“Late night, Emma?” Guillaume asked with a suggestive smirk as I settled into my seat.
“I was just skating, Guillaume,” I said wearily. “Nothing more salacious than that.”
He arched an eyebrow at me. “I don’t know. Skating can be pretty hot and heavy.”
I rolled my eyes. Clearly our definitions of in-line skating differed in some fundamental ways.
Every time I began to doze off, I thought of Gabe’s lips pressed against mine and felt a mixture of pleasure and guilt. The kiss had been perfect, but publicists weren’t supposed to go around kissing journalists, were they? I felt like I had violated some important code of ethics.
Somehow Brett was back in my mind, too, lurking at the borders of my conscience. Sure, I’d kissed a few guys since I’d been here, at Poppy’s insistence. But Gabe was the first I’d actually felt anything for. Even though I knew it was crazy, I felt a little guilty, like I was being unfaithful to Brett.
Three hours later, when the limo that had picked up the four of us at the station dropped us off at the Royal Kensington Hotel, I stared in awe for a moment before letting the valet help me out. It was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. Stately and enormous, lined with marble columns, its exterior was softened by lush window boxes and a bevy of flapping flags that soared over the marbled drive. Dozens of bellhops and valets in tuxedo jackets and top hats rushed around outside, opening car doors and effortlessly extracting luggage. If the journalists at the junket were half as impressed as I was, we were already off to a good start.
After I checked in, I went to see Poppy, whose room was beside mine. We did rock-paper-scissors for who would go check on Guillaume and make sure his suite was to his satisfaction (and that he hadn’t managed to sneak in any teenage girls during the thirty minutes since checkin). Poppy’s rock crushed my scissors, which meant that I had to go.
“I’ll just be here taking a nice soak in the tub!” Poppy singsonged as I rolled my eyes and put my shoes back on. She didn’t realize that I’d recently become the skating champion of Paris and would have given my left arm for a soak in a hot bath. “I’ll think of you while I’m relaxing in the bubbles, sipping cava and reading Glamour.”
“You’re lucky I like you,” I muttered as I slipped out the door and into the hallway.
Poppy and I were in nice enough rooms, but of course our rock star was staying in a suite on the top floor. I couldn’t imagine that it wouldn’t be to his liking, but keeping him happy, especially prior to the press junket, was a vital part of my job. So off I went.
I knocked on his door twice before I heard a rustling inside.
“Who is it?” came Guillaume’s muffled voice through the door.
“It’s Emma!” I yelled back, attracting a scornful look from a bellhop delivering several Louis Vuitton suitcases to the suite across from Guillaume’s. Evidently yelling didn’t fit with the decorum of the hotel.
“Just a moment!” Guillaume yelled from inside. I heard footsteps, and a second later he pulled open the door. “Hi there,” he said, looking down at me with a smile.
I hadn’t been sure what to expect when I knocked on his door, but I’d been relatively sure that there would be some form of undress involved. To my surprise, though, Guillaume was fully clothed and actually looked relatively normal in a long-sleeved green T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. Had I not known he was a lunatic, I might have assumed he was simply a normal, good-looking (okay, Calvin Klein–billboard-perfect) guy.
But alas, he was a crazy person. And my client.
“How are you, Emma?” Guillaume asked, stepping aside and gesturing with his arm. “Come in, come in.”
“No, I think I’ll just stay out here,” I said. After all, I’d seen the kind of thing that went on in Guillaume’s hotel suites. And I was really bad at poker.
“Whatever you want.” Guillaume shrugged and moved again so that his body filled the doorway. “How can I help you?”
It was the most normal, civil conversation I’d ever had with the guy. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay and that everything with the suite is fine,” I said uncertainly.
“It’s better than fine,” Guillaume said. “It’s perfect.”
“Well, good.”
“Good,” Guillaume repeated.
“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked. “Or anything you need?”
“No, I’m fine.” He studied my face for a moment. “But can I ask you a question?”
“Um . . . sure.” I braced myself for the worst. He was probably going to ask if Poppy and I were interested in a threesome. Or if I knew where to buy good crack in London. Or if I knew of any monuments he could get naked in. I thought I’d suggest Big Ben.
But his question wasn’t anything like that.
“Emma, I just want to know if you’re okay,” he said slowly.
I could feel my eyes widen. “What? Yes, I’m fine,” I said quickly, flashing him a bright smile. “Why?”