Chapter 15
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Most of France is still asleep as Spencer and I stumble half awake toward the grand hall for breakfast. It’s quiet in the
hotel, but as we turn the corner, the chatter of guests ratchets up.
“Do you remember Buffet Battle?” Spencer asks.
“Of course, I’m the reigning champ,” I reply.
Renamed from Who Can Steal the Most Food from the Hotel Breakfast Buffet when we were kids, this competition was the highlight
of many Cole family holidays. Sixteen pastéis de nata in Portugal was my record, but I’d had the advantage of wearing fuchsia-pink cargo pants and a training bra. It had way more
pockets than Spencer’s lime-green Life’s a Beach holiday T-shirt and Quiksilver surfing shorts.
Spencer arches a brow. “Surely I get special recognition for all those boiled eggs.”
I cross my arms. “You would have, but then you got disqualified because you left them all in the hotel room. It stank for days.”
“Wanna play when we get in there?” he says as we shuffle up the line.
“That isn’t CEO behavior; imagine if you got caught.” I don’t admit that I played each day in Rome, sneaking bread, cheese,
and ham to make sandwiches and hiding them in my room’s minibar so I didn’t have to pay for lunch.
I glance through the doorway as we line up for a table. When everyone is together like this, it’s hard to avoid feeling like
you’re walking into an athlete’s training ground. Obvious cliques are forming as people are getting to know each other, like
a school cafeteria. Everyone feels more at ease despite the stakes being higher. Maybe people are getting cocky and complacent.
In schooltime fashion, Spencer has already declared he is going to sit with the other founders and CEOs. They are sitting
at a makeshift banquet table, laughing the loudest to make sure everyone in the room knows they are having a fantastic time. The next group of people are taken to a table, and we shuffle up the line. A woman in the group in front of us turns
around, and I recognize her from Round One. Her cropped blond hair and short frame are my polar opposite.
“Morning!” She is chirpier than I’d expected her to be.
“Morning.” I smile back. “It’s Lana, right? From Norton and Associates?”
“Yes!” She seems shocked I remember. “We met at the party in Rome.”
I nod confirmation as another burst of cackling laughter erupts from the CEO table. Spencer lurches his neck to the side, trying to see what the joke is about.
“Wow, I was so out of it that night,” Lana whispers, trying to make sure Spencer, aka “my boss,” doesn’t hear. He had been
out partying instead of being safely locked in the fancy suite he insisted upon me paying for.
“I think we all were,” I say, flicking my eyes back to her. “I’m sorry, I forgot what you do at Norton. Are you an assistant
as well?” The lie is getting scarily smoother each time I say it.
“Yeah. But I’m studying for my law exams right now. I’m taking the bar at the end of the year, so I’m hoping a promotion to
a more substantial position will happen after that.”
Impressed, I cock my head to the side. “That’s amazing.”
She leans against the wood-paneled wall. “What about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I huff out a laugh. “I’ll get back to you when I figure that out. All I want for now is coffee and as many pastries as I can
fit in my pockets.”
The breakfast attendant signals to Lana to come forward, and she pushes off the wall. “Good to see you again.”
“You too.” I smile as her group is taken to their table.
When the attendant comes back, Spencer gives the room number.
The woman runs a finger down the reservation book and frowns. “Je suis désolée, monsieur. I have only one breakfast pass for this room.”
Shit. I’m crashing on the sofa; there’s only meant to be one person staying in the room.
I step forward, interjecting before Spencer can protest. “Oh, I’m sorry for the confusion. I’m not staying for breakfast. I was just checking in with my boss. I’ll be going now.”
“D’accord.” The woman eyes me suspiciously before shrugging and extending her arm out for Spencer to follow.
Spencer shoots me a confused look.
“It’s fine. Go,” I mouth, ushering him away and pulling my phone out.
Jess: I didn’t put both our names on the same room booking just to be safe. Apparently there’s a café nearby so I’ll go there instead.
Spencer: kk bring me back a croque monsieur x
After some extensive googling, I discover the cute instagrammable café is up several hills and across a partially flooded
field. I return to the room, throw on my running gear, and head out in the brisk early morning air. The mist winds around
bends like a curtain to oncoming traffic, so to be safe, I run down the mud-slicked edges. If I get hit by a car while using
a fake identity and no phone signal, a broken leg will be the least of my worries.
Wide medieval stone walls, pointed trees, and lavender fields punctuate the horizon, a world away from the dreary gray London
winter. Maybe if this plan doesn’t work, I could move here, become a lavender farmer. But then I remember I have hay fever
and love that there’s an amazing Thai food place two minutes away from the office. By the time I’m far enough away to no longer
see the hotel, my stomach starts to rumble.
Finally making it back to the road, I notice my phone has coughed out a single bar of service. I quickly press Cecily’s name in my phone log, but the words “Call Failed” force me farther onto one side of the road.
After walking for a couple of minutes, I gain two bars of signal, then three. Then 4G! Yes! Before I have a chance to press
Cecily’s name again, a rusty green pickup truck speeds past on the other side of the road, its wheels kicking up the mud and
flinging it over my back from hair to sneakers.
“Oh my god!” I scream as the icy liquid seeps into my leggings and sweater, through my underwear and T-shirt. “How does this
keep happening?” I ask the universe.
“Hi, babe!” Cecily’s voice rings through my headphones.
“Cecily! Can you hear me?” I shout into my phone.
“It’s a bit crackly, but yes, I can hear you.”
“Okay, good, if I die on this road, please delete my internet history.”
“Share your location with me,” she says.
I tap at my phone. “Done, how are you?”
She sighs. “I’m good. How’s it going?”
“Good, yeah, I’m power walking on the side of the road to find a croissant and a decent cup of coffee.”
“You wanted to talk about Spencer’s ‘wrench’ or something?” she reminds me. The promises he made onstage in Rome went down
so well with the crowd, it feels irresponsible not to at least ruminate on the idea.
“Yeah, the wrench he threw onstage. I’ve been thinking about it. I think we should start looking into to it. Could you start
throwing feelers out to your media contacts?”
“And you’re sure you’re happy for me to write the pitch?” Her voice softens.
“Yeah, of course. I trust you, and I have a lot on my plate today.”
“Great.” I can hear her smile through the phone. Delegation is clearly not my strong suit.
The ground changes from dirt roads to cobblestones as I pass into what one might refer to as a “village,” as in a place where
some humans live. Inhabitants include a butcher shop, a tiny self-pump gas station with a farm shop attached, and a tobacco
shop.
“The hotel website said there was a bustling town nearby, but there’s barely anything here.”
“Where are you? Find my Friends says you’re in the middle of a field.”
I squint at a nearby signpost. “Lay de Lis?”
“Ahhh, I see. There’s an actual town half a mile from the hotel in the opposite direction.”
My chin drops. “So I just walked two miles for some chewing tobacco?”
“Hmmm, I think there’s a café attached to the back of the tobacco shop.”
“Merci le gods!” I step around the tobacco shop to find the most adorable café I’ve ever seen. Vines of ivy wrap around the
rustic white one-story building like a warm hug in the winter sun. An optimistic pair of tables and chairs sit like guard
dogs on opposite sides of the front door. I snap a photo and send it to Cecily.
“Oh my god, cuuuuute,” she coos down the phone. She then proceeds to gasp, then cackle like a witch.
“What?” I ask.
She finally pulls in a breath. “Zoom in on the left-hand side window.”
My eyebrows meet in the middle as my mud-splattered fingers drag apart on the screen.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Throwing my head back toward the cloudless blue sky.
“Is that who I think it is?” It’s grainy, but in the back of the shop by the counter is a tall broad man whose side profile
looks distinctly like Oliver Kavanagh.
I groan. “He hasn’t seen me yet. I could just—”
“Go over there right now, missy,” Cecily interjects before I have time to protest. “Don’t let a man, no matter how pretty
he is, stop you from getting baked goods.”
As if on cue, my stomach violently rumbles again. “But I look disgusting.”
“If you’re not interested in him, why do you care?” she questions in a taunting tone.
“Because I wouldn’t want anyone seeing me looking like I’ve shit myself,” I say, twisting my neck to try and see the spray of drying mud up the back of my
leggings.
“You’re gorgeous, sweaty or shitty. Stop making excuses and get in there.”
“Okay, fine, I’m going.” I will deny the thrill running through my veins in a court of law.
“Au revoir, mon amie!” The line goes dead before I have time for a retort.
The bell announces my hesitant entrance, several patrons turning to glance at me before returning to their coffee and newspapers.
Oliver’s back remains side-on to me while waiting in line and his attention remains fixed on his phone.
So I decide to do the weirdest thing possible and stand behind him in silence, building up the courage to say something. The last time I spoke to this man we were arguing about being friends and falling out of an airplane bathroom, so I resolve to go with a friendly, neutral “Hey.”