Page 77 of French Kiss

30

George V

July13

Another Part of the Right Bank

More than a dozenmotorbikes sat parked on the sidewalk in front of La Maison du Chocolat, and traffic backed up in the street, waiting for the light to turn green. An older couple, bundled in coats that looked too warm for summer, exited the chocolate shop and called their goodbyes to the owner. The man paused at the open door to let the woman, maybe his wife, walk through. She gripped his elbow with one hand and bent her other arm under the weight of her paper bag of chocolates. Pedestrians passed me by going both directions, and when the light turned green, the cars and bikes zipped by with purpose.

Everyone had someplace to go.

I’d been following the series of streets leading toward Josh’s location, checking every ten minutes or so to make sure I was on the right street and getting closer. I glanced down again to estimate where to go. Even if I could isolate the building he was in, I wasn’t sure how I would get inside.

That turned out to be irrelevant because the dot on the map had moved and was now on a different street a few blocks away. Since the time since I’d last looked, Josh seemed to have started walking, which meant I had to chase a moving object. I turned down a small street, passing some hotels and more shops and trying to gain on the tiny dot moving on the map on my phone. Nothing in that area looked familiar, and I started to jog, ignoring what I was certain were strange looks from the pedestrians I wove around, trying to gain on Josh and seeing the dot turn down Avenue George V. I followed.

I couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes behind him when I looked at my phone and saw that the dot had stopped moving right near where I stood. I couldn’t see Josh in any direction, but his location seemed to be squarely in the Hotel George V, which I knew cost thousands of dollars a night.

What the hell?

Maybe he was asking for directions. I stopped in front and looked up at the enormous circle of glass over the doors, with sweeping gold filigree leaves and black iron swirls and the hotel’s name in large gold letters.

I was intimidated even standing outside.

A well-dressed doorman opened the door, looking me over. “Mademoiselle, are you a guest of the hotel?” I immediately felt tongue-tied. Of course, people came to the hotel all the time to gawk, and he probably wouldn’t let me past the threshold.

“Um, I’m meeting a friend. A guest.” This wasn’t true, but I had to get past the entrance, or I’d never track down Josh.

“Oui, you can ask for your friend at the desk,” he said, pointing me through the well-appointed lobby to an equally grand reception area.

The first thing that struck me when I moved inside was the display of flowers. I’d never seen anything like the tall glass vases of long-stemmed purple lilacs, hydrangeas, and white lilies. The collection of giant vases was displayed on the marble floor on pedestals and reflected in mirrors, creating the impression of thousands of purple and white blooms ringing the lobby.

And there, a few feet past them, was Josh.

My brain was busy trying to square this opulent location with the hoodie and jeans friend of mine when I saw the incongruous image of him waiting for the gilded elevator. He looked as comfortable and casual as if he did it every day. I felt a moment of intimidation and fear. Maybe he’d met someone and was headed up to her room.

What am I doing here? Do I know the right thing to say to him?

I was tempted to bolt. It had been a mistake to chase him down at one of the most famous hotels in Paris. Fortunately, my body went on autopilot and solved everything for me. “Josh,” I called out.

He turned, confused at first, probably assuming the shout was intended for someone else. But then his eyes landed on me. Still baffled, he took a few steps closer.

A part of me wanted to turn and run away, but an equal part wanted to run and jump into his arms. I had so many questions and so much to say. “I owe you an apology,” was all I could manage when he got close enough to hear me.

“You do?” His voice was quiet. And sounded a little confused.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I know Maddox didn’t write that letter.”

The look on Josh’s face confirmed my suspicions. He nodded. “And I owe you a bigger apology.”

“Not bigger,” I said. “But I accept it.”

I didn’t know why I’d been so worried about what I’d say to him. This was Josh. I could tell him anything. Still, I didn’t know how to get us from an awkward meeting in the lobby of a too-fancy hotel to where we’d been headed the night before.

Maybe that was too much ground to cover in a conversation. Maybe the apology was enough for the moment.

---