Chapter 2
That’s it. Interview over. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out—the message is clear.
“Yeah, thanks.” I blow out a short breath, defeated I grab the binder with a limp hand, leaving the small interview room without a backward glance.
Goodbye, Allard legacy.
I make it halfway down the hall before I hear a voice call out.
“Wait!”
It’s Briar, her high heels clicking as she works to catch me before I leave.
I stop and turn back to my friend. She tried. We both tried. Today just sucked sour lemons. “Yes?” I ask, hiding the tremble in my chin with a sniff and wiping my nose on the sleeve of my jacket, a wild last hope swelling in my heart. Maybe Flora reconsidered, or maybe she decided to honor my dad’s legacy? A seed of hope flares in my chest.
Briar stops in front of me. “Flora said you might need this.” She hands me back the letter of recommendation from the Moody Gallery, which may as well be stamped with a giant, red denied across the top—it didn’t help today at all. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers barely above a hum, hugging me as the first tear falls down my cheek.
I want to whisper Me too. Instead, I say, “It’s not your fault. We both tried. Thank you for your help.” My arms hang by my side as Briar’s squeezes me tighter into the rigid black power blazer, no doubt leaving a mixture of tears and mascara on her shoulder.
What am I going to do now? The thought keeps circling in my head. Sharp pains lick across my chest, and my fingers tingle like I’ve left them in the freezer for too long. I’ve always known what I’m going to do next, all my backup plans have been mapped out. But now? There is no next; I can’t even think past my next breath. My mind deep in a dark tunnel of thoughts of “talentless” and “worthless” swilling through, roaring like a tide stuck in a rip of my own dark thoughts. My vision starts to darken as I try to calm myself in an attempt to stop the panic attack from taking hold. I bite my lip so hard that a bead of blood forms, and my mouth fills with a metallic taste. It’s enough to stop the darkness from taking over my vision completely but not enough to stop me from disconnecting. I need the pain to distract me from wanting to collapse into a sobbing heap right in the middle of the busy New York street.
There is no use staying on this side of the Hudson any longer than necessary; the quicker I’m breathing in the smog-filled air of the wrong side of New York, the better. The subway ride to my less-than-modest apartment is much longer than usual, my sour mood only helping to lengthen it. With my portfolio clutched in a death grip to my chest, my current brain fog tries to contemplate my next move. My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, instantly recognizing the number on the screen.
Yep. Not making that mistake again. What’s this guy going to tell me now—that I’m a secret princess of some small country? Yeah, pick another sucker. This one isn’t buying.
When the subway comes to a stop, I try to numb myself to the pain of the shit show of an interview gone so horribly wrong and exit to the gray cloudy day. I dump my now-worthless portfolio in the trash can. Just the sight of it brings a fresh set of tears to my eyes, before trudging up the stairs to the waiting street above. Sure, tomorrow I might berate myself for doing something so stupid, but today I just need to be numb to the world.
The cold air whips past my cheeks, freezing the tear stains in place as I step out into the unseasonably cold morning air. I pull my coat tighter around me and let the bustling crowd carry me down the street, not caring I miss the turnoff for my street. My phone rings again, and I’m just ticked off enough to do what I should’ve done in the first place.
This is the final straw. Answering the call, I don’t let Timothé talk. “Listen, pal, unless you’re about to Princess Mia me and tell me I’m going to inherit a whole fricken country that doesn’t exist, you can leave me the fuck alone.” I hang up the phone and debate throwing it in the trash, too, but in the current state of my bank account, I wouldn’t be able to afford to replace the stupid thing. The idea of being alone right now is only feeding the dark thoughts in my head. The ominous red glow of a bar sign calls to me. “Screw it,” I whisper and turn down the stairs to a seedy-looking bar.
Forgetting my name sounds like a great plan.
Thump, thump, thump.
The annoying banging on my door continues. I lift the covers over my head and cocoon myself in the toasty warm blanket, hoping the person on the other side of the door will get the hint and go away. I freeze when I feel course leg hair brush against my toes.
What the pear and fig sticks is that? I fucking hate that saying, but my mom drilled into me that swearing is so unladylike. I guess that’s another reason for our strained relationship. How can two very different people be related?
“Fuck off,” the rumble of a deep timber next to me grumbles. My sentiments exactly. Although I don’t think we’re saying them to the same person.
My eyes widen at the deep voice. There’s a random man in my bed. My still-throbbing head slowly starts to realize what’s going on, but I’m too hung over to move, or care. I just hope he isn’t some axe murder or anything. I discretely lift the blanket and quickly peek under, hoping to see his boxer-clad waist. But instead, I’m met with his less-than-impressive, flaccid, hairy dick and microballs. Half his dick is lost to the jungle of Amazonian proportions, but unlike the burning Amazon, this guy is clearly not into clearing the land. Has he never heard of manscaping? I guess that explains the pulsing rug burn between my thighs.
Jesus, drunk Rory can really pick them. A weird flash of us dancing on the sticky bar floor comes to me. I stare at him a bit longer, my glassy eyes taking him in. Last night I swear he could’ve been Mat Barzal’s twin; I distinctly remember him saying he was a distant cousin when I asked. I’m a hockey fan, after all, but today, he looks like the Wish version, and the heavily discounted one at that.
My dry, cotton-filled mouth is only made worse by sweeping my tongue along my bottom lip where I taste leftover salt granules from last night. Tequila. I cup my head as the images of us doing shots with interlinked arms fill the empty space in my memory. No matter how many times I tell myself tequila is not my friend, I still go back to her like she’s the magic tonic that will solve all my problems. The missing memories from yesterday can vouch for that.
The thumping stops, and the furrow in my brows relaxes as I drift off to sleep again. I’ll deal with my bed guest when I’ve had a few more hours sleep and my brain isn’t going to melt through my ears. With my pillow stuffed over my head, I attempt to block the world out. After a few deep breaths, the thumping on my door resumes. I huff out a breath, realizing whoever it is isn’t going to go away.
“Go away,” I call, staring at the lump beside me, hoping he takes the hint too. I’m not in the mood to see anyone today. Gingerly, I hold my head as the thumping on the door continues. Only it feels like it’s vibrating through my skull like an annoying toy on repeat. That is the last time I drink tequila, I tell myself, sitting up in the bed and letting the blanket fall, baring my naked breasts to the cold apartment air.
At twenty-nine I’m already a washout. Ugh. I’m sure if my mom was the kind of person, I would totally be living in my childhood bedroom while I’m in my trying-to-figure-out-life phase. Oh, and my love life—sans the less-than-memorable one-night stand—is as dry as my mouth after one too many tequila shots. It’s the ultimate you suck sign. I’m pretty much a walking billboard for what not to be in your twenties.
The blanket rises and falls with his steady breath, completely oblivious to the inner freak-out I’m having. Great choice, Rory. Life’s really shitting on my parade, and quite frankly, I’m not here for it.
What’s the social convention with a one-night stand, anyway? Do I politely tell this guy to leave? Or just kick him out? If staring at the stranger in my bed is anything to go by, I also really suck at making decisions, especially when tequila is involved.
The thumping doesn’t stop. Annoyed that whoever is knocking on my door clearly didn’t take the hint, I angrily kick the covers off the rest of my body, causing my bed guest to shiver as the frigid morning air hits him. Suffer, dick bag.
I decide to go down the kick-him-out route. I knock his shoulder. “You and your microballs gotta go.”
He grunts a response; I know he heard me. Good. I stuff my feet into the bunny slippers by the side of the bed, grumbling to myself, and grab my nightgown. The last thing I need is to flash the person standing on the other side of the door. I stomp the short distance from my bed to the front door.
“Coming,” I yell loud enough that the people two apartments over would be able to hear, and I quickly stuff my legs into my discarded pajama bottoms. “Stupid bunny slippers,” I grunt, almost tripping over as the pants knot around themselves before I pull on a sweater.
I grab the blanket draped across the tiny two-person couch as I fumble my way through the dark room, wrapping it around my shoulders, trying to stay warm. It’s still bitterly cold for late March, and living in an apartment with a heater that doesn’t work too well isn’t helping.
I blink my eyes, still gritty with yesterday’s makeup, before touching two fingers to my lips. I swallow the vomit that’s trying to make its way up as my head tries to stop spinning.
Yeah, last time I’m drinking tequila.
Cautiously, I make my way to the door.
Thump, thump, thump, the pounding on the door continues. My knuckles turn white with the force I grab the handle. “The notice says I have four—” but my words are cut off when I see the person waiting on the other side. The stranger is an older-looking gentleman, probably in his late seventies, with salt-and-peppered black hair, dressed in a dark blue suit, staring back at me. His right arm is raised and ready to resume thumping on my door. I swallow the lump in my throat; he is not my landlord.
The man clears his throat. “Umm, Miss. Allard?” he asks, his voice colored by his French accent.
“Yes?” I reply, curious and slightly concerned. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I don’t have a bra on, and I pull the blanket tighter to cover that fact.
“Miss Allard. My name is Timothé Gauthier.”
Not this guy again. The hair on the nape of my neck raises; I’m mildly worried he knows where I live.
He reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out a white business card, and hands it to me. “I’ve tried calling you.” The card feels like a silky soft lead weight in my hand. My vision blurs as I read the black script writing. Timothé Gauthier, Gauthier it’s given me a complex of my own when it comes to dating.
She couldn’t be dead.
The kettle whines, jarring me from my thoughts. I fill the teacups with the piping hot water and join Timothé at the square table, handing him his cup. I notice two neat piles of paperwork but can’t make out the words written on them other than the Gauthier & Gauthier header. The silence in my small, one-bedroom apartment is stoic and only makes my chest tighten with each breath. I shiver as the sun’s rays glare across the table and wrap my arm around my stomach, using the sip of warm tea to help calm my nerves as I wait to hear what Timothé has to say.
He clears his throat, lifting the paperwork in his hands. “Aurora Allard, I am here on behalf of Monsieur Louis Monet’s estate. Upon his death, he bequeathed to you Chateau des éveillés along with the sum of one hundred thousand euros, which are to be used to restore the chateau.” He puts the paper down on the table and picks up the two sheets of paper that make up the second pile. I stare at him with my mouth open and mind reeling, both with a mixture of relief that my mother isn’t dead and confusion. Of all the things I expected this man to say, inheriting a chateau in France is not one.
Who even is Louis Monet? And why would he leave me a chateau?
I gently grasp the papers Timothé is holding out, as if they’re liable to explode at any given moment. My mouth dries as my eyes scan the deed to Chateau des éveillés, an eighteenth-century chateau located in the Burgundy region of France. Flicking my eyes up to meet Timothé’s expectant ones, I say, “But I don’t understand, I think there has been a mistake.” I sputter, my hangover now long forgotten as I shove the deed to the chateau back at Timothé.
“I can assure you, Miss Allard.” His bright eyes bear into me as he shakes his head. “No mistake has been made. Louis Monet was most adamant about signing Chateau des éveillés…” Timothé pauses. In a fluid movement, he places the paperwork back on the table, his gaze never leaving mine as he says, “Over to you.”