Chapter Two
Brooke
I should’ve snuck through.
That’s the only thought looping in my head as I step out of the airport into the chaos of Charles de Gaulle. The shuttle is waiting out front like always, engine rumbling, exhaust curling into the crisp Paris air.
Economy was as miserable as first class had been peaceful. No wonder Stephanie miraculously found her antihistamine; I’d risk choking to death over that mess too. I shoot her a dirty look as she hands her suitcase off to the driver, but it’s not really her fault.
It’s mine.
Matthew wasn’t at baggage claim. I’d practically sprinted through the terminal like an idiot, half-expecting him to be there, smiling, waiting, saying something.
But he wasn’t. And why would he be? He probably has a girlfriend.
Or a wife. Or some impossibly sophisticated Parisian waiting for him in the city.
I pout as I stand at the curb, watching the blur of people crisscrossing the drop-off zone, couples laughing, businessmen glued to phones, families corralling overtired toddlers. Paris airport is just like any other: crowded, chaotic, and utterly annoying.
I hand over my luggage and climb onto the shuttle with the rest of the crew.
It’s a routine I know by heart. Our airline usually books us at one of two hotels in the city, this time, it’s H?tel Mistral, a mid-range place that caters to flight crews and business travellers.
Clean sheets, free breakfast, decent Wi-Fi.
Nothing fancy, but I’m not exactly in the mood to appreciate it.
The drive into the city usually calms me, the sight of Parisian streets, the Seine glinting in the afternoon light, the old stone buildings crowding together like they’re whispering secrets. Today, though, I barely notice any of it. My mind is stuck on Matthew.
On how it all started.
It was during my first semester. I’d just dragged myself back from an overnight flight and all I wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and not wake up until next week.
But for some reason, maybe guilt, maybe caffeine, I changed into clean clothes and hauled myself to class.
My first class that entire month, if I’m being honest.
I wasn’t the academic one. That was always Stella. My sister had her nose in a book before she could walk and could ace exams without studying. Me? I barely scraped by. The only thing I was ever really good at was cheerleading.
Thank God for my high school guidance counsellor.
He didn’t waste time pushing me toward a degree I couldn’t afford.
Instead, he helped me find a job with a small airline straight out of high school and even mapped out a career plan for me.
That job kept me afloat. I worked flights, saved money, and eventually realized that if I wanted to move up, I needed a degree. Cue college. Cue Matthew.
In hindsight, I should’ve started school during COVID when I was stuck at home like the rest of the world. But that wasn’t an option. I had to move in with Stella and her kids, and the least I could do was babysitting while she clung to the job that kept us fed.
Anyway, there I was that morning, exhausted and cranky, walking into class with zero intention of talking to anyone. I picked a spot in the very back, next to a guy in a hoodie with his head down and a notebook open.
It was perfect. Quiet. Peaceful.
At least until I leaned over and asked if I could borrow his notes.
The guy stared at me for a full minute, like I’d just spoken another language, before muttering something that sounded like, “Sure… Matthew.”
I laughed, agreed, and that was our arrangement for almost a month. I’d show up, sit beside him, borrow his notes, and leave. It was transactional, simple.
Then my friends found out.
They teased me endlessly about using him. I denied it, obviously, but one of them asked, “Okay, then tell us one thing about him.” And I couldn’t. Other than the fact that his handwriting was atrocious, I knew nothing.
That bothered me more than I expected.
So, one day, after class, I asked if he could help me study. He seemed surprised but said yes, and we met at a little coffee shop off campus. And for the first time, we talked. Really talked.
That’s when I found out he was an only child, raised by a single mom. That he loved old sitcoms and hated small talk. And that, to my absolute shock, he was funny. Like, really funny. I didn’t tell him that, of course. I just laughed a little too hard at his jokes and pretended it was no big deal.
After that, things changed. I started inviting him along whenever I was going somewhere, study groups, parties, late-night diner runs.
It didn’t take people long to see what I was starting to see too: that he was incredible.
Soon enough, it wasn’t me inviting him anymore, it was him pulling me along to new places, new people.
And all through that, if I’m being honest, I kept waiting for him to ask me out. I don’t even know what I would’ve said if he had. I liked him, of course I did, but I also liked the help. And deep down, I knew that once we crossed that line, everything would change.
So, I did what any other self-sabotaging idiot would do: I introduced him to someone else. Someone just like him, quiet, loyal, smart, and pretty in that understated way that made sense with who he was.
And, of course, they hit it off.
And, of course, I wanted to hit myself.
Because watching him fall for someone else, someone I handed to him, hurt far more than I’d prepared myself for. And the worst part? I couldn’t even be mad about it. I’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.
I enjoyed their breakup way more than I’d like to admit. Way more. It shouldn’t have made me as happy as it did, but there it was, the selfish little thrill I couldn’t smother no matter how hard I tried.
By then, I was in a relationship myself. Casual but exclusive. Comfortable in that don’t-ask-too-many-questions kind of way. And after that… well, we graduated. And then he ghosted me. Or I ghosted him. Honestly, I’m still not sure which.
That thought is still buzzing around my head as I step off the shuttle and follow the rest of the crew into the H?tel Mistral.
I wheel my suitcase to the front desk and wait, scrolling aimlessly through my phone as the clerk clicks away at the keyboard.
“Name?” she asks.
“Brooke Masters.”
She nods and slides the keycard across the counter. I take it, murmuring a polite “thanks,” but before I can turn away, something shifts, a sudden prickle at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
I glance over my shoulder and scan the busy lobby. Businessmen rushing past, a family arguing over luggage, some of the crew waiting their turn and then I see him.
He’s standing a few feet back from the crowd, a worn duffel bag at his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. That same boyish smile plays at his lips, shy and uncertain, but so him it makes my chest ache and my hands twitch with the urge to squish his stupid, perfect face.
I bite my lip, my heart thudding a little harder than I’d like to admit, and start walking toward him. Each step feels ridiculous, like I’m in slow motion and my legs have forgotten how to function.
“Hey,” I say when I finally reach him, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Hey,” he replies.
Matthew
I stand there in front of Brooke, silently praying she finds me tracking her down romantic and not restraining-order worthy.
I mean, technically, I didn’t do anything crazy.
All I did was call a buddy in HR, who called a buddy in management, who said he knew which two hotels the crew usually stayed at in Paris, just not which one this time.
Then I called the first one, asked if the crew had arrived, and I didn’t even lie when I said I worked for Marx United.
Just my luck, they told me the shuttle was en route.
I’d tried to rush through the airport to catch her, but of course, I got stuck in customs behind a guy with twelve bottles of wine. Who brings wine to Paris?
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says again, voice light but eyes searching.
“Yeah,” I nod, trying to play it cool. “They booked me here.”
Her brows shoot up. “Oh. I thought-” She cuts herself off, shakes her head, and glances past me. “Anyway, I should-”
“Wait.” The word is out before I can stop it.
She pauses, looking back at me.
“They didn’t book me anywhere,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just… found out you were here. And followed you.”
A mother nearby stops mid-step, pulling her kid a little closer, while the dad gives me a weirdly encouraging nod. I shoot them both an awkward smile.
“I just-” I sigh, forcing myself to look at Brooke again. “I got stuck at the airport and I didn’t know if you still had the same number.”
For a beat, I can’t read her face. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a small, genuine smile.
“I do,” she says.
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosens.
“Well then,” I say, forcing a laugh that comes out more nervous than I intend, “I did all this for nothing. I’ll be going now.”
Brooke lets out a small laugh, the kind that bubbles up before she can stop it. “Where are you going?”
“Uh… gonna find a hotel,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely toward the street like I have a plan.
She glances around the lobby, a teasing glint in her eye. “If only there was one nearby.”
I rub the back of my neck, trying not to grin. “Yeah. That would be convenient, huh?”
We’re both smiling now, but I’m the first to break the stare. “I’m gonna go see if they have a room.”
With that, I march over to the front desk like a man on a mission. The receptionist looks up with polite disinterest and clicks a few keys when I ask about availability.
“We do have a few rooms left,” she says, fingers flying over the keyboard. “How many nights?”
I answer then glance over my shoulder. Brooke’s still standing by the bag I abandoned when I walked over to her, watching me with that half-amused, half-intrigued expression I remember so well.
Turning back to the receptionist, I exhale slowly.
God, I really thought I was over this awkwardness.
I’ve pitched campaigns worth millions, negotiated with CEOs, flown halfway across the world for meetings, and yet one look from her and suddenly I’m an idiot again, sweating through a group project.
She brings out the nerd in me. Always has.
The receptionist slides a keycard across the counter. “Breakfast is served until ten,” she says with a polite smile.
I nod, thanking her, and make my way back to Brooke, waving the key in the air. “Got a room.”
“1406,” she says, glancing at her own keycard.
I look down at mine. “1606.” I grin before I can stop myself. “I’m on top of you.”
She tilts her head, lips twitching.
I say, “I mean, technically I’m two floors-”
“-on top of me,” she finishes teasing.
We both chuckle before heading toward the elevators together. It’s packed, of course, and because the universe enjoys my humiliation, it’s the same family from the lobby, the mom still eyeing me like I might start following people home, the dad giving me another approving nod.
They step off on the third floor, leaving just the two of us and the steady hum of silence as the elevator glides upward.
When it dings on the fourth, Brooke steps out, then turns back and wedges her hand between the doors to hold them open. “Wanna get some food?”
“Yeah,” I nod eagerly. “I’m starving. That salad was tiny.”
“You should’ve gotten the pasta,” she says, one brow arched.
“Yeah,” I shrug, “I’ll come to your room in thirty.”
“Make it an hour,” she says with a small smile. “I need a long shower.”
“Got it.”
The doors start to close, and for some reason, because I’m apparently still a socially inept idiot around her, I wave. I wave.
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a laugh as the elevator doors slide shut between us.
Stupid fucking idiot.