Chapter 11
MADDIE
"So how did I do?" I ask Antoine once Rio has gone back to rehearsing with his band.
My pulse still races from our exchange.
Antoine's eyes narrow slightly as he considers me.
"Very well," he says after a brief hesitation. "I actually liked that touch of antagonism you two have with each other. It could work in your favor. But it's a delicate balance."
He taps his clipboard with his pen.
"A very delicate balance. Remember the reason Prince Michael engaged you was to help make this concert and the publicity around it a success. The band's future is at stake."
His gaze drops to where Snorty sits at my feet, looking up at us.
"And so, in a way, is Snorty's life."
"What do you mean?!"
Antoine must sense the alarm in my voice.
"Nothing, nothing, sorry I brought it up," he says.
In the back of my mind, I wonder what Antoine's left unsaid. I signed a contract. I'll get the money for Snorty's operation.
But then again, I didn't read the fine print. Could my fee for playing Rio's fake fiancé be at risk?
Unnerved, I scratch behind Snorty's ears.
His fur feels healthy and vibrant under my fingertips. Why aren’t his lungs healthy, too?
Antoine checks his silver watch. "Now it's time for the salon. You must look your best for the press conference."
It's only a short distance to the hotel's salon.
Antoine stops in front of large double doors with gold handles. When he pulls one open, a wave of exquisitely perfumed air hits me.
"Hello," Antoine says in a friendly yet professional tone. "Miss Madison Smith is here for her appointment."
"You must be Mr. LaRue. Delighted to meet you." The receptionist turns to me with a perfect smile.
"We have Miss Smith scheduled for hair and makeup. Follow me, madam."
"I’ll come too," says Antoine.
I've never seen anything like this place. Crystal chandeliers hang from high ceilings, and gold-framed mirrors cover every wall. The receptionist leads us to a row of black leather chairs facing porcelain sinks.
"We'll start with a clarifying wash," she explains, touching my hair lightly. "Then a conditioning treatment, blow-dry, and styling before makeup."
She spots Snorty under my chair, and her perfect eyebrows rise slightly. "We also offer our signature pet spa experience for your adorable companion."
"Wait. Your spa grooms dogs too?"
She hands me a gold-trimmed leather menu that looks like a wine list in a super expensive restaurant. I scan the doggy spa prices and nearly choke.
One hundred and fifty dollars for a "Pawdicure"? Two-fifty for something called a "Blueberry Facial Rejuvenation"?
"Snorty’s still a puppy," I stammer, thinking he's way too young for rejuvenation.
"We provide comprehensive canine aesthetics," she says with a straight face.
"Aromatherapy baths, deep conditioning, massage—the works. Many of our clients consider their pets' appearance as important as their own." She lowers her voice. "Some, even more important."
Before I can respond, Antoine cuts in. "Give him everything. The premium package."
Snorty makes a weird little sound. Half yip, half whine. I can't tell if he's excited about being pampered or terrified of what's coming.
"Miss Smith, please put on this robe and lean back into the sink."
I slip the silky salon robe over my new outfit and settle back as instructed.
The stylist's fingers massage my scalp, working the shampoo into a mountain of bubbles that smell like expensive flowers.
I close my eyes, letting myself enjoy this rare luxury.
From my right, I hear Snorty's high-pitched protest. I peek through one eye to see his little paws scrambling in the air as a woman in a white uniform lowers him into a raised grooming tub.
Poor guy usually hides under the bed when I even turn on the bathroom faucet.
"It's okay, sweetie," his groomer coos, scratching behind his ears as she applies the blueberry facial scrub. "Such a handsome boy deserves to be pampered."
To my surprise, Snorty stops fighting after the initial plunge. His tiny pink tongue lolls out as the warm water and gentle hands work their magic. He even murmurs contented little grunts of pleasure.
When my stylist finishes at the sink, she proceeds to blow my hair dry. Antoine excuses himself to take a phone call.
I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing myself as the stylist separates my blonde strands into soft waves that frame my face.
The woman who looks back at me is no longer the 'schoolmarm' who greets my mirror each morning back home.
The woman in the mirror looks like the type of woman who could very believably sit by Rio's side as they fly by private jet to a performance in Ibiza.
Or spend a few days on a yacht with Rio in St. Tropez. Definitely the type of woman who would be photographed having lunch with him in Rome's Via Dei Condotti or a quaint cafe in Paris.
I like this new woman.
And I hope to get to know her better.