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

  I’m human. So maybe.

  But somehow I don’t think that’s it.

  I try to remember the love I once felt for him. Try to recall the sense of security I knew in never questioning what I thought we had.

  It isn’t there. In its place, there’s just a hole of sadness where happiness had once been.

  I want to put all the blame on him, but I’ve logged enough hours with the counselor I’ve been seeing to know I played some part in it, knowingly or not.

  I turn from the window, stare at the enormous bed, and torture myself with a vision of Josh and his twenty-something making use of it.

  I close my eyes hard and blink it away.

  Enough.

  I have a canvas of blank hours before me. The show is tonight. Until now, I haven’t thought about what I would do for the duration of the day. The thought of sleeping for a few hours tugs at me with an irresistible pull, but the desire to see the city has more appeal. I decide on a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a walk on the streets of Paris. I pour another cup of coffee, this time leaving out the heavy cream, and head for the shower.

  Josh

  “There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”

  ―Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

  DOES SHE REALLY think she will get away with this?

  Josh paces the marble floor of the Tuscan-inspired kitchen he and Dillon had planned together in the early years of their marriage. Anger boils inside him. What the hell was she thinking? Canceling his trip to Paris and going there on her own, as if Klein Matthews is going to leave Top Dog Publishing for her no-name startup.

  Fury grips him by the throat, and it is all he can do not to slam his fist into the oversized mirror hanging on the main wall of the kitchen. He hates being one-upped by anyone, least of all the wife who chose to leave him.

  The nerve required to do what Dillon has done is what gets him the most. What happened to the mousy, no-confidence songwriter who timidly appeared in his office on a winter afternoon, hopeful that he might at least give her some indication she wasn’t wasting her time in this town?

  Her talent had been undeniable then. It still is, but if Josh regrets anything, it is the fact that he has let her get too sure of herself. Think that she has something, anything really, to do with his success, because nothing could be further from the truth.

  He has an enviable roster of songwriters and artists, many of whom perform their own work, unlike Dillon. She’s never had the courage to sing her songs, and even though he personally believes she could have made a career as an artist as well, he’s never let her get too far with that thinking. He likes keeping the reins a little tight. Likes being the one with the ultimate control in the relationship.

  For a long time, Dillon was fine with that. She appreciated a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. And, truth be told, if it hadn’t been for the changes in her over the last couple of years, that budding confidence that gave her new awareness of her own value to the publishing company, he probably never would have noticed Leanne Henry.

  The Vanderbilt intern had certainly noticed him and made no secret of it on the afternoons she appeared at the office to put in the three hours required for her undergraduate degree. The flirtation had started simply enough. Leanne commenting on his cologne, pointing out how nice the color of his shirt was as a contrast to his eyes. And what man didn’t like those things? Especially after several years of marriage when neither partner felt the absolute need to go overboard with the compliments and admiration they had once doled out to each other with such generosity.

  He hadn’t encouraged her at first, enjoyed the attention for sure, but he knew better than to mess with fire, and Leanne Henry was definitely fire.

  In fact, as time went on, he reminded himself of one of those poor moths that kamikazed themselves into the flames of the firepit he and Dillon liked to turn on late in the evening with a glass of wine. He’d tried to rescue them numerous times. Not only because he knew it made Dillon see him in a favorable light, but also because he hated to think that any living creature could be so destined for self-destruction. Josh wondered now if he had identified with those poor, doomed moths even then. No, Josh refuses to accept that. True enough, he had flown right into the fire that was Leanne Henry, but he’d be damned if he was going to sacrifice himself to Dillon’s wrath as well.

  He’s worked too long and too hard, accomplished too much to hand any of it over to her. Any more of it than the law requires him to, anyway. He’d hired the best divorce attorney in Nashville, one known to play as dirty as necessary, and he’s okay with that.

  He has no desire to be cruel. But he’s tried to play nice, offering Dillon a few of the artists on the Top Dog roster who, truthfully, would probably end up being dud signs. He isn’t about to hand over any of the known names he’s put his blood, sweat, and tears into developing.

  He opens the set of French doors that lead from the kitchen to the deck overlooking the large expanse of grass, so perfectly manicured it rivals the local golf club’s turf. He remembers coming home from the office late one afternoon to find Dillon lying on her back, staring up at the clouds, the green grass a blanket beneath her. That had been in the early days of their marriage when she had been extraordinarily happy to see him at the end of the day.

  He’d crept down the stairs, tiptoed across the grass and dropped down to surprise her with a quick kiss. She had laughed, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him to her. Things had gotten hot and heavy there in their backyard. And if she hadn’t stood, taking his hand and pulling him across the yard and up the stairs into the house to their bedroom, he could have made love to her right there on the back lawn with any neighbors who wished to see welcome to do so.

  That had been the attraction he felt for her back then. He grieved for that feeling sometimes, in moments when his guard was lowered, and he wasn’t letting himself think about all the ugly moments that had taken place between them since that afternoon.

  Most of them were his fault. He admits that. He’d thought he could have his fling and keep what he had with Dillon at the same time. But could a person really wear two masks requiring such distinctly different emotions?

  His sex life with Dillon had been more than enough for him. He couldn’t even explain then why the thing with Leanne had gone from zero to sixty practically overnight. The sex with Leanne was a completely different level of expectation from what Dillon had wanted from him. Three and four times a day was more in line with Leanne’s needs.

  It hadn’t taken long for him to begin to feel as if he had signed up for a beginner 5K and found himself in the middle of a throng of New York City marathon runners. Only he wasn’t prepared to go twenty-six miles in one stretch. His shoes didn’t have that kind of tread. The marathon had been exciting at first, but when it became clear after the first week or so that he would be expected to run that kind of race daily, even the thought of sex began to exhaust him.

  He supposed that was what had initially planted a question mark in Dillon’s mind. She had noticed his lagging interest and gone out and bought a series of outfits that would have once had him carrying her up the stairs to their bedroom and locking the door.

  He’d even gone to his doctor and explained his inability to keep up with his sex life, leaving out the more pertinent details, of course. He let the doctor think he was talking about his performance within his marriage and not the fact that he was having an affair with someone twenty-some years his junior, a young woman he absolutely could not keep up with.

  He’d taken his prescription for the little blue pill home, trying it the next day when he thought it might be of the most use. But the thing about Leanne was he never knew when she would pop into his office for a quickie or how many times in one day that might occur. And so there were days when he would find himself trapped at his desk hiding evidence of his readiness even at times when the
re was no need to be ready.

  He drops his head back now, stares up at the clear blue sky above him, and laughs a little. He certainly should be able to laugh at himself. There had been times when it was that ridiculous, and he felt bad for the pain he had caused Dillon.

  But does he owe her the business he’d spent his entire adult life growing all because of one bout of incredible stupidity that most people would call a midlife crisis? He doesn’t think so.

  Maybe he’ll call his cutthroat attorney and ask him to lower the heat a bit. All things considered, that is probably fair, but letting Dillon steal Klein Matthews from him, no, that isn’t going to happen.

  Dillon

  “Freedom lies in being bold.”

  ―Robert Frost

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I feel completely refreshed and wide awake.

  The first thing I need to do, the thing I have admittedly been dreading, is to call Klein. No point in putting it off because he’ll be expecting Josh to be here. And once he realizes I’ve come in his place, there will be the obvious questions as to why. Delaying isn’t going to lessen the awkwardness of it.

  I pick up my phone, tap into Contacts, and scroll for Klein’s name, making the call. It’s four rings before he answers. I am just about ready to hang up, let cowardice overrule my common-sense resolution to get the initial contact over with.

  “Hello?”

  I hear the question in the greeting, and I stammer a bit. “H-hello. Klein. It’s Dillon. Dillon Blake.”

  “Hey, Dillon,” Klein says cautiously, and I realize how silly I must sound, acting as if he doesn’t know who I am.

  “So, this is admittedly a little awkward. But here goes. I’m in Paris.”

  Silence. Pause. “With Josh?”

  “No. Actually, it’s just me. I came instead of Josh.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Is he coming later or―”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has something happened?” he asks then, a cautious note in his voice.

  “Yes. Sort of. Well, yes, it has.” I’m rushing my words now. “Josh and I are no longer together. And I’m no longer with Top Dog Publishing.”

  “Ah.” Surprise underlines the response.

  I forge on. “So, I was wondering if we could meet today and have a short talk. I promise not to take up much of your time. I know you have the show tonight, and you’ll have rehearsals.”

  “Well, sure,” he says. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You’re staying at the Ritz Paris as well, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was getting ready to head out and do a little sightseeing. Maybe find a café where we could sit for a bit. Would that be all right?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “What time would you like to meet?”

  “The lobby in half an hour?”

  “Ah, sure. Okay. I’ll see you there.”

  “Thank you, Klein.”

  I put down my phone, exhaling a sigh as if I’ve been holding my breath for the last few minutes. I guess I’d expected Klein to turn me down. I’m grateful that he didn’t, and now I need to make the most of his agreeing to see me.

  I glance in the mirror across from the bed at my outfit, trying to decide if the black pants and light blue fitted sweater are a good choice, or if I should find something else from the depths of my suitcase.

  I decide on a crisp white cotton shirt, opting to leave my hair loose instead of in a ponytail. I go light on the makeup, but opt to add eyeliner and some mascara, trying not to look too closely at my motivation. Not that it would take a genius to nail it. What woman wouldn’t want to look her best in a face to face with Klein? There probably aren’t any in actual existence, and I am certainly no exception.

  Even so, I also know that vanity aside, my desire to make a good impression on Klein is about business and nothing more. My decision to start my own publishing company with me as my sole client is admittedly a gutsy one. I have a decent cushion for start-up, but that will last only so long, and I feel sure at some point soon I will start to feel the stress of the need to become profitable.

  For a moment, I feel a stab of panic for the fact that I have put myself in competition with my cheating ex-husband. Failure is not an option if I intend to have a shred of dignity left.

  Was I crazy to set this mountain in front of myself?

  Most likely.

  Too late now for second thoughts. I take a step back, study myself in the mirror, decide that I look appropriately professional. I reach for my phone and room key, toss them in a small backpack I had planned to use for walking around the city, and leave the room.

  Dillon

  “I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.”

  ―W. Somerset Maugham

  HE’S WAITING NEAR the front desk when I arrive.

  His back is to me, but I have no difficulty recognizing his broad shoulders. “Klein.”

  He turns at the sound of his name, and for just a millisecond, I have the feeling he is glad to see me. The way you’re happy to see someone when you’re away from home and spot a person you know.

  I remember the first time I saw him, how stunning I’d found him then.

  Turns out, that hasn’t changed. He has the kind of magnetic good looks that immediately draw the eye. He’s six-three or a little better, muscled but lean in the way of a man who knows his way around a gym. Country music fans are as crazy about him as they are Luke Bryan and Holden Ashford.

  His trademark wide smile is guarded when he says, “Hey, Dillon. Good to see you.”

  “You, too,” I say, overcome with a sudden urge to giggle like a starstruck fan. I compose myself and add, “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Sure. Where would you like to go?”

  “Okay if we walk? There’s a café not far from here.”

  He waves a hand for me to lead the way. I struggle to find something to say that doesn’t reveal how nervous I am or the fact that my hands are shaking.

  We walk side by side through the main door of the hotel and down the street. The sun is bright against a blue sky. The air is warm but without humidity.

  “How have you been, Dillon?”

  I start to give him a lighthearted response, but something in the weight of the question tempers my answer. “I’m making my way back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about you and Josh. I thought y’all were―”

  “Me, too. And thanks. It wasn’t exactly what I expected. But people change, and sometimes end up being different from what you thought.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “They do.”

  I want to ask him what he means, but we’ve reached the entrance to the café, and I walk up to the hostess, asking her if we can have a table outside. And then I remember that Klein might not want to sit in an open area, so I ask him if this is okay.

  “It’s not a problem,” he says.

  I notice then that he isn’t wearing his customary ball cap. In most of the photos I’ve seen him in since he got famous, he’s worn one pulled low over his eyes, sometimes with sunglasses, sometimes not. I suppose he’s not as likely to be recognized here as in the United States.

  We sit, and the waitress brings us two menus. I look at Klein. “Early lunch?”

  “Sounds good,” he says.

  “I don’t think my body knows what meal it wants, but I’m hungry.”

  We peruse the menus for a minute, the silence awkward, compelling me to lighten it.

  “Are you looking forward to the concert tonight?”

  He meets my gaze with a polite answer. “Yes. I’m grateful to have the opportunity. It’s an amazing place to be able to play.”

  “I can’t wait to see the show.”

  “Thanks. For coming, I mean.”’

  “Of course,” I say, and trail off, awkwardly. I wonder why things feel so strained between us. I try to remember if it ever felt like this when we talked in the past. I don’t think so. Admittedly, our c
onversations have mostly always taken place under the constrains of professional settings and other people being present. But I don’t remember ever being this tongue-tied with him.

  The waitress returns, and I order a green salad and the braised artichokes. Klein asks for the mozzarella cream tagliatelle.

  We make small talk for a few minutes, and I remember the way he has of turning the conversation back to the person he is talking to, making it about them as much as he can. I wonder where he learned this, or if he knows how much it makes others like him.

  “Are you writing much these days?” he asks.

  “Not as much as I’d like to be. The brain isn’t cooperating. I guess it’s the separation and life being in flux.”

  “Temporary writer’s block, I’m sure.”

  “Have you ever had it?”

  He hesitates, glances off, and then says, “Yeah. Kind of been going through that for a while now myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, surprised, wondering what the reason is. I find myself wanting to reassure him. “I’ve talked to a few writer friends about it, and everyone seems to have a slightly different take on what to do.”

  He appears to consider this, and then, “I’m not sure there is anything to do about it. I don’t feel like I have anything to write about anymore.”

  I’m a little taken aback by the admission. “You’re too young for that,” I say, surprised by the adamance in his voice. I understand my own currently dry well. Disillusion. Disappointment. Betrayal. I have every intention of getting over it, if for no other reason than to show Josh I don’t need him. But I hear something different in Klein’s voice. And I’m not sure what to make of it.

  The waitress arrives with our food, disrupting our conversation. We watch as she places the beautiful plates before us, the food arranged in colorful proportions designed to make the mouth water at the sight of it. She pours us each another glass of mineral water, asks if there’s anything else she can get us in beautifully accented English. We both say no at the same time, and with a smile, she leaves the table.