Chapter 2
Oma
Always shuffling back like a June bug…
“What do you mean the hotel isn’t there?” I swallow hard as the cabbie, taking me from the train station to where I’m supposed to be, tries to explain to me again what has happened.
“My apologies, madam, but the hotel has burned down. A tragic accident overnight and a blemish on our great city.” I glance out the window at the Eiffel Tower as my stomach drops.
Welcome to Paris, Oma.
I pull out my phone and curse when I see it’s almost dead. I just need it to stay on for two minutes. I need to get a text out to my aunt to fix this mess.
My hotel burnt down in Paris! Help!!
I hit send and watch in horror as the phone dies without confirmation that the text was sent.
“Crap, crap, crap,” I chant as my stress level skyrockets.
We pull up to the hotel area, where we can still see the structure smoking slightly in the distance. News crews, police, firefighters, and onlookers crowd the narrow street, making the cars trying to make their way around the city honk.
“Madam, there is a hotel representative over there who is helping the guests find other accommodations.” He points over to a makeshift desk and a man in an emerald suit, talking to a woman wearing a bathrobe with the hotel logo on it.
“Merci,” I step out of the cab and wait for my bags to be unloaded before making my way over to the man whose face seems to be made of stone.
“Thank you,” the lady in the robe says as I approach.
“Bonjour, how may I help you?” His accent is thick, but it isn’t French as I thought.
The wind shifts, and my hair whips into my face, blinding me for a moment. My bags start to roll away, and I reach for the handle at the same moment he does, making our hands collide. A wave of pure need ripples through my body, and I gasp, ripping my hand away from his as his nostrils flare.
I slip on the wet pavement, and my life flashes before my eyes.
This is how I die. Hitting my head on the pavement in front of every possible medical professional in Paris. My tombstone will read “She really showed her ass” since the dress I’m wearing barely covers my ample backside, meaning that right before I take my last breath, I’ll flash the entire street.
Basically, if the fall doesn’t kill me, my embarrassment will.
Suddenly, my body has stopped moving, and I take a chance to peek through my lashes to see why.
What I find is the very handsome man cradling me in the safety of his arms as the wind that started all this continues to move my hair to curtain us away from all the onlookers who are more interested in the fire than what’s happening in my world.
“Thank you.” I try to stand fully in his arms, which are like steel bands.
“Your name?” His voice is hoarse, deep, and rich, making me bite my lip so I don’t moan at the way it vibrates through my whole body.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Paloma Dela Cruz,” I whisper, and it sounds like I’m asking him rather than stating it.
His eyes darken further as he finally rights us and makes sure I’m steady before releasing me from his hold. The moment he does it’s like the fog of lust that surrounded me follows him like a cloud clearing my brain long enough to find my wits.
“I’m sorry to inform you that the hotel has had catastrophic damage, but fear not, we have already rebooked you.” He types into a computer as he speaks, but somehow keeps me firmly in sight.
Why is he watching me like that?
I can’t stop the feeling of running, but not from fear. Something in his eyes is begging me to run, and I shift from foot to foot as if I’m preparing to obey.
“Um, where?” I’m in need of a cold shower to calm the hell down.
“We could not accommodate your entire five-day stay. However, we noticed your extension package in Spain and have been able to extend it from eleven days to fourteen. You would be lodged for the evening and then take a train tomorrow evening. It limits your time in Paris, so as a consolation, we have arranged a special dinner this evening at Madame Brasserie inside the tower.” No way!
When I tried to get a reservation before I left home, they were booked out for three years!
“That sounds wonderful. I appreciate all your hard work. This must be an incredible loss.” I motion around at the destruction.
“It is my pleasure. I flew in to help from another hotel.” He averts his eyes as he types, and I miss his gaze instantly.
“May I ask where?” That seems to catch him off guard.
He doesn’t seem to be a man who is surprised all that often, and it makes me smile, making him flustered.
“Yes,” his tone is short and sharp, crashing my playful mood instantly.
Jerk.
“Sorry,” I tuck my hair behind my ear and turn away slightly.
“You misunderstand, madam. I mean, yes, you may ask.” Oh, okay.
This is why Americans seem so obtuse when traveling abroad. We add our own insecurities, turning a simple phrase into the worst possible outcome, which leads to a thousand cases of cultural miscommunication. I shake off the glum feeling that filled my chest and muster my courage.
“Your accent isn’t French. It’s more Latin. Where do you call home?” I watch as his stern face falters, and a slight twitch in the corner of his lip shows me how much he really wants to smile.
“Correct, madam. I reside in a small coastal town on the border of Spain and France, San Sebastian.” I laugh as I remember how close to Pamplona that is.
“How are the beaches there? It’s on my places to visit. La Concha, in particular.” He freezes, and his face mimics a stone statue.
Is that smoke rising from his nostrils?
No, it must be a trick of the light and left over from the fire. I rub my eyes and then curse, forgetting my mascara. I must look like a raccoon now.
Great.
“No, you must not go there. It is lovely, but it is not for you.” What an odd thing to say.
“Why ever not?” I glance down my body and frown.
I may not be model skinny, but my curves are in all the right places and appropriate to my height and weight. I’ll never be conventionally thin, and honestly, I’m okay with that. Bread and pasta were made to be eaten, dammit.
“It’s a nudist beach.” He says it very matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I’m aware. It’s the reason I chose it.” He slams his fist down on the makeshift desk, making the laptop bounce, but that’s not the reason a thrill runs down my back.
It’s the growl that he lets out as he pushes my room key at me.
“Your new hotel is down the alley. Please leave your bags, and I will have them brought to you promptly. I would escort you myself. However, I can not leave my station until my relief arrives. Please enjoy your stay in Paris.” I reach for the card, and he quickly retracts his arm as if he doesn’t want our skin to touch ever again.
That, and the tone his voice just took, left me with a sense of disappointment I haven’t felt since primary school.
Well, fuck you, buddy.
“Thank you, I will.” I grab the key and turn in the direction he pointed.
As I walk away, I distinctly hear a string of curses in Spanish so long I almost turn to see if they came from him, but I don’t. I walk straight to the hotel entrance, which is only a few hundred feet away from where my original hotel once stood.
I take one last glance in the direction I came from and catch a set of amber eyes glaring at me.
Strange, I could have sworn his eyes were a honey brown when we talked.
I shake my head as I try to remember a name that I realize he never gave me.
I search my memory, but he wasn’t wearing a name tag either.
“Strange,” I whisper as I approach the front desk.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to serve you today.” The older man with a name tag that reads Jean Claude beams at me as I pass him my information.
“Such a shame that this tragedy has cut your time here so short. Let us get you into your room to freshen up. I see there is a car reserved to take you to dinner in two hours.” I grin and nod.
“That would be lovely. Thank you. My bags are being brought over by the young man helping the guests -” I leave the sentence open, hoping he’ll fill in the blank.
“Ah, oui. That would have been Santo.” I smile politely as I accept my key card and the information for the car service coming for me.
“Merci,” I make it to the elevators and sigh as the doors close, leaving me alone for the first time in twenty-four hours.
Murphy’s law, Oma. If it can go wrong for you, it will.
I can’t help but giggle at my own thoughts as the elevator dings and the doors open to an elegant couple looking at me strangely.
That would be the giggles, Oma.
I clear my throat and quickly get out of the way as I search for my room. I follow the signs and then proceed to wave my card at the scanner for my room. The little light turns red, and the lock beeps at me. I try again, and again, before I take the handle and jiggle it in frustration.
“Come on, you piece of shit!” I curse and swing my leg back to kick the door.
“I would not advise that.” I jump three feet into the air when his voice echoes in the previously empty hallway.
“OH, MY GOD! Where did you come from?” Santo points behind him, back in the direction the elevator was, and I frown, but notice he’s got my bags with him.
“You need a bell,” I take my stuff from him and try the door in vain.
“Do you need further assistance?” Why is he saying that so smugly as if I’m incapable of opening a fucking door?
“I think I can manage.” I wave the card up and down, yet the door keeps beeping with the same red light.
What is wrong with this fucking thing?
He clears his throat, and I glance back to see him with his hand out. Right, his tip. I swing my purse around to fish out my wallet, and he groans before snatching my key card out of my hand.
“HEY!” If this loser thinks he’s getting a tip now, he can kiss my ass.
That would be a nice turn for my night. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
I bite my lip as he leans between me and the door and hovers the key card over the lock. After two seconds, the lock clicks and a green light appears.