“Here.” I pluck the ring from her grasp and grab hold of her left hand, slipping the ring onto her finger. It looks good on her hand. As if it belongs there. “It’s a perfect fit.”

  “It is,” she agrees as she shifts her hand, the sparkly diamond catching the light just so. “I love it. I’ll make sure to protect while we’re here this week. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the ring you’re going to give to your future wife.”

  Her words leave my chest feeling hollow for the rest of the ride to the hotel.

  Twenty-Four

  Caroline

  I’ve lived in the Monterey area my entire life. There are wealthy people everywhere, especially in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Gorgeous homes sit atop hills that overlook the ocean, the type of places that cost millions of dollars. The people who own these homes also drive expensive cars, wear designer clothes and fine jewelry, and the women carry designer bags to die for.

  When you are around this sort of lifestyle every day, even if it’s not your lifestyle, you tend to not see it after a while. Just like the wealthy get used to their obvious wealth, I got used to it too.

  But I’ve never walked into the Hotel Ritz Paris before. This is a whole other level of wealth and opulence. The hotel is straight out of my biggest fantasy. If I thought I was a baller in the private plane? I’m an even bigger baller struttin’ my stuff in the freaking Ritz.

  Alas, I’m not struttin’ my stuff. More like I’m skulking behind Alex as we enter the hotel. Wait, I need to mention the entry to the Ritz. It’s so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d drive right past it. Four white, curved awnings with the word Ritz written in its trademark signature font. There is no large marquee or giant sign on the street announcing its location, as there would be back home in the States.

  Anyway, we enter the hotel and I notice right away that it smells so good. Like, I can’t even describe what I’m smelling. Is it perfume? Cologne? Flowers? Is the scent pumped into the air, like I read that they do at Disneyland? You’re not smelling real cotton candy, they’re misting the air with a sugary scent to make you crave cotton candy while you’re walking down Main Street.

  I’m getting distracted, but you know what I’m talking about.

  The floors are gleaming white marble, covered with plush rugs. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceilings, fresh flower arrangements are on almost every available surface, and I’m just walking through this place with my mouth hanging open like some sort of loser. I’m definitely not dressed properly, since I’m wearing black joggers I got at Target and a sweater from the Gap Factory outlet. At least there are Nikes on my feet so I feel I’m wearing one recognizable brand.

  I hang back while Alex checks in for our reservation, playing with the new ring on my finger. It’s stunning in its simplicity. I can’t believe he’s lending it to me. This ring means so much to his family, yet here I am, the silly fake fiancée, wearing the Wilder family diamond like it belongs to me.

  A family of three dressed all in white walk past me, and I ogle them openly. Both the man and the woman hold their heads up high as they glide down the hall toward the entrance, their teenage son glancing around nervously. I wonder who they are. I wonder why they’re wearing all white.

  It’s a mystery I’ll never know the answer to.

  “Our suite is ready,” Alex says when he turns to face me. I can tell he’s tired. His eyes are droopy and he’s got serious five o’clock shadow, which is a super sexy look for him. “They’ll bring our luggage up in a few minutes. You need anything before we head up?”

  “No, I’m good. Let’s go.” Giddy excitement bubbles inside of me and I tell myself to calm down as we make our way to the elevator. Everyone in this hotel is so nonchalant, like it’s perfectly normal to be here when all I want to do is scream, “We’re at the freaking Ritz people! We’re in Paris!”

  But I don’t scream like that, thank God. I do have some semblance of class and restraint.

  The elevator is absurdly tiny, and I crowd close to Alex, noting how good he smells, like spicy, delicious man. Better than this hotel, that’s for sure. My face is right at his shoulder level and I wish I could lean my head on his shoulder, sigh with happiness that we finally made it.

  I don’t do that either. I’m a fake fiancée. I only put on affectionate performances in public.

  The elevator slides open and then we’re heading down a long, narrow hall. So narrow, I follow behind Alex versus walking beside him. We pass by hotel employees, every one of them greeting us with “Bonjour!” in sing-song voices.

  I can’t help but return the bonjour greeting in my own sing-song voice.

  “Do you know French?” Alex glances over his shoulder at me.

  “No.” I shake my head and he smiles. Butterflies feel like they’re trapped in my stomach, flapping their wings furiously, and I wonder if I can withstand these next few days, pretending Alex is my fiancé.

  The love of my life.

  The man who will one day be my husband.

  The man I’m supposed to kiss and hug and claim as my own.

  The man I’m having sex with.

  Yeah. All this pretending could turn into a serious problem.

  Finally, we arrive at our door. Alex waves the keycard in front of this weird screen thing that’s on the wall beside the door and it activates the lock. With a turn of Alex’s wrist, we’re inside.

  My purse slips out of my fingers and lands on the floor with a thud at my first sight of the suite.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” I am practically screeching with joy, I’m so blown away by what I’m looking at.

  The ceilings are high. Like, impossibly high. We’re currently standing in the sitting room, where there’s a cream brocade couch and pale blue velvet chairs. All the furniture is gilded with gold and there’s a marble fireplace. Majestic paintings hang on the white paneled walls that look straight out of a museum, and there are lamps everywhere.

  “It’s nice,” Alex says, his voice casual, and when I turn to gape at him, I see that he’s grinning. Like he’s about to crack up. “Fine, it’s more than nice.”

  I laugh and so does he, and I dart around the room, examining everything, craning my head back to stare up at the tall ceiling, the equally tall windows and lush silk curtains. There’s a short hall that opens to a bedroom with one very giant, very beautifully made bed with a canopy and a stack of pillows with…wait a minute.

  There are pillows. On the bed. With our initials embroidered on them. A little CA on the left corner and AW on the right.

  “Look at that,” I say, pointing at the bed when Alex enters the room. I’m practically hopping up and down, I’m so excited. “Look at the pillows.”

  He goes to the bed, tilting his head as he examines them. “Our initials. That’s a nice touch. We should do something like that.”

  I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. “Do you think they’ll let us keep the pillowcases?”

  “Probably.” He shrugs, glancing around the room, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You do realize there’s only one bed in this suite, Caroline.”

  “Huh?” I pause by the dresser, smoothing my hand across the sleek marble top. What did he say? Oh, there’s only one bed. Um, that’s not good. “I thought we would have our own beds.”

  “I thought so too, but I was wrong. Somehow the reservation was messed up, and the hotel doesn’t have a substitute to my liking. This suite only has one bed, and they aren’t the type of hotel to have a pullout bed in the couch.”

  No, I suppose they’re not.

  “I can sleep on the couch if you want me to,” he suggests, and I turn on him, scowling.

  “No, that’s silly. You’re too tall.” I wave a hand at his big body. “We’re adults. We can share a bed.”

  Ah, those three words, share a bed. So much meaning behind them. It’s like I made that statement and boom, now there’s all this tension simmering between us. The good kind of tension. Sexual tension.

  Chemistry.

  Doing what I do best, I avoid it, and make my way to the bathroom, which is the best room in the suite, if I had to vote. There’s a giant marble bathtub with a gold swan faucet. An equally giant marble shower with so many knobs and at least three shower heads—I don’t know what it’s all for. The faucets on the two sinks are also golden swans, and the hot and cold handles are made out of sparkling crystal, with a glittering red stone at the top for hot, and a glittering blue stone for cold.

  Oh, and the coolest part is there’s a freaking flatscreen TV embedded in the mirror so it’s flush with the glass. The screen has a menu on it, too.

  “The swans are original to the hotel,” Alex says.

  I turn away from the flatscreen to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the edge of the wall. “They’re gorgeous,” I tell him, trailing my fingers across one.

  “The Ritz was recently renovated. The hotel was shut down for four years before it reopened in 2016.” He enters the bathroom, edging past where I stand at the counter. “I can’t imagine shutting down one of our hotels for four years.”

  “Well, the hotel is stunning, so I’m guessing the renovation was worth it,” I say as I lean against the counter. “Have you ever stayed here before?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I plan on doing a little covert filming while I’m here, though I’m already inspired by this place, thinking of the hotel we want to buy.”

  “Is that building close by?”

  “Just down the street, across from the Westin.” He stops right next to me, and leans against the counter as well, and I can practically feel his weariness. I know he didn’t sleep well on the plane last night, and I have to admit I’m sort of tired myself. A nine-hour time difference is brutal. “I’ll have to take you there. Show you the place,” he says.

  “I would like that,” I say, my voice soft. “But I’m thinking right now you should probably get some sleep.”

  I hope he doesn’t think I’m being bossy. I’m saying it out of concern for him. I know he has a busy schedule these next few days, so he most likely needs to catch up on his sleep.

  “You’re right. I’m beat.” He stands up straight and stretches, groaning with the movement, and I wonder if that’s what he sounds like when he’s having sex.

  Sometimes, it’s really difficult to have a mind that’s constantly in the gutter. This is one of those times.

  “I think I’m going to take another shower first,” Alex says. “Then I’ll try and sleep for a few hours.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave you alone then.” I scoot out of that bathroom, my thoughts still in the gutter and filled with images of Alex in the shower. Naked. Steaming hot water pouring over his smooth skin, soapy hands rubbing all over his body. My soapy hands…

  Um, yikes. I need calm down. Fan myself a little. And get my thoughts under control because I’m going to share a bed with this guy for the next week. Fantasizing about Alex is dangerous.

  So dangerous.

  To distract myself, I wander around the sitting area, running my hand along the chairs, the couch, sinking my fingers into the sumptuous fabric. I go to the double doors that lead out onto the balcony and open them. Cool air rushes in, along with the sounds of the city streets of Paris, though they’re a little more subdued here in the Place Vendome. I see the giant column in the middle of the square, the statue of a man that sits atop it, and I’m pretty sure it’s Napoleon.

  I grab my phone from my pants’ pocket and start taking photos, wishing I could send them to my friends, but I think they’re still asleep, so I decide to wait. It’s cool outside. There are clouds in the sky but the sun is still shining, and I can’t help but be reminded of home.

  Yet I’m not at home. I’m in freaking Paris, bitches.

  And I’m going to have the time of my life.

  Twenty-Five

  By the time I’m ready for breakfast the next morning, Alex has been awake for hours, doing what he does best—work. Once I was awake, he went on a seven-mile run around the city—he mentioned he didn’t want to leave me alone in the room, which I thought was kind of sweet—and he’s now taking a shower, fueling my imagination as usual.

  Having him in the bathroom allows me the chance to fully fret over my clothing choices. I unpacked my suitcase last night—I had to, you should see this closet. It’s as big as my entire bedroom. Now that I have everything on hangers, readily displayed, I’m questioning why I brought certain pieces.

  Scratch that. I’m questioning why I brought any of it.

  Clearly, my wardrobe doesn’t measure up. I saw what women were wearing yesterday while we were downstairs in the lobby, and most of them were impeccably dressed. Oh, some of them appeared as if they were dressed down, but I know a designer T-shirt when I see it. Like the one the woman was wearing with the word GUCCI in bold across her chest. That cost hundreds of dollars.

  I don’t even know what I’m doing this morning, so I don’t know what direction I need to go in clothing-wise. Something casual? Something a little more formal? Who knows? At least my hair is done—simple and straight, tucked behind my ears. I already applied makeup, going for the subtle look, with just enough color to emphasize the positive without appearing garish.

  But clothes? What to wear, what to wear. Alex is taking his sweet ass time in the shower, so I can’t ask him. Finally, I give in and throw on my favorite jeans, along with a simple black sweater. You can’t go wrong with black.

  Alex finally emerges from the bathroom forty-five looooong minutes later, and seeing him nearly steals my breath. He’s in a black suit, white shirt, solid black tie. Similar to what he wore when he took me to dinner at the Flying Fish. The five o’clock shadow is gone—bummer—his hair is still damp and his cologne is freshly sprayed, and oh my God, how am I not going to jump him over the next few days, I’m not sure.

  “You ready?” He stops short when he sees me, his gaze sweeping over me leisurely. “You look nice.”

  My guard is immediately up. “You say someone looks nice when you don’t know what else to say. Or you think they actually look terrible. So be honest with me. Am I not dressed appropriately? Do I need to wear something else? I don’t even know what our plans are for today.”

  Alex completely ignores my question. “I’m meeting the Descheauxs at eleven.” He checks his fancy watch. “It’s nine now. We still have enough time for breakfast downstairs, unless you want to call in for room service instead.”

  “No, I’d like to go downstairs.” I feel silly for just having that mini tirade, but I have to be honest. “You still didn’t give me an answer, though. Is what I’m wearing okay?”

  “If you want to join me when I meet with the Descheauxs, you’re dressed appropriately. I’m seeing them first at the building site.”

  “Oh. You want me to go with you?” I blink at him in surprise.

  “I do, if you’d like to see the building.”

  “I would like that,” I tell him, wondering if he forgot I already told him that yesterday afternoon. But everything after we got off the plane is a bit of a blur to me now, and he’s probably feeling the same way. I do know I took a quick shower after Alex did, and eventually wandered into the bedroom and carefully climbed into bed, not wanting to disturb him. I was so exhausted, I immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  At three in the morning my eyes popped open and I lay there, afraid to move, completely awake for at least an hour. Maybe two, my mind awhirl with all the things I want to do while we’re here.

  One thing I did not do is jump Alex while he slept in the bed next to me. I do have restraint, after all.

  “Then let’s go to breakfast,” he says. “We’ll walk over after we’re finished.”

  We eat a quick breakfast at the mostly empty hotel restaurant and then we go outside, the brisk air making me shiver as we head for the Descheaux building. The traffic isn’t very busy, though there are plenty of people walking along the sidewalks, and once we leave the square, I see we’re approaching other hotels.

  “Down that street is high-end shopping. The Rue Saint Honore and Rue Cambon.” Alex points to our right as we walk past a street. I like how he pronounces the French words, with a little bit of an accent. “Dior. Chanel. Louboutin.”

  “You know your brands,” I tell him, impressed.

  He shrugs. “Doing what I do, I have to know them. Most of those stores are near our higher-end locations. Plus, my mother and sister shop at all those places.”

  “Have you shopped there?” Designers have men stuff too, of course.

  “Sometimes.” He waves a hand at another Vuitton store that’s to our left, and I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about his fashion choices. “There are Vuittons on every corner in this city, it feels like. Or macaron shops.” He gestures at another store on our left. “Laduree is the most famous, but I prefer Pierre Hermes. I’ll have to take you to their shop if we have time. It’s not too far from here.”

  “You’ve been to Paris a few times then.”

  “I have.” He smiles down at me. “A European family trip when I was young. A school-sponsored trip when I was seventeen. Many more trips once I was an adult.”

  “That’s so exciting. I never go anywhere,” I say wistfully. “Well, beyond Mexico with a few girlfriends.”

  “Mexico is fun,” he says.

  “Sure.” I shrug. “I’m boring. I wish I could travel more.”

  “We live in one of the most beautiful places in the world,” Alex says. “When I go somewhere new, I’m fully prepared to be dazzled, ready to knock the Monterey Bay off my personal pedestal, but it never happens. My favorite place to be is where we grew up, where we’re lucky enough to still live.”

  I find that hard to believe, but I decide not to contradict him.

  “I want to try all the macaron places,” I tell him, my voice very, very serious.

  He laughs. “After you check out the building, you can go to Laduree and try all the flavors. My personal favorites are the Marie Antoinette and pistachio.”