“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.
CHAPTER 32
BIX
Slayer parts ways with me in the village to run an errand, leaving me and Toto to walk back to the hotel.
The morning air and Oscar’s slow-turtle dignity helped clear some tension between us, creating a fragile understanding. Yet uncertainty lingers like morning mist.
“Professional,” he said. Just for two more days.
“Thank you for Toto,” I tell the concierge as I kneel to stroke the terrier’s ears. “He was a great scout.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed your run. A message just arrived for you.” He extends an envelope, cream-colored paper sealed with a gold-wax stamp bearing an elegant monogram.
Tearing it open, I find a handwritten note. It’s from Carlos Rhodes, the record producer I met at Caroline yesterday. In the note, he writes that he heard me sing at Le Cave and wants to meet.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, reading it again. Could this be real? An actual chance to be recognized for my music?
“Ms. Bismark?”
I look up at the sound of a subtle accent, cultured and distinctly British. Carlos himself stands there, impeccably dressed in a tailored tan linen jacket, his dark eyes warm with interest.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I wanted to ensure you received the note.”
“Thank you. I’m very flattered...”
“It’s important that I speak with you right away.”
“Oh,” I manage, feeling slightly off-balance. “Yes, of course.”
“How about coffee on the poolside terrace?”
I hesitate, my mind racing. I don’t know Sterling’s plans, or what he’ll think if he sees us together.
But curiosity wins. Carlos wrote a personal note and came to deliver it himself. This could be my chance. “Of course,” I say.
Self-consciousness creeps in as we cross the elegant marble lobby to the sparkling blue pool.
I’m acutely aware of my post-run appearance—my sweaty white T-shirt and plain black gym shorts against the backdrop of Saint-Tropez perfection.
It’s still early morning, but the true sun worshippers are already out in force.
This is nothing like beach days with my friends back in San Diego, when we lay on the sand in our department store bikinis with pride.
That golden memory makes me snort-laugh. What would Le Majestic management do if they saw me in that frayed Target bikini today?Toss me out?
Every single woman by the pool looks pageant-ready. Perfect body, perfect hair, designer bikini. And somehow, they’re wearing impossibly high-heeled shoes and carrying “sporty summer” Chanel handbags despite lying prone.
The scent of sunscreen mingles with chlorine and fresh-cut flowers as we make our way to a table. I feel eyes tracking our movement, whispers following in our wake.
