Chapter 20
DANIEL
This hotel is everything.
I want to find that waitress in Avignon and thank her for the tip-off about the Le Pavillon hotels. Give her a secret bonus, a million-dollar tip.
As Scarlett tackles some computer work that afternoon, I take a walk around the grounds, ringing Cole as I go.
“Are we ready to buy it right now?” my good friend asks, no-nonsense to the bone.
I laugh as I make my way to the end of the hotel drive, turning left to head into the nearby town. “Eager much?”
“I know a good thing when I see it. And the pictures you sent were great. Tell me everything,” Cole says.
As I walk into town, I update him on the intel we’ve gathered so far from the two inns. “But this is only our second one, besides the one in Aix-de-Provence. We have about three more to see,” I say, then add, “Though the early data suggests we are on the right track.”
I share more details, and we ask each other questions, challenging each other as we have always done, putting a potential deal through its paces.
This one will be new for us. Our company has excelled at luxury hotels, at huge skyscrapers, at expansive resorts with thousands of rooms, but this would be an expansion into a segment we haven’t played in before. Vetting everything is key.
“I’ve been looking into exactly what it will take from an operations point of view to run these inns,” Cole says, the sound of Parisian traffic filtering behind him. I can tell by the sirens—the sound they make in Paris is quite distinctive.
“Shouldn’t you be enjoying your holiday rather than running numbers?” I ask as I wander past a wine shop and turn onto the main street.
“My mind rarely stops thinking business. Same as yours.”
“Touché. You know me too well.” Here I am chatting with my business partner while I soak in the view of the sea, enjoying the ambience as I amble through Nice.
Funny, how my life was so ordinary growing up, how my family was so middle-class, and I loved that.
I loved so much about my parents. The way I was raised.
Their open affection for each other. Our simple life outside of London.
I never thought it would turn into this world, jetting around the globe, traveling to gorgeous destinations, deciding whether or not to spend millions of dollars.
I’d thought my life would march fearlessly in only one direction.
Then, I upended it.
I derailed my own dreams with a reckless, hotheaded choice. A reaction, really. A horribly thoughtless moment when I vented grief and anger and loss by punching a wall. That night changed nothing for my parents, but everything for me.
But maybe this was fate’s plan all along. I’m not playing in concert halls. I’m playing along the coast of the South of France instead.
“I do know you well,” Cole says, answering me. “And speaking of, how is our better third?”
Ah, it’s the question I knew was coming.
It was inevitable he’d circle back after our man-to-man talk on the street a few nights ago.
He’s always concerned about Scarlett. With good reason, I realize, now that I know how damaged her heart was, how cruelly she’s been treated.
Cole must have sensed the fragility she hides behind that tough, capable, worldly exterior.
“She’s . . . lovely,” I say, my heart warming unexpectedly at the way that word conjures images of her.
Scarlett smiling happily on the plane this morning.
Scarlett chatting with Elodie yesterday evening.
Scarlett on the floor last night, so much more than lovely in a filthy, fantastic way. But the word fits her. All her sides.
“And?” Cole asks, making it clear he wants more information.
I bristle. This feels personal. “And what?” It comes out clipped.
He laughs. “Someone is testy. That means you care for her,” he says, clear and direct, like when he’s negotiating a deal.
“You know I do.”
“You care for her more than you think,” he says. “And you can’t fool me, so don’t even try.”
Damn him. That’s the trouble when someone knows all your secrets, your whole entire story. When they’ve known you for years in ways no one else ever has. As I wander through the tourists, I concede his point. “I do. I care for her deeply.”
“At some point, you’ll need to tell her, then,” he says. “About your family.”
My muscles tighten, coiling uncomfortably. “Why?”
“Because what happened is your history. It’s who you are. It’s the very reason you don’t let people in. It’s why you haven’t ever let yourself care this deeply for someone before.”
I wince, tension mounting like someone is cranking my insides. “We’re not at that point,” I say, stepping out of the way of a pack of tourists as a green-and-white awning outside a café comes into view.
The sign is like glimpsing an oasis.
Coffee. I know someone who loves coffee at all hours of the day.
“But you might be at some point. Think about it, Daniel. Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Cole presses, urgency in his tone.
I heave a sigh, dragging my hand through my hair. “I’ll think about it.” I’ll probably do nothing but think about it, so at least that’s true.
We say goodbye, and I head into the café, ordering coffees. At least I can do that for her.
I make the return walk to the hotel, and when I’m inside the inn, I find her at the pool, lounging by the placid water and wearing a red one-piece, her chestnut hair slick and wet, droplets of water still glistening on her skin.
The sight of her like that, having just gone for a dip, looking au naturel, makes my heart hammer.
No artifice, no wig, no pretending.
She’s simply the inimitable Scarlett Slade.
She waves to me, patting the lounge chair next to her. I join her, handing her the drink.
“Coffee is always a good idea,” she says.
“You went for a dip.” I state the obvious, savoring the view of her après swim.
“I did. I felt a little like playing hooky.”
“How was the water?”
“Fantastic. The pool is another for the pro column. Guests rave about this pool, and with good reason,” she says.
“You doing due diligence while going for a dip is too sexy for words.” I lift my cup, taking a drink, then set it down on the small table between us. As I do, I stare at the jagged scar on my right hand.
Part of me thinks I should wait for a sign. But I don’t believe in signs. I believe in moments.
I want to share some of who I am with her. She deserves that much given all she’s shared with me.
I set my scarred hand on her leg, and I begin, carefully doling out the pieces of my puzzle I’m ready to offer.
“When I was younger, I was a concert violinist. I had a different last name. I’d played in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Tokyo, all by the age of seventeen.
Stages all over the world. Child prodigy.
And I was going to attend university on a music scholarship.
” Her eyes widen as I speak, like she’s gobbling up all of the things that I’ve never told her.
I’ve hardly told anyone but Cole about my life before, and where I’d been headed.
“But when I was eighteen, right before I left for university, I received some new information about my parents’ deaths.” That horrible day flashes before me, the cruelty of the memory slicing my flesh, cutting my heart once again, and I bite out, “And I punched a wall.”
She gasps, perhaps in horror. Perhaps knowing where this story is going.
I hold up my hand. “I suffered permanent nerve damage.”
She sighs sadly. “My God, Daniel.”
“My hand works fine. It works fine for everything. For typing. For making sandwiches. For sex,” I say, pushing out a laugh.
“It even works fine for playing the violin in an above-average fashion.” I take a beat, and then say the hardest thing.
“It works fine for everything except playing Beethoven and Brahms on the world’s greatest stages. ”
“That was your dream,” she says.
“It was my only one.”
Her lips quiver. Twin tears slide down her cheeks. She sits up straighter, reaches for my right hand, takes it between hers, and brings it to her lips. Then she kisses my scar like a benediction, like it can erase everything that went wrong.
I close my eyes, melting into her touch, which almost feels like forgiveness. Like I’m forgiving myself for what I did stupidly, foolishly, violently in a fit of anger over something I haven’t fully revealed to her.
How I came to end the greatest thing I’ve ever known.
But then, so many things had already ended. So many things that were also my fault.
“Thank you for sharing that. It must hurt. It must have hurt so much,” she says, her tone kind and gentle. She doesn’t push for more details. She doesn’t ask questions.
For that, I fall a little harder.
That’s why I can’t bear to tell her more. I can’t bear to reveal all the details of my family.
I’ve spent nearly two decades building walls to protect myself from everything that hurts.
This admission will have to be enough.