gilded frame behind me because my knees have apparently decided to stage a coup.
“Fucking hell yourself,” I manage, though it comes out more prayer than joke. He looks so good I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or drop to my knees and lick him. “Did you—” I swallow, heat clawing up my throat. “Did you put mousse in your hair?”
“A bit.” His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t leave me. They run their slow marathon over my body, equal parts savoring and suffering. “You sure you don’t want to skip the orchestra?”
“Give me a spin,” I blurt, because if I don’t toss levity into the silence, I’ll combust.
“No.”
“Please. For me.” I tilt my chin, lashes lowered, pulse galloping so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.
“Did Mozart teach you those puppy-dog eyes?”
“I’m waiting.” I tap my heel against the ground, and he groans, but he turns anyway. I whistle. Paris could keep her landmarks. I’d still say this was a view worth crossing an ocean for. “I think I have a thing for your ass in those pants.”
“Yeah?” His brow kicks up, mouth tugging at one corner. “You don’t miss my cargos?”
“Actually, I do. Every time I hear a Velcro wallet at Got Wood?, I half expect you to appear.”
“Gotta Velcro kink, Fox?”
“Maybe.”
He huffs out a laugh, and his eyes drag down me again, slow enough that I feel it. “You look stunning. Just so fucking beautiful.” He pauses, head tilting. “But something’s missing.”
My hands fly to my face. “Did I forget mascara?”
“Nope.” His answer is clipped and sure, like he’s been waiting for this.
He crosses the suite, heads straight toward the second mini-fridge—because of course this place has more than one—and pulls out a small plastic box.
Inside, nestled like treasure, is a corsage. “You mentioned you never went to prom.”
“Alec.”
“Put out your wrist.” His voice leaves no room for hesitation, so I obey.
He smells expensive tonight—cedar, spice—but beneath it is that deep earthiness that’s just Alec.
He fastens the corsage carefully, the flowers cool against my skin: tulips, baby’s breath, and a tiny blue blossom we’d seen clinging to a rock face on one of our hikes.
My fingers brush the petals as heat pricks my eyes. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.”
“You deserve the fucking sun, Clementine.”
Then his mouth is on mine, and it steals whatever words I might’ve had. By the time he pulls back, I’m swaying into him, breathless, lips tingling.
“We should get going, or we’ll be…” He pulls his wrist between us, glancing down. That’s when I see it. A heavy gold watch glinting in the low light. Nothing like the battered mechanical one I’m used to. He adds, almost distracted, “…very late.”
“What on earth is that?”
“My watch?”
“What happened to the ugly analog one?”
“Hey.” His smirk is defensive. “That ugly watch tracked you kicking ass on hill runs yesterday.” Then he notices my gaze still lingering and flexes his wrist, like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “This one’s different.”
“Different how?”
“I buy one after every big climb. Not for show. Just…markers, you know? Something to keep time by.”
I blink. “Wait—you? Collecting shiny things? I thought you were strictly tattoos and scar tissue as souvenirs.”
“Ink for the climbs. Watch for the summit.”
I gape at him. “You’re telling me you’ve been out here quietly building a watch collection? What even is this one?”
“Rolex Explorer II.”
“Rolex.” My jaw drops. “As in a house payment on your wrist?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite?” I throw up my hands. “Do you know how insane that sounds? Do you just have a vault somewhere? Do you keep them in little glass cases? Do you polish them yourself? Do you—”
“Don’t start.”
I gawk. “For a guy who lives on goop packets, you’re wearing this way too casually.”
“Smartass.”
“Smart aleck…wait, was that insult named after you?” I rub my finger over his wrist. “No, seriously, how many are we talking? Five? Ten? A hundred?”
“Fox.” He cuts me off, threading his fingers through mine, tugging me toward the door with that infuriating calm. “You’re going to interrogate me all night if I let you, and we’ll miss the orchestra.”
I stumble after him, still gaping. “Oh my god. You’re secretly a watch guy. A bougie, shiny-wrist, horology-nerd watch guy!”
He glances back at me, golden eyes amused, lips curving just enough. “Full of surprises, remember?”
“Maybe you can set that little watch of yours to remind you to take this dress off of me…on the terrace tonight, when the Eiffel Tower lights up.” His erection is instant, pressing up against his black pants.
“Baby, if you keep talking like that, we aren’t going to leave this hotel room.”
Heat slams through me, my face flaming so fast I have to glance away, but I’m smiling, giddy, caught between laughter and wanting to drag him outside.
“How bad is my makeup?” I whisper, dabbing under my eyes with the corner of my program. I’m still buzzing, heart jackhammering after watching my favorite composer in person. My mascara is probably halfway to my chin.
Alec leans forward in his velvet seat, swiping a thumb under my eye. “You look beautiful. A little raccoony, maybe. But beautiful.”
“Shut up.” I laugh, pressing the program to my chest like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. “Oh my god, did you hear the way Yo-Yo Ma played ‘The Swan’? Like the cello was alive. I swear I felt it in my teeth.”
“That one was good. But the Bach was my favorite.”
“You’re only saying that because it was the saddest.” I nudge his knee with mine. “Leave it to you to love the piece that sounds like someone bleeding into wood.”
“Maybe,” he says, a little smile ghosting across his mouth. “But he made silence feel heavy.”
I know exactly what he means. The pause before the bow dragged again, the hush that spread through the hall, like everyone had stopped breathing at once.
I flip open my program, scanning the list even though I’ve memorized every line. “I can’t wait for the Dvo?ák concerto. That’s when he gets unruly, makes you think the cello’s about to split in half under his bow.”
“Unruly, huh?”
“You’ll see.” I grin, tapping the page. “It’s like the mountain version of cello repertoire. All cliffs and avalanches and air so thin you can’t breathe.”
“Then I’ll probably like it.”