CHAPTER 15 - VALENTINE'S EVE
1293 Words
NATALIA
I had packed the night before without any enthusiasm. I folded blouses and matched shoes and tucked my toiletry bag into the side pocket and the entire time I was doing it, I was mentally drafting the quarterly review memo I could have been working on instead.
Paris in February.
A Valentine's campaign for a travel agency that my father had championed.
A week away from Diamond at a time when I had barely finished settling into the role and already had more on my plate than any ten people could reasonably manage.
It made no sense.
But the tickets had been bought, the hotel was booked and my father had personally confirmed the itinerary three times in the past four days.
I zipped the suitcase and went to bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour before I finally fell asleep.
My father was waiting at the bottom of the stairs the next morning when I came down with my suitcase, and his face had the expression of a man seeing his child off on a school trip. It was almost offensive how pleased he looked.
"You have everything?" he asked.
"I have everything," I said.
"The itinerary is—"
"In my email, Dad. I know."
He smiled at me with a warmth that I found deeply suspicious, and when I leaned in to give him a quick goodbye kiss on the cheek he grabbed my shoulder and held me there for an extra second.
"Have fun," he said.
I pulled back and looked at him.
"I'm going for work," I said. "I'll see you in a week."
He waved a hand in the way that meant he had heard me and was choosing not to engage with the specific content of what I had said, and I wheeled my suitcase out to the waiting car before he could say anything else.
The airport was busier than I had anticipated.
I checked my bag, cleared security, and made my way to the boarding area with twenty minutes to spare.
I scanned the faces around as I remembered that I had not seen Wesley yet.
What if he hadn't come?
I shrugged it off almost immediately because a part of me felt a bit of relief at the thought of a Paris week that did not involve managing my feelings for a man I should have had no business with.
I found my seat, lifted my carry-on into the overhead compartment, and settled in. The cabin was filling up around me, the particular shuffle and rustle of people arranging themselves and their belongings, and I pulled out my phone and opened my messages.
"Dad, I think your business partner may have had a change of plans. Wesley isn't—"
A shadow fell across me and I looked up.
Wesley was standing in the aisle beside my row, looking down at me with an expression that was so thoroughly composed. He was wearing a dark coat over a grey shirt, his carry-on held at his side.
"You're in my seat," he grunted.
I stared at him for a moment.
"I'm in my seat," I said.
"Your seat is 14C," he said. "This is 14B. Check your boarding pass."
I looked at my boarding pass and then looked at the seat number on the overhead panel.
"Fine," I said, gathering my things and standing up. "You could have said excuse me."
"Excuse me," he said, after the fact, and moved to let me into the aisle.
I flagged down one of the cabin crew and explained the situation, and the attendant checked both our boarding passes.
"It looks like there was a change this morning," she said, glancing between our passes. "The seat configurations are slightly different on this one. Your original seat, Miss Carson, would have been a window on the previous aircraft but on this one it comes out as a middle seat in a different row." She smiled apologetically. "Did you not receive the notification?"
"Apparently not," I said.
She turned to Wesley with a slightly warmer smile.
"Mr. Brooks, since you're both traveling together, would you be willing to swap? Just so Miss Carson can have—"
"No," Wesley said.
I turned to look at him.
"We're business associates," he said to the attendant. "Not a couple. My seat is my seat and I confirmed the change this morning. I'm happy to help Miss Carson find her correct row if that's useful, but I won't be giving up my seat."
The attendant looked between us once, made the rapid assessment of a professional who knew when a situation was above her pay grade, and wished us both a pleasant flight before moving on.
I stared at Wesley, shocked and he scoffed.
"Your row is four back on the left," he said.
I picked up my bag, straightened my jacket, and walked to my seat without another word.
For the rest of the flight, we didn't speak and even afterwards, when the flight eventually landed. I collected my suitcase and he collected his and we both made our way to the car that had been arranged. We sat at the back of the car with a precisely maintained gap between us and I looked out of my window at the Paris streets coming into view.
By the time the driver pulled up outside the hotel, I had mentally reorganized Diamond's entire marketing department twice and was working on a third iteration just to have something to do with my brain.
I stepped out of the car and looked up at the hotel and felt, in spite of everything, the smallest involuntary lift of my mood. It was beautiful. The kind of Paris building that looked like it had been designed specifically to appear in photographs, pale stone facade and tall windows and window boxes, the last of the winter light catching the glass in a way that made everything look warmer than it was.
I followed the porter inside with my suitcase and approached the front desk while Wesley dealt with the luggage.
"Carson and Brooks," I said. "We have reservations."
The woman behind the desk typed for a moment, looked at her screen, and then looked up at me with the particular expression of someone who was about to deliver information they would prefer not to deliver.
"Of course," she said carefully. "We have your reservation here. One room, booked under Carson Group."
I looked at her.
"I'm sorry?"
"One room," she said again. "A suite on the fourth floor. It's a beautiful room, very spacious, with a lovely—"
"There's been a mistake," I said.
"I don't believe so, Miss. The booking came through your company account and it specifies—"
"There has been a mistake," I repeated.
I heard Wesley step up beside me.
"Problem?" he asked.
I turned and looked at him, and the look on my face must have communicated the situation clearly enough because he turned to the receptionist himself and she explained it again.
I watched his face turn clouded almost immediately and I pulled out my phone.
My father answered on the second ring.
"How's Paris?" he asked.
"Dad," I said, stepping away from the desk and keeping my voice low. "Would you like to explain to me why Wesley and I have been booked into one room?"
"It must be a mix-up with the booking system," he said. "These things happen."
"Dad."
"The suite is very well reviewed," he offered. "I read the—"
I hung up and walked back to the desk.
"We'll need a second room," I said.
The receptionist looked genuinely sorry.
"I'm afraid we're fully booked," she said. "It's Valentine's week."
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