Chapter 31
BIX
The gray dawn light creeps through gauzy curtains at the start of a new day.
Last night floods back. The club. The music. The standing ovation.
And Slayer, leaving with Valentina.
I slip from bed and pull back the curtains, revealing the hotel’s charming garden below and the village in the distance. The sky is overcast, but nothing to stop me from my morning run.
I slip into running shorts and a top, then pause at my bedroom door, steeling myself for a potential encounter with Slayer.
I open the door and look around. Did he come home last night? Doesn’t seem like it. His door is still firmly closed. The living room untouched, just as it was before I went to sleep.
It’s a bit of a cruel reminder, but probably one I need. I’m doing a job here. None of this is real. What Slayer does with his time is not particularly my concern unless there’s press around.
I head down to the lobby.
The overnight concierge, an older man with kind eyes, looks up from his crossword puzzle as I approach. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. You are up early. How may I help you?”
“I was hoping to find somewhere to run. Is there a nature trail? I don’t want to run near the village.”
He sets his puzzle aside, considering. “The hills are beautiful at dawn. The afternoons are too hot.”
A sharp yip captures my attention. Behind the desk, a small white and brown terrier tilts his head, studying me.
“This is Toto,” the concierge says, noticing my interest. “Our hotel’s resident dog. Say bonjour, Toto.”
Toto yips again, this time holding up his right paw.
Charmed, I kneel to shake it before addressing the concierge.
“Are the hills safe to run?”
His eyes sharpen as he sizes me up. “You look like a strong young woman. Yes, they are safe. But I’d feel more secure about you running alone if you had Toto to protect you.”
I laugh. “Toto’s very cute. But I run fast...”
“Ah, mademoiselle underestimates the dog. Toto knows every path in the Maures hills.” He pulls out a worn trail map, spreading it across the polished desk. “Here, let me show you...”
The map’s edges are soft with use. The concierge traces several possible routes with his finger, each marked with faded pencil. I lean closer, oddly comforted by this normal moment after last night’s surreal performance.
“This one is special.” He taps a winding path. “Very few tourists know it. Though perhaps mademoiselle would prefer the coastal route?”
“The hills sound perfect.” I need to get above this town, away from thoughts of Slayer and Valentina’s villa. “Thanks for offering Toto, but he’s so small. I’m not sure he can keep up.”
Toto’s ears prick as if he understood exactly what I said. His compact body vibrates before he springs into action. His little legs blur as he races to the fountain and back, precise as a military drill.
We laugh as he returns, a little doggy smile on his tan and white face.
“Here.” The concierge produces a small hotel tote. “Water and sunscreen. The morning fog can be deceiving. When the sun comes out, it will be strong.”
Toto’s entire body wiggles with triumph as he leads me toward a cobblestone path, pausing to make sure I follow.
“The trail begins just past the old church,” the concierge calls after us. “Toto knows the way.”
The morning air carries hints of sea salt and herbs as we wind through Saint-Tropez’s empty streets.
Toto trots ahead with purpose, his white tail like a signal flag. Early deliverymen nod as we pass, some calling greetings to the little terrier by name.
Past the old church, the path begins to climb. Ancient stone walls give way to wild vegetation, and the town falls away below us. My legs warm to the steady incline while Toto navigates each turn.
The view stretches forever, the Mediterranean glittering silver-blue in the dawn light. Somewhere down there is the yacht where we’ll all gather later, playing our roles for the press.
But up here, there’s only Toto’s quiet presence and the sound of my own breathing.
I feel real again.
Butterflies drift across our path, their wings catching sunlight. I slow my pace, not wanting to disturb their delicate dance. Toto matches my rhythm perfectly, as if reading my thoughts.
The trail curves sharply, and I see an enormous creature crossing our path.
After my shock wears away, I realize it’s a giant turtle.
The animal must be at least fifteen inches across, its shell a masterpiece of geometric patterns. It moves with deliberate dignity, like time means nothing at all.
My phone’s in my hand before I realize it as I try to capture this moment.
I’m so focused on framing the shot that at first I don’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching from around the bend.
When I do, my heart jumps as I realize I’m alone on a mountain trail with only a small dog to defend me. Toto’s ears prick up, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. Still, I find myself holding my breath as the runner appears.
Slayer.
He’s dressed simply—no Dark Prince costume, no silver chains. Just running shorts and a gray T-shirt dark with sweat. The Sam I remember, not Slayer.
The sight of him hits me harder than I expect. Lean and muscular, he moves with natural grace that has nothing to do with stage presence.
Sweat glistens on his collarbones, visible where his shirt clings to his chest. I force my eyes back to his face.
Seeming to recognize him, Toto leaps forward, putting his forepaws on Slayer’s muscular thigh.
“Bix,” Slayer says, sounding surprised. “How did you find this place?”
“The concierge recommended it.” I try to keep my voice steady, casual. Like my pulse isn’t racing from more than just the run. “I see you’ve met Toto.”
“Everyone knows Toto.” When Slayer crouches to ruffle the terrier’s ears, I catch a whiff of his cologne beneath the sweat.
Even at dawn, even like this, Slayer smells expensive.
“You’re in good hands with this one.” Toto yips in delight at the compliment.
We both turn to watch as the turtle continues its stately crossing, oblivious to our drama.
“And you’ve met Oscar,” Slayer says.
“Oscar?”
“That’s what I call him.” Something softens in his face. “A turtle just looks like an Oscar, don’t you think?”
“Honestly, I never thought about it. But now that you mention it, yes. He does have that Oscar look about him.”
I pause, trying to think of something to say to prolong this light banter. Before I ask the real question. "His shell looks at least a foot long from end to end. That's not a normal turtle."
"Oscar's a Hermann turtle. Unique to this area of the Maures hills here in Saint-Tropez. Can live up to a hundred years."
"Wow. He must be famous."
"Famous enough to have his plush likeness in every souvenir shop in town."
The morning air shifts between us, heavy with things unsaid.
Toto positions himself at our feet, as if settling in for a juicy soap opera.
“Bix.” Slayer’s voice turns serious. “About last night—”
“Which part?” I ask sharply. “The part where I wasn’t really sick, or the part where you went home with Valentina?”
He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “You weren’t just not sick, you were performing. Without permission. And with a boy who seemed to know you well.”
His jaw tightens.
“What is it with you, Bix? You’re in Saint-Tropez for two hours and you find a new guy? Then by the end of the second evening, you launch yourself as the town’s newest singing sensation?”
There’s something raw in his accusation, and something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy.
“Paul isn’t just a guy. He’s tied in with the village’s music scene.
He conducts the jazz band and invited me to sing at the market yesterday morning.
And I wasn’t planning to become a singing sensation, as you term it.
I couldn’t sleep and wanted to go for a late-night walk.
You’ve been busy, so I’m just looking to entertain myself, you know?
I ran into Paul and, well, the rest is history. ”
I peek up at Slayer’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. Does he believe my story? It’s the only one I have. The truth.
His face gives nothing away.
“You have to believe me.”
Slayer shrugs, then twists to pull a bag from his lightweight backpack.
“Look, I grabbed these croissants from that bakery on Rue de la Citadelle. Still hot from the oven. Let’s eat and watch Oscar do his thing.”
The scent of butter elicits a small growl from my stomach.
Toto must smell the warm, buttery bread too. Yipping, he edges closer, as eager for a bite of that croissant as I am.
“Fine.” I sink down on a smooth rock beside the path.
Slayer settles beside me, careful to leave space between us. Breaks the croissant in half—the sound soft and perfect in the morning air.
Toto sits at attention, eyes fixed on the buttery delight.
“Here you go, boy.” Slayer tears off a large hunk of croissant for the canine. “Enjoy.”
“Generous,” I say. “Now I’ll feed Oscar.”
I tear off a smaller amount—I’m not quite as charitable as Slayer—and rise to put it in the turtle’s path.
We both watch as Oscar slowly stretches his leathery neck, sniffs at it, then uses his surprisingly long tongue to lift it to his mouth.
“I have a question to ask you, and I demand an honest answer,” Slayer says when I return to his side.
His knee is inches from mine, both of us perched on the rock. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the energy between us.
“That night at the noodle shop—did you know who I was?”
I almost choke on my croissant. “You’re asking if I knew you were Slayer? You weren’t Slayer that evening—not really. How could I possibly know?”
Something changes in his expression as he studies my face. “Okay. Then tell me about your diary,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he tears off another piece of croissant.
“That morning, I found it open. You’d written about seeing Slayer perform, then meeting...” He looks away. “I thought you’d planned it all. That you read about that noodle shop being one of my favorite after-performance spots and decided to ambush me there.”
My eyes widen. “Oh God. The notebook.” I remember writing about the club, about seeing Slayer on stage, and finally about meeting Sam later.
If he read the entry, I can see how it might have looked. “So after reading it, you thought I was just another girl trying to use you to get ahead?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice carries an edge built up after what must be years of suspicion, of betrayal.
Toto nudges my hand with his wet nose, hoping for some of my croissant. The simple gesture breaks the tension.
“Slayer, that night was real,” I assure him. “Maybe the only real thing in this whole mess.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment I see the man from the noodle shop—and the one who held me during the plane’s turbulence.
“Should I call you Sam or Slayer?” I ask softly.
“To the world, I’m Slayer. Always.” He gestures to his running clothes, his natural hair. “Sam is...private. For times when I’m not performing.”
His gaze holds mine, and I feel heat crawling up my neck.
“And which one went to Valentina’s villa last night?” I ask.
Slayer says nothing. He tears off another piece of croissant, but just holds it, watching Oscar’s slow progress.
“I spent a lot of time last night thinking about how everything got so twisted. About why I let Sterling control so much of my life.” He finally looks at me again. “About why I ran that morning, after you told me you were...”
“A virgin?” Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “Yeah, that was real too.”
“And that’s exactly why we can’t...” His hand moves toward mine, then stops, hovering just above my skin. I can feel the heat of it, the promise of contact. “This contract, these roles we’re playing—it’s complicated enough without...”
“Without making it real?” I finish for him.
“Two more days,” he says quietly. “Let’s just get through the weekend. Keep things professional.”
But the way he looks at me suggests that professional isn’t what either of us wants. His eyes drop to my lips for just a heartbeat before he pulls his gaze away.
“Professional,” I test the word, watching Oscar finally disappear into the underbrush. “Is that what you’re being with Valentina?”
His silence speaks volumes. A muscle tightens in his jaw, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Toto looks between us, tail stilling.
“We should head back.” Slayer stands, brushing croissant crumbs from his shorts. “Press conference on the yacht at noon.”
The morning air feels heavier as we start down the trail, maintaining careful distance between us. Professional.
But I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, the heat in his gaze anything but professional. And when our hands accidentally brush as we navigate a narrow section of trail, neither of us pulls away.
Whatever this is between us, whatever it could be, two days won’t be the end of it.
Not by a long shot.