Page 30 of You Had Me at Chateau
I open my suitcase, looking for my toiletries. The bathrooms must be shared here because my room doesn’t have an en suite. It’s an old building, after all, not a Travelling Inn chain hotel, and – shit, where is my toothbrush? I rummage through my things, mentally retracing my steps as I packed my bag. I distinctly remember packing it last night… then unpacking it to use this morning… then forgetting to pack it again. Oh, for God’s sake.
This place is fancy – surely they have complimentary toiletries for forgetful guests, and if they don’t, well, perhaps one of the other authors brought a spare. Yes, I know that’s rich of me, wondering if anyone brought a second toothbrush, when I didn’t even bring one.
We’re staying here in the private château, so it’s not like there is a reception or anything, and it’s a little walk back to the main part of the resort, so perhaps bits like that are already in the bathrooms.
I grab my make-up bag – thank goodness I didn’t forget that because, in a way, that probably would have been worse – and leave my room in search of a bathroom. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky for once? And if I don’t, well, I could do with freshening up before dinner anyway.
Walking along the corridor, I pass numbered doors until I find one marked with a small bathroom sign. And it’s occupied. Brilliant.
I keep moving, my eyes scanning for another likely door. This is such a big place, it must have more than one bathroom.
I spot a plain door, but one with a lock, which is a pretty good sign that it’s at least a loo, right? My heart is in my mouth, as I dare to open it.
Oh, thank goodness, it is a bathroom. Just imagine, if I’d walked into someone else’s room. Now that feels more like my brand of luck.
I lock the door behind me, take off my baggy jumper and start to unbutton my jeans when another door on the opposite side of the room – not the one I just came in through – swings open. I freeze, my hands halfway down my hips.
A man – who I’d guess is in his late thirties – steps in, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His tanned skin glistens with water, his dark, wavy hair dripping wet and skimming his shoulders. He’s good-looking in that effortlessly sexy, French kind of way. As he smiles, his cheeks dimple, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. This must be the ‘delicious Frenchman’ the others mentioned.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say, trying to sound casual despite the fact that I’m standing here half-dressed.
‘Bonjour,’ he replies with a charming smile and in an accent that makes my knees weak. ‘Are you lost?’
‘No, um, well, maybe,’ I say, cool as ever. ‘I’m Amber. I’m one of the writers staying here.’
‘Henri,’ he introduces himself. ‘I take care of the place. You look too young to be a writer.’
I blush.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, like he’s just paid me the world’s biggest compliment – it’s the accent, I swear. ‘I was just looking for a bathroom.’
‘This is my private bathroom,’ Henri explains. ‘It connects to my bedroom. But you are welcome to use it – I will just remember to lock the hallway door next time, if I’m in here.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say quickly, then realise how that sounds. ‘I mean, you don’t have to share your bathroom with me.’
‘It’s okay,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I don’t mind.’
I can’t help but smile at his easy-going attitude.
‘Well, thank you,’ I reply. ‘Merci. That’s very kind of you.’
‘If you need anything, just ask me,’ he says, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.
‘Actually, now that you mention it, I forgot my toothbrush. Do you have any spares here?’ I ask hopefully.
Henri smiles.
‘No spares, sorry,’ he tells me. ‘But there is a shop in the resort that sells things like that. I can take you – once I am dressed, of course.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that,’ I tell him and, again, it sounds like I’m telling him not to get dressed, rather than saying I don’t need his help. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I need to get ready for dinner,’ I explain.
At the mention of dinner, I’m suddenly very aware that I’m still standing here in my bra. I quickly fold my arms over my chest, trying to cover up.
Henri laughs again, a deep, warm chuckle that makes the little hairs on my arms stand on end, like someone just rubbed my entire body with a giant balloon.
‘I am learning that romance writers are very flirty,’ he tells me.
‘Flirty?’ I reply.
