“Name’s Mick—Mick Atwater,” I called after her. “Don’t forget.”
“Yes, I’ll remember,” she answered, still shuffling down the aisle.
“And what’s your full name?” Something devilish in me wanted to keep on toying with this little mouse who had no clue she was being chatted up by a lion. A lion who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.Whohe wanted. “Gotta drop it at the front desk.”
She paused, her shoulders tightening underneath the knee-length winter coat she’d slipped on while I fetched her suitcase. Then she turned back around to answer, “Kayla. My full name is Kayla Edwards, and no matter what happens, Mick…”
Her pretty brown eyes filled with unspoken apology as she regarded me over the handle of her roller board. “It was… um… so nice meeting you. Please believe that. Goodbye, Mick.”
This time she said her goodbye out loud.
But I didn’t say it back.
Just watched her turn the corner and vanish from sight.
Knowing full well that I would not be letting her go.
Not that easy.
And, not just yet
* * *
I didn’t wasteany time gawping at the penthouse after I was given the all-clear to step inside the rooms that would be my digs for the next four days.
When your best mate’s a scion of a multi-billion-dollar hotel family, you end up in your fair share of penthouse suites. And once you’ve seen one of those over-the-top dealios, you’ve pretty much seen them all.
So, I strolled into yet another massive hotel suite, and it was the same old song and dance. Wall of glass stretching from one end of the room to the other. Only difference was, outside the windows, the sun was setting over a city view that included the Seine and the Eiffel Tower.
The rest of the room was cut from the same cloth as pretty much every penthouse hotel suite in Europe.
Fancy gold-etched plasterwork everywhere, plush furnishings covered in rich fabrics, separate sleeping quarters with a colossal bed, and art on the wall worth more than the standard starting salary of most footy players.
A crystal chandelier hung from an ornate white ceiling over a large, round dining table, and on top of it sat a massive vase of flowers with a note card attached.
I had no doubt who they were from, but I moseyed over to the table to read the card anyhow.
“Shall I be of assistance with the unpacking of your suitcase, monsieur?” the French butler asked behind me.
“Nah, you can bugger off, mate. Just sort out the rest, like I told you,” I answered as I eyeballed the card.
Yeah, the flowers were from Coach Ollie, just as I guessed.
Welcome to Paris, Atwater. Hope to send over aParis Triomphejersey with your name on the back soon.
Well, isn’t that a sweet gesture?I thought—before balling up the note and chucking it into the nearest bin. Then I glanced around the room, making sure there weren’t any more clues about my real identity lying about for Kayla to stumble upon.
There weren’t. It was just me, all alone in a hotel room big enough to fit an entire family.
“But it’s Paris!”
Kayla’s words echoed through my mind as I ambled over to the window to take in the view that would be backdropping my stay.
“… Just the thought of you spending four days inside your hotel room makes me feel really sad for you. I mean, it’s the City of Lights! There’s so much to do. Think of all the sights you’ll be missing.”
My one-nighter with Kayla was only a game, I told meself. A bit of lion and mouse play that I knew I’d win.
But, for some reason, the hollow ache inside my chest just wouldn’t bugger off already.
