Chapter 24
BIX
The limousine ride from the Marseilles airport to Saint-Tropez seems to take as long as the plane journey itself.
I’m only too happy to feel the cool, conditioned air of the Hotel Majestic when we finally arrive, my legs stiff from sitting so long.
The lobby is bright and modern, with marble floors and walls and red-velvet furniture.
Colorful paintings and photographs of sixties movie star Brigitte Bardot line the walls, capturing the glamorous history of this playground for the rich and famous.
Slayer was cool and aloof in the limo. He barely acknowledged my existence beyond a curt nod, and he said nothing about last night’s turbulence.
Yet now that we’re making our first public appearance as a couple, he’s transformed.
“Ready for our debut?” he murmurs, so close that his breath tickles my ear.
Before I can answer, his arm slides around my waist, drawing me against his side possessively. The sudden heat of his body against mine makes my breath catch.
“Absolutely,” I manage, summoning my best adoring-girlfriend smile.
“Remember,” he says, voice low, “we’re madly in love. Try to look less terrified.”
“I’m not terrified,” I assure him. “I’m acting.”
His lips curl into a half-smile that makes my stomach flip. “Then act better.”
I elbow him subtly in the ribs, earning a genuine chuckle that surprises us both.
“Ah, Monsieur Slayer!” The concierge steps forward with theatrical enthusiasm. “Welcome back to Hotel Majestic!”
“Maurice.” Slayer greets him warmly, his arm never leaving my waist. “This is Bix, my girlfriend.”
“Enchanted, mademoiselle.” Maurice takes my hand. “Slayer is one of our most treasured guests.”
“I bet you say that to all the rock stars,” I tease.
Maurice laughs appreciatively. “Only the ones who don’t destroy the rooms.”
“There was just one time,” Slayer deadpans. “And I paid for the chandelier.”
A trio of impossibly beautiful women in tiny bikinis strolls past, their eyes lingering on Slayer with undisguised interest. One of them bites her lip suggestively.
I feel an irrational streak of jealousy, wishing they’d take their tanned, perfectly toned bodies elsewhere.
Then I remember—I’m supposed to be the jealous girlfriend. It’s in the script. I slide my hand into Slayer’s back pocket, prompting his eyes to shift my way behind his sunglasses.
“Just playing my part,” I whisper.
“Playing it well,” he returns, his mouth quirking up.
“And this is for the honeymoon suite,” Maurice says, giving us each a key. “You have a rooftop terrace that overlooks the city. Very romantic.”
“I’m sure we’ll make the most of it,” I say, the words uncomfortable in my mouth. But with Milo and Sterling watching from a few feet away, it’s showtime.
“Shall we go upstairs, darling? Take a nap after that long trip?” I stroke Slayer’s arm for good measure.
To my surprise, Slayer lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. For a moment, I forget we’re acting.
“I have to meet with the band, but I’ll be up as soon as I can,” he says with a wink.
Then, in a move I definitely wasn’t prepared for, he brushes his lips against mine. It’s light and quick, but enough to send electricity zinging through me. My stomach twists.
“Don’t start the Champagne without me,” he adds, voice husky.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I manage, my brain short-circuiting.
“I’ll have a bellman accompany madame,” Maurice says, ringing his bell.
“No, I’m okay on my own!” I assure him. I need a little space to process. Was that kiss part of the act, or something else?
He agrees to send our luggage along momentarily, but lets me head upstairs alone. I find the room easily enough, grateful for the blast of cool air when I open the door.
It’s a gorgeous suite, filled with fresh flowers, and it has an incredible view of the pool below and the city and Mediterranean Sea in the distance.
“Nice,” I murmur as I snap pictures for Zaza and Keesha. I step out onto the terrace and photograph guests lounging by the pool.
My eyes widen as I realize nearly every woman is topless.
Then I remember, it’s legal in France. And here, at this swanky hotel with its gorgeous clientele of rich people, it’s probably encouraged.
I turn the phone toward myself and set it to video.
“Hey, bitches,” I say. “Get a good look at my terrace! And check out that pool! I’m going to sunbathe topless tomorrow. Try to stop me.”
I wink and then laugh as I imagine their reaction when they see the video. They won’t believe I’d do it. I’m sure of that.
But do I have the courage?
What would Slayer have to say about it? Would he be angry, possessive, like Milo suggested on the plane?
Slayer. I take a deep breath. He did a good job of playing the doting boyfriend in the lobby—too good, if I’m being honest. That kiss felt...real. But what happens when he comes upstairs to our room?
And speaking of our room, does our suite have more than one bed? That could be quite awkward. I dart around, opening doors, and am relieved to find two identical bedrooms on either side of the living room. Even better, each bedroom has its own bath. Well, that’s a relief.
Or is it? Hilary used to read romance novels where two attractive strangers got snowed in and had to share a night in a hotel where there was only one bed. They were usually married with a kid on the way before the ice melted.
I jump at a sound and turn, startled to find Slayer by the door. How long has he been standing there?
He looks at me, sunglasses off now, but eyes still unreadable.
“Band meeting canceled,” he says, setting down his bag. “Drummer’s stuck in customs and won’t be out until after lunch.”
“Oh.” I stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room. “I was just exploring.”
“Find anything interesting?” He strolls to the bar and examines the selection of liquor.
“Two bedrooms. We don’t have to share.”
He glances at me, that half-smile returning. “Disappointed?”
My cheeks burn. “No! I just— We barely know each other, and—”
“Relax, Bix. I’m messing with you.” He pours himself a drink. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, unsure what to do with myself. “About what happened downstairs—”
“The kiss?” He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. “That was for Maurice. And the girls by the pillar with their phones out. And Sterling.”
“Right. Of course.” I nod.
“Why? Did you think it was something else?” There’s a challenge in his eyes now.
“No.” Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “But you could have warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He sets his glass down and steps closer. “Besides, your surprised face sells it better than any rehearsed performance.”
“Is that industry wisdom or personal experience talking?”
“Both.” Another step closer. “You’re not bad at this, you know. The girlfriend act.”
“High praise from the Dark Prince himself.”
He winces slightly. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s what everyone calls you.”
“Not you.” His voice drops lower. “Not here.”
Something in his tone makes me shiver, despite the room’s perfect temperature. “What should I call you then? Sam?”
“Slayer is fine,” he says after a long silence.
And just like that, the moment is broken. He retreats to the bar, putting distance between us.
“Sterling wants us at lunch. One sharp.” His voice is all business now. “Wear something—”
“Let me guess. Expensive? Sophisticated? Upper East Side princess?”
“Seductive is good enough. Even a bikini with something thrown over it is fine. It’s at the Caroline, a swanky beach restaurant.”
“Fine by me.”
He pauses at the doorway.
“And Bix? That topless sunbathing you were contemplating from the terrace? Definitely your call, but just know that every paparazzo in the Mediterranean has a telephoto lens trained on this hotel.”
My face flames. “How did you—”
“You’re an open book.” With that parting shot, he disappears into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sink onto the sofa, equal parts mortified and intrigued. This weekend is going to be even more complicated than I thought.