By then, I was in a relationship myself. Casual but exclusive. Comfortable in thatdon’t-ask-too-many-questionskind of way. And after that… well, we graduated. And then he ghosted me. Or I ghosted him. Honestly, I’m still not sure which.
That thought is still buzzing around my head as I step off the shuttle and follow the rest of the crew into the Hôtel Mistral.
I wheel my suitcase to the front desk and wait, scrolling aimlessly through my phone as the clerk clicks away at the keyboard.
“Name?” she asks.
“Brooke Masters.”
She nods and slides the keycard across the counter. I take it, murmuring a polite “thanks,” but before I can turn away, something shifts, a sudden prickle at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
I glance over my shoulder and scan the busy lobby. Businessmen rushing past, a family arguing over luggage, some of the crew waiting their turn and then I see him.
He’s standing a few feet back from the crowd, a worn duffel bag at his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. That same boyish smile plays at his lips, shy and uncertain, but sohimit makes my chest ache and my hands twitch with the urge to squish his stupid, perfect face.
I bite my lip, my heart thudding a little harder than I’d like to admit, and start walking toward him. Each step feels ridiculous, like I’m in slow motion and my legs have forgotten how to function.
“Hey,” I say when I finally reach him, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Hey,” he replies.
Matthew
I stand there in front of Brooke, silently praying she finds me tracking her downromanticand notrestraining-order worthy.
I mean, technically, I didn’t do anything crazy. All I did was call a buddy in HR, who called a buddy in management, who said he knew whichtwohotels the crew usually stayed at in Paris, just not which one this time. Then I called the first one, asked if the crew had arrived, and I didn’t even lie when I said I worked for Marx United.
Just my luck, they told me the shuttle was en route.
I’d tried to rush through the airport to catch her, but of course, I got stuck in customs behind a guy with twelve bottles of wine. Who brings wine to Paris?
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says again, voice light but eyes searching.
“Yeah,” I nod, trying to play it cool. “They booked me here.”
Her brows shoot up. “Oh. I thought-” She cuts herself off, shakes her head, and glances past me. “Anyway, I should-”
“Wait.” The word is out before I can stop it.
She pauses, looking back at me.
“They didn’t book me anywhere,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just… found out you were here. And followed you.”
A mother nearby stops mid-step, pulling her kid a little closer, while the dad gives me a weirdly encouraging nod. I shoot them both an awkward smile.
“I just-” I sigh, forcing myself to look at Brooke again. “I got stuck at the airport and I didn’t know if you still had the same number.”
For a beat, I can’t read her face. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a small, genuine smile.
“I do,” she says.
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosens.
“Well then,” I say, forcing a laugh that comes out more nervous than I intend, “I did all this for nothing. I’ll be going now.”
Brooke lets out a small laugh, the kind that bubbles up before she can stop it. “Where are you going?”
“Uh… gonna find a hotel,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely toward the street like I have a plan.
