Chapter Eight #2
“Do you need anything else right now?”
“No. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“When we’re done at the casino, Apolline and I will come check on you.” He was moving toward the door now, putting on his straw boater hat.
“Of course. Merci.”
After he left, I groaned into my pillow.
I felt dizzy and light, mostly because of the sickness, but also kind of because Benoit was being so nice.
With him gone, the room suddenly felt empty.
In an odd way, he was growing on me. He’d been very kind to me, over and over again, since we left Paris.
Working with him was probably not going to be the living hell I’d feared.
I felt guilty for not going with them to the casino, for taking the day off work, but even the idea of getting dressed exhausted me.
I sat up for a sip of water. Then I settled back into bed.
The hotel sheets were crisp and soft, worn from frequent washings.
Guilt be damned. I was so grateful that he’d agreed to cover for me today while I rested. And then I promptly went to sleep.
I awoke a few hours later to a gentle knock at the door. After orienting myself for a moment, I got up and answered it. It was room service, which Benoit and Apolline had probably arranged for me. The young man was wearing a stiff uniform and had a stack of newspapers and a fresh pot of coffee.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said. The disease had subsided considerably. “The other pot of coffee has surely gone cold, and that smells wonderful.”
He smiled. He was a tall, thin young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen. As he cleared my half-finished cup of coffee and the pot and arranged the fresh, I asked him if he lived in town.
“I do, madame. My father is a carpenter, and my mother works downstairs in the kitchen.”
“Oh? How nice. I am a reporter from a paper in Paris.”
“Monsieur Levin mentioned that; that you and the other woman are here with him for work.”
“Yes. We’re writing about the new casino and about the town.”
“Yes, madame.”
“What do you think about the new casino? And what do your parents say?”
“Oh, it’s a good thing, madame.” His northern accent pinched the vowels in his words. “For everyone in town. It’s good that you’re writing about it too. The more people who come, the more customers.”
“Yes.”
He finished tidying up. “Will that be all?”
“Oui, merci.” As he turned to leave, I stopped him. “What was your name again?”
“Pierre, madame.”
“Very good, Pierre. And do you know if Monsieur Levin and Madame Trouvé have returned yet?”
“Not that I’m aware of, madame.”
I thanked him again as he left the room. The coffee was hot and aromatic. The first sip further revived me and settled much easier than my last attempt.
I hadn’t had household staff since I was a child.
We had a housekeeper, but she didn’t wait on us.
Now there was Madame Tremblay and Cook and Claire at home, but they didn’t clear my dishes or bring coffee to my room.
Not the way this young man had, asking me if I needed anything and addressing me so formally when I was such a mess.
It was nearly dinnertime, and I was still dressed in my robe. Perhaps I would rather like hotel life.
I read the papers and washed and dressed in a fresh nightgown. I was wondering what I should do about dinner when another knock came at the door. This time it was Benoit.
“I’ve brought you some chicken soup.”
“Merci. I was just starting to think about food. That smells perfect.” Even though he said he’d check on me, I had expected Apolline to be doing the actual checking.
He was a man, and stopping in on the sick often fell on the woman’s shoulders by default.
I was surprised he’d come alone. Pleasantly so.
“It should go down easy enough. Are you feeling better?”
“I am.” I wished I’d put on a proper dress. How many times could a man see a woman who was supposed to be his equal in her night robe? There had to be some professional standard that this blatantly violated.
“Wonderful. You look better.”
He turned to leave, but then I asked him to wait. I didn’t want to bring it up, but I also had to. “I feel like some professional boundaries have been crossed. I’d rather you hadn’t found me in that state. You’re my colleague.”
He smiled. “I’m sure. But don’t worry. This sort of thing happens all the time when there’s travel involved. You really get to see firsthand what a person is made of.”
“Fantastic!” I laughed. “My humiliation continues.”
“I’ll still see you as competent in the morning.” His smile warmed me; it was like a magic spell.
“I suppose I’ll see you a little differently. You’ve been very kind.” I didn’t love admitting how wrong I’d been about him. Not at all.
“Really? You must not be fully recovered yet. Or perhaps there’s been some damage to your brain.”
“I'm being serious. Don’t make it harder.”
“I’m only teasing you. But I’m glad to hear your opinion of me has improved incrementally.” He shrugged. “It’s not easy being the most horrible man in the room.”
“You’re not.”
“No. But you must admit, now that we’re having a moment of honesty, there have been times in our brief acquaintance that you’ve thought so.”
“You are right. I’m sorry.” I looked down at the cup in my hands. I had been truly awful. “Now please let me process the emotions that have come with admitting that. Let’s talk about something else. How did today go?”
“It went well.” He produced a notebook from his pocket. “I brought my notes if you’d like to go over them.”
“Yes! Tell me everything while I eat my soup.”
He settled into one of the two chairs at the small, round table, and spread his notebook open.
He used unruled paper, which intrigued me almost as much as what he’d written.
His handwriting was uniform and pleasing to the eye, so disciplined that he didn’t need lines to keep it straight.
A detail that perhaps only a person obsessed with stationery and its applications would notice or find fascinating.
I half-heartedly tried not to like him even more because of his delightful note-taking methods.
He’d taken several pages of notes on the interior and layout of the two gaming floors.
And he’d asked most of the necessary background questions.
It seemed all we really needed to do was attend the opening and get a few more interviews from patrons and maybe workers.
We decided that he should cover the business side, while I wrote about the first night from the perspective of a patron.
We talked all this out in about half an hour, during which it occurred to me that he was a competent and solid teammate—since I had to have one.
And then the strangest thing happened as he was leaving.
I was up and moving around by then, almost fully recovered, and I walked him to the door.
We were standing there, saying goodnight, when he paused for a beat.
His hat was off and in his hand. His hair was not so straightly combed into place, and his collar and cravat had been loosened in a casual, end-of-the-day sort of way.
His neck and throat held my eye for a moment before my gaze drifted upward toward his mouth.
His lips were full and soft, perfectly lined by his trim mustache.
Then that compelling mouth quirked into a confident sideways smile. He was watching me looking at him.
Then his eyes fell to my mouth. Did he want to kiss me? He looked a little like he did.
And then I was thinking about him doing it—leaning in and meeting my mouth with his.
Him wrapping his arms around me. Me pressing into his body.
I wanted to kiss him… which would surely be a complete disaster.
I cleared my throat and pulled my eyes away, pulling out of the reverie as quickly as I’d fallen in.
“I should…” He pointed toward his room but didn’t finish his sentence.
“Oui, merci again.”
We laughed briefly, awkwardly. Then he nodded and walked toward his room. I closed my door and leaned against the back of it, dizzy.
Had we almost kissed? It felt like we had almost kissed. Why did I have to react to him? Every single time? We couldn’t have a normal, professional, neutral conversation. It always had to be charged with something confusing and powerful and un-ignorable. It was exhausting.