Third Life - Noelle Adams Page 0,22

his smile and the clever glint in his blue eyes.

“Me either.” He gives me one more quick kiss before he gets out of the car. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray button-up shirt. He looks mature. Expensive. Sophisticated.

Far out of my league.

But we shared something this weekend, and both of us know it. I’m not going to ruin it for myself by stupidly hoping for more.

I wave at him as he wheels his case into the terminal. My plane is on a different airline, so I stay in the car as Richard disappears.

I DO PRETTY WELL WHEN I get back home. I tell Ashley all about it. I focus on my work. I agree to let some friends set me up on a couple of dates. Nothing with much potential, but it doesn’t matter.

I’m trying. If I started my third life on the weekend with Richard, then I want it to mean something. I want to make a few changes in my life.

And, yes, of course I think about Richard sometimes. I remember every word of our conversations with giggles and shivers. I visualize the way he touched me. Kissed me. Moved inside me. Sometimes it gets me excited.

But I’m not dwelling. I’m not foolishly daydreaming about his appearing out of the blue one day and announcing that I’m the love of his life.

I’m really not a stupid person. I know it will never happen. And it’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen for the weekend to have been a good thing.

My understanding of this is genuine. I’m not lying to myself.

So I’m shocked beyond all measure when I get a package sent to the post office box I use professionally a month after our weekend together. I don’t recognize the return address—no name, just what looks like a business address in New York—and I’m not expecting a delivery, so I have no idea what to think as I open the box.

Inside is a champagne flute, carefully packed to prevent it from breaking.

I’m holding my breath as I pick it up. It’s nothing special. Just a champagne flute. But as I look at it, I realize why it looks familiar.

It’s one of the glasses Richard and I drank from at the hotel in Fort Lauderdale.

It has to be.

What else could it be?

My heart is pounding in my ears and throat as I lift out the packing material to see if there’s anything else in the box.

There is.

There’s a brochure for a very expensive Paris hotel and also a thick, cream-colored card with no decoration.

On the card is scrawled a few lines.

I’ll be in Paris for the weekend of March 12. The view from Suite 45 is not to be missed. Join me if you feel like another sex-cation. No pressure. No strings. Richard.

I stare at the card, my hand starting to shake.

This can’t be what I think it is.

Can it?

Does he really want to spend another weekend with me, in defiance of all the wise, reasoned lectures I’ve been giving myself for the past four weeks?

I check my calendar quickly. I’ve got nothing scheduled for that weekend.

I’ll have to think about it. I don’t want to do anything stupid.

But maybe I’ll go to Paris.

A MONTH LATER, I’M getting out of the car that’s driven me from the airport to an exclusive, historic hotel in theeighth arrondissement of Paris.

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon here in France, and I feel like I’ve been up forever. I can never sleep much on a flight—no matter how long the flight happens to be. I did get a first-class seat, so at least I was comfortable. But air travel has never been my favorite, and if I wasn’t so excited I’d be exhausted.

I’m glad to be here now. I’d never been to Paris before, and I got a giddy thrill as I looked out the window on the drive here, seeing quaint streets, familiar landmarks, and picturesque gardens and cafés.

But I’m even more giddy about seeing Richard again.

A liveried bellman helps me with my luggage and takes me to the front desk where a respectable, gray-haired man greets me with a pleasant “Bonjour. Can I help you, ma’am?”

It must be obvious from my appearance that I’m an American because he switches to English immediately. “I’m Gillian Meadowbrook. I’m supposed to meet someone—”

“Yes, Ms. Meadowbrook. Mr. Steele told us to expect you. Welcome to Paris.”

I’m vastly relieved that Richard prepared the way for me. I was predicting some awkwardness as I explained who I