Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
JEMMA
How could I be so foolish?
Nothing good comes from spur-of-the-moment decisions.
I’m a planner for a reason.
I’m a researcher.
I’m a control freak.
This isn’t me.
If I had taken the time to plan this trip instead of acting impulsively, I would have done my due diligence and thoroughly researched every little detail.
I would have noticed something was off with the listing and moved on to another option.
But instead, I stupidly booked what seemed to be the ideal, picturesque accommodation, only to fall victim to a con artist’s clever scheme.
That’s what you get when you decide to fly to Paris on a whim.
What was I thinking?
In a haze, I wander a few blocks before stumbling into the first hotel on my path.
Someone opens the door for me, but I’m too distraught to even look up and thank them.
I stroll through an elaborately decorated lobby, clutching my carry-on in one hand and pulling my suitcase in the other.
My eyes quickly scan my surroundings, and my chin drops, leaving my mouth agape.
If the high ceilings and fancy chandeliers weren’t enough of an indicator that this place is out of my price range, the floor-to-ceiling gold mirrors and the grand piano in the corner seal my assumptions.
I gulp, knowing I’ll have to fork over some serious cash for a room here. I should just turn around and leave, but it’s getting late, and I don’t know when I’ll come across another hotel.
My skin feels clammy, and I’m desperate for a shower. My shoulders ache from carrying my luggage, and my mind is racing as I try to figure out my next steps, even if that means catching a flight home tomorrow. No matter what, I need to regroup, and this might be the place to do it.
It’s only for one night.
I step forward, my black boots clicking against the marble floor as I approach the front desk, meeting the green eyes of the receptionist. “Bonjour,” I say, forcing a bright tone.
“Bonjour, madame.” The receptionist nods. “Comment puis-je vous aider? Avez-vous une réservation?”
My heart pounds in my chest. No, I don’t have a reservation.
“Um. Non,” I respond, shaking my head.
This would be so much easier in English.
“Um.” I bite my bottom lip as my mind scrambles to form a French sentence, using up my last bit of energy. “Je suis désolée, mais mon francais n’est pas très bon. Parlez-vous anglais?” I flash a wide, hopeful smile.
He nods. “Mais bien s?r, madame.”
Yes! English!
The words spill from my lips, quick and fiery.
“I think I’ve been scammed. I showed up at a vacation rental down the street, but”—I point in the direction I came from—“it didn’t turn out to be what I booked, and I can’t even turn my phone on because I forgot to purchase a SIM card.
” I pass my faux reservation toward him, hoping it will help him understand my situation.
“Do you have any rooms available for the night?”
With impeccable posture, he straightens his black tie and locks his gaze onto mine with an intensity that makes me anxious.
“Non, ma’am. We’re fully booked until the new year, and most of the hotels in the area are at full capacity as well.
I know this because I just called around for one of our guests who wanted to extend their stay.
You might have some luck outside the city.
” He takes a deep breath. “Ma’am, I’m afraid to tell you that you’re not the first person this kind of scam has happened to.
May I suggest calling the number on your reservation to confirm your suspicion?
” He places a clunky black office phone on the counter.
I pick it up, dialing the number with quivering fingers. A French version of this number is no longer in service plays in my ear.
“The number isn’t real,” I murmur. “It’s a scam.” I shove the reservation back into my bag, but as I pull my hand out, something flutters to the shiny floor.
I bend down, studying the item. It’s a piece of paper, a confirmation of sorts, mostly in French. But one thing stands out: the name Luca Dubois. And there’s a phone number.
“May I use your phone again?” I ask.
He nods, a flicker of sympathy passing through his green eyes.
Against my better judgement, I dial the number, calling the good-looking but irritating Frenchman I met on the plane.
It rings once, then twice, my nerves rattling with each chime.
I should hang up.
What on earth am I doing? I don’t know this man.
I pull the phone away from my ear, ready to end the call, but before I can follow through, someone picks up.
“All?,” a thick Parisian voice answers.
“Bonjour. Um . . . is this Luca?” My voice trembles as I clutch the borrowed phone.
“Oui. Who is this?”
“This is Jemma from the airplane. Remember me?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “So, I somehow ended up with some of your paperwork when we collided, and it had your phone number on it.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not important. You can toss it.”
“Actually, that’s not why I’m calling.” Before I can stop myself, tears spill over, and I choke on my words.
“Jemma, what’s wrong?” There’s genuine kindness in his voice.
“I—I think I’ve been scammed. I’m kind of stranded. I have nowhere to go and forgot to buy a SIM card at the airport. I can’t find a hotel room. I’m borrowing a phone. I’m not even sure why I called you.” Desperation and embarrassment cling to my voice.
“Whoa. Hold on a second. First, I need you to take a breath.”
For some reason, I do as Luca suggests, inhaling deeply, trying to steady my racing nerves.
“I’m sorry you’ve been scammed. I’ve heard horror stories of this happening to tourists. And there aren’t any rooms around?”
“No, I’m at a hotel right now using their phone, and the receptionist told me all the hotels in the city are booked through the new year.
Even if I could find one for the night, I probably couldn’t find one for my entire stay,” I reply.
“I should just get a cab and go back home. I’m so sorry.
I have no idea why I called you. I feel silly. ”
“Eh, don’t give up. You’re in Paris! It breaks my heart to hear that something so awful happened in my city.”
I sniffle.
“Hey, hold tight. My brother, Henri, has a couple of rental properties. I can call him on my other line and see if he has anything,” Luca offers.
“Oh. Wow. That would be great. Thank you.”
I hear the click as he switches lines.
My heart pounds anxiously in my chest as I wait.
A moment later, his smooth voice fills the phone. “Jemma, I’m sorry. I knew it was a long shot, but he’s fully booked through the new year too.”
More tears roll down my cheek. I reach up and wipe them away with the sleeve of my red jacket. “It’s okay. Thank you for your help, anyway. I should let you go. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
A hearty chuckle bursts from the other end of the phone. “Oh, I’m not giving up yet. I love a good challenge. Let me come get you. What hotel are you at?”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, biting my bottom lip.
“Just let me at least meet you. I can help you figure things out. I can’t let you wander the streets of Paris alone without a plan.”
“But you don’t even know me,” I reply.
“I know we just met, but something tells me you need this trip. Let me help you, Jemma. Plus, I could use the distraction.”
I take a deep breath and glance at the receptionist, who’s been listening to my entire conversation. “I’m going to pass the phone to the man working at the hotel here, and he can tell you where I am since I have no clue.”
After their quick conversation and me thanking the hotel employee a million times, I step outside to wait for Luca.
I have no idea how quickly he’ll get here, and I don’t want to risk missing him.
He’s my only lifeline in this massive city.
I can’t believe he agreed to help me, especially after our many awkward interactions.
But right now, I’ll take any help I can get.
The sun is already setting, painting the sky in warm oranges and yellows, bathing the street in a soft dusky glow.
There’s a slight chill in the air, but it’s still warmer than New York this time of year, so I don’t mind.
Since there’s nowhere to sit and wait, I pace the narrow sidewalk that’s beautifully lined with trees in front of the hotel.
About thirty anxious minutes and a few thousand steps later—though I can’t be too sure since I don’t have my phone to track anything—a black cab glides to a stop, and Luca steps out.
“Bonjour, Jemma.” A soft smile spreads across his stupidly handsome face.
My knees buckle at the sight of him. Just half a day ago, I never thought I would be so excited to see him again—the man I literally ran into at the airport.
But here he is, my knight in shining armor—well, more like, savior in a long black coat and a Christmas green scarf with a megawatt smile that seems to light up the whole street.
Swoon.
“Bonjour, Luca.” My cheeks flush hot under his gaze. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you coming to my rescue.”
“It’s no problem at all,” he responds, his single dimple taunting me.
I bend down to grab my luggage and try to hide the smile that’s claiming my face.
“Let me help you with that,” he offers, his English appearing more polished than earlier, as if he’s making a conscious effort to mask his naturally thick accent for my benefit.
I take a small step away from my luggage and lift my head . . . right into his chin.
Seriously? How does this keep happening?
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing the soft skin around my hairline. Suddenly, a thought strikes me like another blow to the head.
“You lied to me,” I blurt out, with zero time to filter my thoughts.