Paris with the Billionaire

“I love you, too,” I say.

I gaze up in wonder as we get closer and closer to the hotel.

It’s called Le Palais, which means The Palace in French. It fits the part perfectly, eschewing a modern look from something straight out of a fairytale. It’s built of the sort of bricks they use in castles, with towers at the corners and large flowing banners.

It sits apart from the surrounding, more modern buildings, standing out proudly.

The contrast only highlights how special it is.

It’s the perfect place to get some real work done on my novel.

The driver pulls up outside the entrance, a luscious red carpet leading through glittering glass doors, the handles glinting in the light. I couldn’t afford to stay here if I saved up for six months, and definitely not in the presidential suite.

My five-day stay would cost me over twenty thousand dollars if I hadn’t won the contest.

“Please let me help with your bags, mademoiselle,” the driver says.

“Oh, thank you. I mean—merci.”

He chuckles. “Very good, mademoiselle.”

I smile, feeling my cheeks turn red.

I’m here. I’m really here.

It didn’t feel real on the flight over, but now that I’m standing beneath this fairy tale castle in Paris, I just can’t wait to go inside.

I spend a long time just walking around my room, but the phrase room doesn’t really do it justice.

It’s more like I’ve rented a luxury penthouse at the top of a fairytale tower. The walls are brick and everything is medieval-chic, making me feel as though I’m staying in a Paris of a time long passed. And yet there are all the modern conveniences, too.

There’s a sauna and a massive TV, hidden within the wall and appearing when I flick a switch. The bathrooms – two bathrooms all to myself – have heated floors, and the master bathroom has a sauna, a Jacuzzi, and a steam room. The kitchen is built so that the appliances are hidden within the stone structure, appearing like the TV, when I flick a switch.

There is a four poster bed in the master bedroom, a library, two other bedrooms, and a living room twice the size of my apartment back home.

The best area is the balcony though.

I sit outside as the sun sets, watching it glitter against the Eiffel tower, seeming so close I could reach out and touch it. I lay a blanket over my knees and lean back in a chair, my laptop nearby on the glittering table should inspiration strike me.

But for now, just sitting here is enough to cause waves and waves of satisfaction to roll over me.

I leap to my feet when I hear somebody open the door behind me.

Shock runs through me.

Somebody is in the room.

I spin and grab my laptop, holding it like a weapon, ready to give this intruder my best shot.

I pause when I see him looming in the doorway, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

He’s well over six feet tall, easily, with iron-colored hair. His eyes are blue and bright and glimmer with something like amusement. He wears a shirt tucked into his pants, his sleeves rolled up to show his bulging forearms.

I can see his muscles through the fabric of the shirt, bulging in the setting sunlight. His silver watch glints, the same way his eyes seem to sparkle.

“Death by laptop would be quite the way to go,” he says, his voice smooth and American. “Relax, firecracker. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I lower my laptop slowly, a shaky smile on my face.

Something deep inside of me shivers when he calls me firecracker, warping and sending silly ideas into my head.

“You’re in my room,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, walking onto the balcony. He stands to his full height once he’s past the door, staring down at me with those near-silver eyes. “It’s quite the turns of events, isn’t it?”

I laugh, even if laughing is the last thing I should be doing right now. It’s like there’s something inside of him calling out to a deep part of me, buried down below my belly and my anxiety, sizzling with need for him.

I’ve never felt this way before, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t let myself act on it.

This man, whoever the heck he is, would laugh in my face if I told him how I was feeling.

“I normally stay here when I’m in Paris for business,” he goes on. “I wasn’t aware the suite was already taken.”

“I won a contest,” I explain. “I’m here for the next five days. I think it’s this room, anyway. I mean, this is the one they led me to, and …”

“Relax,” he says, his lips twitching into a smirk.

It’s like he’s enjoying my discomfort.

I wonder what else this man enjoys.

No—I should be yelling at him to leave.

And yet I can’t muster that up inside of me.