Page 22 of Ticket to You

Could she be any more of a stereotypicalAtelierwriter right now? “You’re kidding.”

“I am. But now I wish I wasn’t.”

My luggage consists of a gear bag much like Ophelia's and a small rolling suitcase. Counting her carry-on and purse, she has five bags. They surround her like a moat around a castle.

Without hesitating, I stack Ophelia’s gear bag over mine and sling her carry-on and purse over my shoulder, but Ophelia stops me.

“I can do it,” she insists, lifting her chin a touch.

I stare at her, wondering how much of a fight she’ll put up. From what I’ve seen, probably one hell of one, so I hand her bags back. “If you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” Ophelia says. She stacks her bags expertly and wheels them through the doors with ease.

When we get to the rental car counter, the attendant brings our car around, and Ophelia gawks at it, a small laugh bubbling out. It’s a bright orange 1989 Volkswagen Golf with peeling paint and a missing hubcap.

“I’m sure this is nothing like what you’re used to driving withAtelier,” I say, loading my bags into the hatchback. “But it’s cheap.”

“This is…perfect, actually. My grandparents had this car, aneven morebeat-up version of it. This is what I learned to drive in.” Ophelia shakes her head in happy disbelief. “And I drove it all through college.”

Huh. I would think that Ophelia would be the girl to get a brand-new car for her sixteenth birthday.

I hold my hand out to her. “I’ll get your bags.”

“As I said, I got it.”

I can tell Ophelia tries to look unfazed by the weight of her luggage, but her tight lips and knit brows give her away. Sure enough, though, she gets them in on her own, lifting with her legs to get all five of her bags jammed into the trunk, barely fitting them in.

As soon as we’re in the car, we’re hit by decades of cigarette smoke woven into the fabric of the seats. Frantically, we roll the manual windows down and gasp for fresh air.

“How did you find a rental company that even has a car this old?” Ophelia asks with a laugh, working to plug in our hotel’s address into her phone.

“It took a lot of calls. But it’s only costing Hoffman’s fifty bucks a day, so it’s worth it. You said it was important that we show how budget-friendly their company trips can be.” I look down at Ophelia’s phone. “Whoa, since when are we staying at the Ritz? So much for our budget.”

Ophelia smiles at me pridefully. “Since the designer we’re meeting with tomorrow offered to pay for our suite there.”

Can’t argue with free.

When we get to the hotel, the valet stares at us suspiciously. He’s probably used to parking BMWs and Porches. But after Ophelia checks us in, a bellboy takes our bags and the valet driver takes the keys.

“Be good to her,” Ophelia tells him, slapping the top of the car before he drives away.

I’ve never stayed in the city of Paris before, but the Ritz feels like the epitome of it, grand and historic. It stands four stories tall and wider than any other hotel I’ve seen. The sun's golden rays bounce off its opulent white stone façade and reflect off the countless windows. This is a place where luxury knows no bounds.

We’re shown to our suite by a man in a suit and neatly combed hair. Natural light filters through the massive windows’ sheer curtains, flooding the suite in brilliant light. Every detail is immaculate, with intricate molding, two marble fireplaces, and luxe furnishings.

On the coffee table is an overflowing floral arrangement of expensive-looking flowers in sunset shades. A card is sticking out of it, and I pick it up. Like the surrounding walls, it’s gilded with gold detailing.

“‘Ophelia, may these flowers hint at the endless beauty you’ll find in Paris. –Henri Roche.’” I read, dropping the card to the table. “Well, this place isn’t camping suspended on the side of Half Dome, but it’ll do.” It’s meant to be a harmless joke, but, based on Ophelia’s expression, it came across as cynical.

“There’s nothing on our itinerary for the rest of the day,” I remind Ophelia as she twists the vase of flowers around to get a view of every coral and pink petal. “Do you know your way around Paris? We could do some sightseeing.”

It’s an olive branch, and I halfway hope she won’t take it. Already, I’m too drawn to Ophelia. I don’t have time to date. And I especially don’t date women in fashion, andespeciallynot women who hate me. But a part of me—a big part—wants to be around Ophelia.

“Sure,” Ophelia says slowly, both to my delight and my dismay. “I should get some pictures of the city forAtelier.”

She uses the bathroom to get ready first, emerging with a long, smooth ponytail, a white puffy-sleeve shirt, and dark wash overalls.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I peel my shirt off and get ready to hop into the shower. Realizing I forgot my toiletry bag, I jog back to the living room in my sweats. Ophelia is on the couch, working on her laptop, and her eyes fall on me as I rifle through my suitcase. She looks away quickly, but I can still see her scarlet cheeks.

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