I limped out of the elevator, letting everyone else walk in front of me in the hall. While the manager did that, Zeke didn’t. He glared at me as he slowed his stride to match my own. “Do you give that little speech every time someone knows you, and what is that thing they keep saying to you? Look like the best me.”
“I wrote a book. That was what I talked about in the book. Helping people to dress to look like the best them.”
He lifted his eyebrows. I’d surprised him, and I couldn’t imagine that happened very often. “You wrote a book?”
Here was where I could lie, except I never did. The thing about a ghostwriter was that I didn’t have to tell anyone I’d done that. Only I always had. In every interview, every conversation ever, I’d admitted to it. I hadn’t really written the book, not technically.
“I didn’t write it. I collaborated on it. I can’t write a book. I’m not smart. I’m not able to do things like that. But I talked to the woman who wrote it, and she wrote it trying to be as close to my voice as she could possibly be.”
He nodded. “Lots of famous people do that. Not everyone is able to sit at the computer and… You know what? How many times a day do you say that I’m-not-smart thing?”
We’d gotten to my room. The manager opened it, and I walked in, going straight to the safe. I always used the same code, so it was no problem getting in there to pull out my passport and my wallet. I held both in my hands, turning myself back to Zeke. I was sure the manager could speak English. I’d never stayed at a hotel where most of the staff couldn’t speak the languages of the guests, at least well enough to communicate basic things.
But if he weren’t embarrassed, I wouldn’t be. “I don’t say it that often, actually. Most of the people I talk to on a regular basis know already.”
“Okay. That’s the last time you’ll say it. Consider me informed of your opinion on the subject. I don’t want to hear it again.”
I shook my head. “You asked, so I had to explain.”
“Fine.”
We rode in silence back to the lobby. Zeke was stewing about what I’d said, or maybe it was something else I did. Or maybe he was just angry about the shape of the elevator. I’d never imagined him so moody. The manager practically bowed to him on our way out, and I limped my way into the car.
Sighing, I waited for Zeke to come in the other side, and when he didn’t, I turned around to see what was going on. He was in the trunk, digging through my bags.
“What the hell?” I pushed open the door. “What are you doing?”
“Socks. Shoes. Do you own any that aren’t high heels? Do you own socks?”
I gritted my teeth. “I do own sneakers. I didn’t pack the bag. That was some stranger my would-have-been mother-in-law paid to do, so for all I know they’ve been stolen.”
“No.” He pulled them out and strode over, carrying a white pair of socks with him. He knelt down in front of me. “Give me your feet.”
That was sweet, and I almost laughed before I stopped myself. This man didn’t give the impression that he was particularly gentle and kind all that often. “I know I’m not smart.” I said it purposefully to piss him off. “But I can put on my own clothing.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Fine.”
Although I was sure he wanted to throw them at me, he instead handed them to me gently and stormed to the other side of the car. Twice now, I’d provoked him, and twice now, he’d not really reacted in a terribly mean way.
Sure, he probably had a line he couldn’t be pushed past, but I’d hit him, and he hadn’t done anything about that at all. Who was this man who tried to put my shoes on, buckle my seatbelt, and had no qualms about yelling at me in public?
Why didn’t he know the rules about dealing with me? You never did anything you didn’t want to see later on five different social media platforms.
Or did he just not care?
As he drove his Porsche through traffic, I examined my feet. They were torn up, and much as I was glad to have my shoes to put on, I almost didn’t want to touch them. They needed to soak before I even attempted to put shoes back on.
“Stay in the car,” Zeke said as he pulled into a space.
I should have argued, but the truth was that I didn’t want to. If he wanted to be this nice to me, my sore feet were going to take him up on the offer. He left the car running, and I watched from behind the tinted window as people stared at it on their way into the hotel. Most of our guests from the wedding-that-wasn’t were staying at the reception site, and I was glad I didn’t have to go there to collect anything.
It would be very awkward to have to see my ex-fiancé’s great aunt right at this moment. Zeke was back fast holding a trash bag I presumed held my stuff in it. Laura Allard had certainly been busy getting my stuff removed from everywhere I’d been. Even the hotel room that should have been mine until the next day.
Zeke got back in the car and held out my phone to me, which I gladly took. He must have pulled it out of the bag. The trash bag got shoved in the small area in the back, that wasn’t really a seat but could hold a bag of that size. Thank goodness I hadn’t had very much stuff here. Had it only been hours ago that I’d been here getting ready to get married?
He didn’t speak when he drove away this time, and I looked down at my phone to distract me from thinking about how all the plans I’d had before today were in three bags, including one made for trash, traveling in Zeke’s car right now.
My phone had blown up. It was really amazing how many of my friends wanted to sympathize with me and claimed to hate Kit when they’d all been singing his praises the last time I’d seen them. And most of them were already leaving Paris. It was also amazing how much privilege we really had. I hardly ever thought about it. I mean, I knew I’d been rich. Right now, I was as poor as I could imagine being financially, even as I sat in a car with a billionaire. But they’d all been in Paris, and now that my wedding wasn’t happening, they’d hightailed it out like I’d asked them to come to some bug-infested nightmare instead of a city people dreamed of seeing their whole lives.
In any case, no one was particularly asking to speak to me. It was like an obligatory text they’d sent to say they did. As I was about to fall off the face of the Earth for most of them, I was sure this would be the last time I heard from at least three-quarters of them. I should have done better than this in picking people to spend my life with. They were just on to the next event, the next photograph opportunity. Did Hope and Bridget have friends? Did Justin?
My betraying brother…
I steadied myself as I opened up Instagram and was immediately bombarded with pictures of myself running away from my wedding. That hadn’t taken long. Hell, probably some of the people who texted me were the ones who’d uploaded these shots.
“Everything okay?” Zeke asked without looking at me, which I appreciated. Right then, I needed to pretend I was in a bubble that no one could see through. My own private bubble that no one could see through but me.
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Uh-huh.” He made a left turn and had a little space ahead of him, so he revved the engine and we sped up like we were floating in air instead of the road. I should have been impressed. Like my friends should have felt lucky to be in Paris. All of us were really just fucked in the head. Did anything impress Zeke? I wasn’t going to ask him. He might ask me back, and then I’d have to explain just how pitiful I was, even in my own head.