That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Read online

  “Did Josh fit that?” I ask.

  “As it turns out,” she says on a sigh, “no.”

  “Did you figure that out before or after you married him?”

  “In hindsight, before I married him. It’s just, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, because I thought I had found my true soulmate.”

  “What made you think that about him?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess because he liked my songs. He thought I wrote amazing songs.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “I think, on a good day, I’ve done all right, but back then, I didn’t know that. I guess I was just starving for someone to validate my worth as a songwriter, and that’s exactly what Josh did.”

  “And you thought you had to marry him for that?”

  “No. I thought I was in love with him for that.”

  “Do you think now that you never loved him?”

  “I can’t say that. Josh has good qualities. It’s just, he didn’t take the part where we’re faithful to each other to heart, and I guess I did.”

  “Do you think people are capable of that for an entire lifetime?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I do. I really do. When you find the right person, the one who fills you up to the point that you have no hunger, no need to look to anyone else for the things love gives you.”

  “I’m pretty sure Josh is going to regret―”

  “I don’t think so,” she interrupts.

  “He should,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  The weight in her voice tells me it is something she needs to hear.

  I’m not really sure how long we’ve been walking, but the light has started to fade, and streetlights along the edge of the park have started to flicker on. “I have an idea,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t we get room service tonight and write a song together?”

  She looks completely surprised by the suggestion, as if it is not something she would ever have imagined me wanting to do with her.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “That sounds amazing,” she says. “I would love to write a song with you.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Dillon

  “If music be the food of love, play on.”

  ―William Shakespeare

  IT’S A LITTLE awkward sharing a room with Klein. I mean, there’s the whole bathroom thing and working out who’s going to take a shower first. I bridge the subject as soon as we get back to the room, not wanting to delay the awkwardness.

  “I could take a shower at the spa,” I say. “That would probably make things a lot more—”

  Klein turns in the doorway to look at me. “You should use the shower here. I can go downstairs, have a coffee, or something.”

  “You don’t need to do that. But do you mind if I go ahead and take one?”

  “No, of course, not.”

  I open my suitcase where I’ve left it on one of the luggage stands, rummage through for some clean clothes, and grab my makeup bag to take with me. Once I’m in the bathroom with the door closed and locked, I stare at myself in the mirror, noting the pink in my cheeks. I wonder if I could have sounded any more ridiculous. I tell myself to get a grip and then stand under the shower for a good ten minutes, mainly because I dread going back out into the bedroom and facing Klein. But once I’ve dried my hair and put on a little makeup, I have no more excuses to delay.

  “We could order some dinner,” Klein says, looking up from his seat at the desk. A laptop sits in front of him, and he closes the lid, standing. “I’m actually hungry.”

  “That sounds good,” I say.

  He hands me the menu, and I spend a couple of minutes perusing the options. He offers me a piece of paper and pen to write it down and says, “I’ll order if you like.”

  “Okay.” Apparently, he’s already looked at the menu because as soon as I’m done, he picks up the phone and calls room service, placing the order in a polite, even voice.

  When he hangs up, we stand for a moment, uneasy, until he says, “So, about that song. You still up for working on something with me?”

  “Yes, I would love that.”

  He walks to the closet and pulls out his guitar, bringing it over to the bed and opening the case to pull it out. “Anything in particular you want to write about?” I ask.

  “I kind of liked what you were working on earlier,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He sits down on the corner of the bed, strums a few chords, and then picks up the melody I had tapped out earlier. I feel a little thrill of pleasure, knowing that he had paid attention enough to recall exactly what I had put down.

  And then he adds, “This is what’s been playing through my head ever since I heard you this morning.”

  He starts over, strumming my original melody, and then segues into some additional of his own.

  I listen in amazement that he has added something I’m not sure I would have created myself, but I can hear that his choice is wonderful. “I can certainly understand where you get your guitar genius reputation from.”

  “I just try to hear it in my head before I ever pick up the guitar, and you gave me the advantage this morning of creating a beautiful start.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “What were your lyrics, again?” he asks.

  I reach for my backpack, starting to pull the notebook out with the paper I had written them on when he says, “No, how about you sing it?”

  “Ah, I don’t really sing in front of other people.”

  “Oh, come on, let me hear it.” I swallow hard, put the backpack down, and close my eyes, searching for the words. I remember the melody and then turn my back to him, facing the window and the courtyard below. I sing the words softly but manage to get it done. I hold my breath a little until he says, “That was beautiful. Sing it again.”

  I turn around and look at him. “Again?”

  “Yeah, please.”

  I draw in another deep breath and start to turn away when he adds, “And look at me, please.”

  I stand for a few moments, my voice frozen in my throat. When I start again, my voice cracks a bit, and then I close my eyes, letting the words come out as if I were alone in my office at home working on a song with no one there to hear me singing. When I’m done, Klein sits there on the edge of the bed staring at me for several long seconds.

  “You have a beautiful voice, Dillon.”

  “Ah, no. That’s not my gift. The words, if I have a gift, they would be it.”

  “Your voice is a gift, too. Can I ask why you didn’t go for your own solo career?”

  I laugh a short laugh and then, “There are some things you learn along the way that you’re just not meant to do.”

  “I can’t imagine what would have happened to make you think that.”

  “I actually came to Nashville intending to try to make it on my own.”

  “So, what happened?” he asks.

  “When I first started meeting with Josh and playing my songs for him, he loved the songs themselves, but he thought I would have a hard time competing with the other female artists who were currently on their way up.”

  “With your voice and songwriting talent, why on earth would he have thought that?”

  “I guess it was his professional opinion,” I say.

  “Hmm. Sounds to me like there was something else affecting his decision-making.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you to outshine him,” Klein says.

  “Josh is successful and was when I met him.”

  “So there wouldn’t be any logic in what I say. But it does make me wonder because when I hear you sing, and I know what kind of songs you write, it’s only logical to me that you would have performed many of them yourself.”

  “It’s nice to hear. I can’t deny that, but I think my own lack of self-confidence
is why I decided not to pursue a career as an artist. I don’t think I have what it takes to get up in front of audiences the way you do. I’m too self-critical, too self-aware. I think it’s worked for me to hide behind the pen, write the songs, and let someone else perform them.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Klein says. “You’ve made an incredible career for yourself, but you know, it’s not too late to try the other part of it, too.”

  “It’s too late for me. The female artists these days are getting younger and younger, and I’m getting older.”

  “I can see I’m not going to change your mind about this, but you should think about it, really.”

  I laugh a little and shake my head. “Let’s get back to the song we were working on. I think we’ve got something going here.”

  “I agree,” he says, strumming out the chords again. He then starts over, singing the words from the beginning. The sound of his voice over the words I had written gives me a thrill I can’t deny. It never gets old, this part, creating something that gets put to music with a beautiful voice delivering it.

  As the guitar chords fade into silence, the next line comes to me. I say it out loud. Klein looks up, nods once in agreement, and starts over, adding the line at the end. He throws out the next line, and it’s perfect, better, I think than I would have come up with myself. We keep at it until we’ve got the first verse and part of the chorus. I’m so excited I feel like a little girl at Christmas, anxious to unwrap the next present under the tree and see what it is.

  The knock at the door interrupts us. A polite young woman rolls the cart into the room and opens up the side doors to pull out our plates and set them on top of the table. Once she’s done, Klein signs the check, gives her a tip, and she leaves the room, wishing us a good evening.

  “This smells so good,” I say.

  “It does,” he agrees.

  We pull a chair up to the table and start eating, silent for a few moments as we indulge our hunger.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say. “Could this be any more delicious?”

  “They pretty much make every dish a work of art.”

  My salad is exactly that, simple, with greens, shredded carrot, and cherry tomatoes. The dressing is simple as well, a lemon and olive oil vinaigrette, but it is absolutely wonderful. “I could eat five of these,” I say.

  Klein smiles. “We can order more if you like.”

  “This is plenty, but it is just so good.”

  We take our time with the meal, mostly eating in silence, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. I have to admit I find this surprising, given that I’ve never spent this much time alone with Klein, and he is for sure the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever known. And while I would expect that to make me tongue-tied and awkward, it doesn’t with him.

  “You’re easy to be around,” I say.

  He looks up, putting his fork on his plate and smiling. “You sound surprised by that.”

  “Well, to be honest, I guess I am a little surprised.”

  “Why is that?”

  I decide to be completely honest. “You’re a big star, and you have women falling all over you all the time.”

  He laughs a little. “Not exactly. Sometimes, I think it was a lot easier when I wasn’t well-known.”

  “Why?”

  “People are more reluctant to approach you. There’s this thing that they think you’ll rebuff them, and I guess no one wants to experience rejection. It’s not really like that, though,” he says. “I actually like it when people come up to me and tell me what they think about my music or what they’d like to hear me do next. It’s a lonelier life once you get famous.”

  “I guess I’m not too surprised by that,” I say. “In a way, it seems like you have kind of everything at your fingertips and people wanting to do things for you, get in your good graces. But at the same time, I’m sure it’s like you said. People are intimidated by fame and what all they think it includes.”

  “The thing is,” Klein says, “you’re the same person as you were before. Nothing has changed really, except making a lot more money and finally achieving your dream.”

  “That’s a lot,” I say.

  “It is. Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t change who you are, though. It doesn’t take away the insecurities and doubts that plague you before you’re famous. It seems like they would all just be washed away, but they aren’t. I think it’s a little disappointing to people sometimes, actually, when they’re around me long enough to see some of the mystery disappear.”

  “Was that how it was with Riley?” I ask.

  He’s quiet for a few moments, and then he says, “No. She has all these ideas in her head about the ladder of success and the things you should be doing along the way, the house, the neighborhood, the kind of car you should be driving.”

  “And that didn’t work for you?”

  “No, not really. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy the finer things in life? I have the ability now to have a lot of them. I’m grateful for that, but as far as obtaining stuff to mark my success on the way, no, that’s never really been me, and I don’t see it being me. It’s not things,” he says, “that are going to make a person happy. Comforts, yeah. I like comfort as well as the next guy, but what’s given me the most happiness so far about whatever financial success I’ve obtained is giving some of it back, especially to the community where I grew up.”

  “I read about what you’ve been doing for the foster care program back home. It has to mean so much to those children.”

  Klein shrugs. “I was one of them. I know what it’s like to reach the point where you no longer unpack your suitcase because it’s pretty much a given that you won’t be staying long.”

  My heart clenches at this instant image of a little boy arriving at another home, sure he won’t be staying. “That’s awful.”

  “My last foster family was a different story. I didn’t get there until I was fourteen, but I stayed there until I graduated from high school. They were what you would look for in a foster family, not just in it for the money. They truly tried to make the kids they took in feel like they were finally home.”

  “They sound like great people.”

  “They are. As I mentioned, my foster dad drove a sawdust truck. I would go with him sometimes. He had a big hound dog named Charles who would go with us and ride in the middle of the seat. We had stops along the way where we would pull over at a convenient spot, and I’d have to run in and get Charles his favorite snack, bacon biscuit, a slice of pumpkin pie.”

  I laugh. “Charles was living the high life.”

  “He really was,” Klein says, smiling. “He was a great dog. He died right after I turned eighteen, and I didn’t think my dad would survive it. He loved him that much.”

  “Do you ever see your foster parents?”

  “I do,” Klein says. “I go back as often as I can, mostly holidays and stuff. I did buy them a new house, so they have a lot more room for the kids they take in. There’s a pool in the backyard and a basketball court.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  “Not really. I would never be able to pay them back an amount of money to show exactly how much I appreciate what they did for me. I can’t even explain what it felt like when I began to realize theirs was a home I might stay in, that they actually wanted me to stay. And then for a long time, I felt guilty about that because I knew so many other kids who got bounced from place to place and never, before they were eighteen, had the chance to put down roots anywhere.”

  “I guess I never really thought about how incredible and meaningful fostering children really is. It is amazing to think about how easy it would be to give a child a completely different life.”

  “My foster family probably wouldn’t call me easy, but they stuck with me when I acted out, tried to get them to send me back because I knew it was going to happen anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Klein. That’s not what childhood is supposed to be.”


  “No,” he says, “but I’m grateful that the last part of it was completely different from the beginning.”

  “What happened to your parents? Or, wait, you don’t have to answer that.”

  “It is what it is. They were both into drugs.”

  “What kind of drugs?” I ask, admittedly stunned to think this had been his beginnings.

  “Heroin, actually. Not what you picture in rural South Carolina, but they both got started on heavy-duty pain medications for different reasons. When they could no longer get prescriptions for those, heroin was the next best thing, I guess.”

  I really don’t know what to say. I start to respond and then stop.

  “I know, it’s out there, isn’t it? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Dillon. It’s not like that anymore. I kind of look at it these days as it’s made me who I am and given me the incentive to try to do some good things in this world. Maybe if I hadn’t gone through all of that, I would not see life that way and just be a miserable waste of time on this earth.”

  “You’re anything but that,” I say.

  We finish our meal, mostly in silence, and once we’ve put everything back on the cart and rolled it out into the hallway, I say what it is I’ve been thinking about. “I want to finish the song we started tonight, but I have an idea for another one. If you don’t mind, I’d like to work on that for a bit, see what comes of it. It’s something you said that gave me the idea.”

  “Okay.” We’re back in the bedroom now, and he’s picking up his guitar. “Got a title?”

  “Roots,” I say.

  He looks up at me, smiles an appreciative smile, and says, “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  Klein

  “A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new.”

  —Albert Einstein

  AS IT TURNS out, we write until almost three in the morning. We take a break at eleven to order a pot of coffee from room service. I’m not sure I even need it to stay awake because I’m so cranked by the creative process of working with Dillon. I have a feeling the song is going to be the one that tells my story more than anything I’ve ever written myself.