I rub my face; this is what years of being coddled by our parents has taught him. “Acrobats take smaller leaps than you do.”
“Go big or go home—that’s literally the point of this whole thing.” He waves a bag of barbecue Popchips for emphasis.
Once we pull into Gare du Nord, we hop on another train toward the outskirts of Paris. Our suitcases hum across the uneven pavement as we pant and groan our way over to the car rental place. Upon arrival, I slap down my passport and booking confirmation for a four-door, five-seater black BMW X3 with trunk space big enough to fit our suitcases and Spencer’s ego. The man behind the desk simply nods and leads us to a bright red Fiat Punto with two doors and enough space in the back to fit my optimism for this trip.
Spencer attempts to argue with the man, but he does not speak English and we definitely don’t speak French. After fifteen minutes of attempted arguing, I interrupt. Say we are “très désolé” and shove Spencer into the passenger seat.
As we circle around to leave the parking lot, avoiding the potholes that will no doubt render this go-cart completely useless, the man holds up his middle finger and yells, “Bon voyage, putain!”
The invitation to TechRumble stated “Paris” and continued a partnership with the glamorous and extortionately priced Wyatt Hotels. But upon closer inspection, the hotel isn’t nestled among iconic cafés and bustling shops; it’s a forty-five-minute car ride from the center of Paris in a tiny French village, nestled between a two-hundred-year-old print shop and a specialist boulangerie that only opens to the public on a Tuesday afternoon.
With my brother being a self-proclaimedpassenger princesswith only a provisional license, I am the one driving us down the treacherous French country roads. We trundle along through picturesque mountains and rolling hills, passing quaint little villages and crumbling châteaus. We stop, on Spencer’s request, at a series of vast lavender fields. Specifically to take photos for his Instagram, which I threaten him not to post for several months, as the risk that somebody connects his actor social media presence to Wyst CEO Spencer Cole is too great. He edits them in the car, making the purples pop even purplier on Facetune as I fiddle with the GPS and eventually get us back on track to the hotel in the small town of Lac de Lys. The town is very Parisian despite being twenty-five kilometers away from the city. The hotel, which has a carved wood exterior and iron-patterned windows, looks hundreds of years old.
“Why are we here instead ofactualParis?” Spencer asks; clearly this is the first time he’s paid attention to where we were going since we left the rental lot.
“I think this might behishotel,” I say, ignoring his question. A young man in a cream cashmere quarter-zip sweater runs back and forth between a luxury stagecoach and the entrance, dragging two suitcases at a time over the cobblestones.
As we walk toward the front entrance, I point to a gold plaque shining in the afternoon sun.
Odericco 1967
“I thought this was a Wyatt? Does Dominic own this hotel?” Spencer asks.
“I have no idea,” I say, mouth agape at the grandeur.
The man carrying his last set of bags, sweat glistening on his forehead, walks past us. “It’s run by Wyatt, but the castle waspurchased by Alessandro Odericco, Dominic’s grandfather, in the sixties as a holiday home and was later bought by Wyatt and converted into an exclusive boutique hotel.”
“Fucking hell,” says Spencer, taking in a full 360 view of the grounds. His voice turns dreamy like he’s talking only to himself. “He’s like Christian Grey.”
I cut a side glance to Spencer, not bothering to hide the fully fledged judgment on my face. Spencer comes out of his trance and wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I roll my eyes, gesturing with my purple travel wallet toward the hotel entrance. “Let’s get inside. I’ve been driving for ages and need to shower the Eurostar off me.”
“Hmmm, I don’t think so.” Spencer grips the handle of his rolling suitcase, leaning one leg over the other. “You only booked one room and said we have to be discreet.”
“I can onlyaffordone room.” I purse my lips, but I did say that. Regretting volunteering to sleep on the pullout sofa in the room.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Sis. But to maintain subtlety, I will be takingthis.” He whips the travel wallet from my hand. “And will go check intomyroom.” He begins to roll forward, leaving me in the drive before saying over his shoulder, “I’ll text you when the coast is clear, and you can bring your bags up.”
I scoff, coming so close to turning into a child and stomping my foot on the ground. Annoyingly, he is right. We can’t be seen checking into the same room; that would look incredibly suspicious. But I can’t help but feel like Spencer is enjoying this a little bit too much.
The floorboards creak under the weight of my wheely suitcase as I wander the seventeenth-century halls. The interior isold, with carved wood and paneled walls adorned with landscape paintings and a taxidermy warthog, a stark contrast to the sleek, opulent hotel in Rome. An uneasy feeling creeps along my body; the intimacy of the smaller competitor pool means I can’t just blend into the crowd like I did last time.
My eyes drag on the sign sayingGymnasium, and I push through the door with a hiss into another building. Maybe they have a treadmill I can use to burn off all this nervous energy.
For an old hotel, the gym is incredibly modern. Everyone in here is either a skinny computer nerd doing neck and back stretches or a roided-out tech bro lifting like he’s trying to prove a point.
Peeking through the long thin windows into each area of the gym, I spot groups of men playing squash and badminton in state-of-the-art courts. My attention halts on two familiar figures playing on the basketball court, Oliver and Dominic. They are talking and laughing while they play. It’s unnerving seeing them be so familiar, like friends rather than the formal boss and assistant roles they play in public.
Dominic’s dark gray fitted T-shirt showcases a triangle of sweat spotting his chest. Oliver is shirtless, holding his own against Dominic’s natural authoritative demeanor.
I lean against the door as I watch them; Oliver’s back muscles shift, sweat glistening as he weaves the ball away from Dominic with athletic precision. I really could have done without the reminder of his hot and wet body. Knowing I’m staying in the same hotel as him is going to make this trip a whole lot harder. I should stay away from him; getting closer can only mean trouble. My tired body presses against the door, only for the latch to click shut, echoing through the court. Oliver andDominic glance toward the door in unison, and I drop to the floor, unsure if they saw me.
After a few seconds, I crawl out of the way of the window and scramble away, my suitcase dragging behind me. Maybe instead of a run, I just need a very cold shower.
Chapter 15
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £2,841.21
