When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,120

off the bed. Amelia walked me to her door.

“Do you think you’ll be gone a long time?”

“I’ll come back as fast as I can.” My stomach clenched at her dubious expression. “Unless…Maybe I shouldn’t go…”

“No, no. You should. I know you need this. We’ll be fine, swear.”

I felt torn in half. “You sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, go. Holden’s probably waiting for you in his hotel room, lying naked on a bear skin rug with a rose in his teeth.”

I coughed a laugh. “Ummm…”

“What? You need to get laid. Straight facts. Well, maybe not straight.”

“I’m not going there to get laid, and how about we not talk about that anymore?”

She laughed, a spark in her eyes I hadn’t seen in a while. “Whatever you say.” She slugged me in the shoulder. “Go get’em, champ.”

“Dork.”

“Nerd.”

I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in a long time. An unfamiliar feeling flooded me. Hope.

After settling things with Julio to make sure the shop would be okay without me, I boarded a plane for Paris the next afternoon.

Dad had been dubious. “You’re flying to France?” he’d asked from his chair in the den that morning. “For…him?”

Inwardly, I’d flinched. Since I had no social life to speak of, my father hadn’t been forced to acknowledge my sexuality. I suspected he thought I’d been going through a phase or that it had been a turbulent time with the accident and Mom’s death.

“Yes, I’m going for him. Because I love him. I’ve never stopped loving him, Dad.”

My father had pursed his lips. “What about the shop?”

“It’s handled. I won’t be gone long.” I hugged him close. “Watch over Amelia, okay?” Be her dad for a while… “And take care of yourself.”

He’d chuckled through a perplexed frown at my seriousness. “Of course. I’ll be here when you get back.”

I looked at the den with its food wrappers, the recliner he’d turned into a bed, and the NFL Network blaring constantly.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

The plane touched down and I fumbled my way through the airport, looking like the jet-lagged American I was, to my hotel in the 8th Arrondissement. The hotel was small, dark, with no elevator and a shared bathroom down the hall. But it was all I could afford after dropping a small fortune on a last-minute flight. My room was nothing more than a bed, a tiny table and chair, and peeling green wallpaper that looked like it’d been new in 1950.

After a short nap on the springy bed, I showered and changed into jeans, a fresh T-shirt, boots, and a worn, brown leather jacket. My heart was crashing in my chest so loudly I was sure my taxi driver could hear it as he took me to Le Bristol Hotel.

The hotel was a white behemoth of classic French architecture with bursts of red flowers overflowing from every wrought-iron balcony. A far cry from my little place down the road.

“A fine hotel,” my cabbie said as I counted out the Euro for his fare. “One of the best in Paris.”

“How much per night?” I asked.

“Depends,” he said. “Room or suite?”

“Suite,” I said, smiling fondly. Holden Parish wouldn’t be caught slumming it in a regular hotel room. Even in a five-star hotel.

“Mm, maybe five thousand Euro per night.” The cabbie grinned with obvious pride. “Very nice hotel.”

My stomach did flipflops as the cab pulled up to the hotel’s elegant entrance. I paid the cabbie while a man in a maroon uniform opened the door for me.

“Uh, thanks,” I said.

I handed him a two-Euro coin. It didn’t feel like enough, but I reminded myself I’d just paid him two bucks to open a door. I’d entered a different world at Le Bristol Hotel. The polished lobby floor was so gleaming, I was afraid I’d scuff it with my work boots or drag grease from the auto body shop.

I went to the concierge.

“Can I help you, monsieur?” the man in an impeccable suit asked in English before I could speak.

“Am I that obvious?” I asked with a smirk. “I’m here to see Holden Parish.” Suddenly, I was on the damn verge of tears just for saying the words. I cleared my throat. “Is he here?”

Please God, let him still be here…

The concierge smiled thinly. “Indeed. But I’m afraid I cannot let non-guests up to the floors without invitation. Your name?”

“River Whitmore.”

“A moment.” He picked up a sleek black phone and pressed a button. “Monsieur Parish? Monsieur River Whitmore vous attend à la réception.” He listened, at one time pulling