Page 10 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
He freaked out, frozen in the moment. Panicked, he got to witness a hot firefighter perform CPR, save my life, and,incidentally, steal me from a dead-end relationship. A nightmare that, in the end, worked out in my favor.
I feel the weight of Simon’s stare as I fill out the required information, like the fact that my nut allergies are thankfully limited to tree nuts, so that helps. Has he never seen a left-handed person?
“Here you go.”
He glances at the form, noticing my place of residence. “Merci… I’m sorry, I’m afraid my French is way too rusty to entertain you with my witty suggestions for our delightful city of Princedelphia. I haven’t used it since high school.”
“No worries, feel free to share any suggestions in English. As you can see, I’m staying for a few months, so I’ll have plenty of opportunities to explore the area.” Like the tourist that I’m not. “I’d be happy to help you practice your French, too, if you’re interested.”
“Why, thank you. I’ll take you up on the offer, sir. But we can save that conversation for later. First things first—let’s get you settled in, shall we?” Simon hands me the room key card, goes over the lunch options, both on-site and nearby. Before I go, he produces a paper map and circles a few spots, commenting on them. “Apart from these tourist spots within walking distance of the hotel and near the boardwalk,”—he points to a location that I recognize—“one main attraction is the Metropolitan Museum.”
Averting my eyes from his for a split second, I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from curling up while my heart speeds up. My poker face on, I look at him. “So I’ve been told.”
“There’s a new exhibition I highly recommend. It opened a couple of days ago.” I nod as if I wasn’t privy to this information. As if the exhibit isn’t the sole reason for my extended visit. As if…
Oblivious to my wicked intentions, Simon carries on in a gleeful tone. “It’s a tribute to the numerous princes who’ve stayed in Princedelphia over the centuries. Paintings, artifacts, and clothing from their kingdoms, so people can learn more about their culture. This area will be chock-full of tourists in the upcoming weeks.”
I point at myself. “Tourists like me!” With that, he wishes me a good day, and we part ways.
Declining help from the hotel staff, I sling my duffel bag over one shoulder and grip the handle of my giant suitcase. It drags behind me as I stroll toward the right side of the entrance. A familiar weight. I don’t mind carrying my own. But as I settle in motion, a couple’s reunion grabs my attention.
First, my head swivels at the sound of the man dropping his bags. The thumping resonates in my ears. Why aim for the tiles when he could have opted for a softer landing on the red carpet by the counter?
He’s a few feet away from me, with his back to me. He shifts, and a sliver of his face appears, framed by his shoulder’s curve. A fleeting image—a whisper of a cheekbone, the shadow of an eye. Then, gone. Now, only the phantom touch of that glimpse and the empty space where his features remain, fueling my imagination.
Second, I watch him watching an older woman. In the middle of the elegant art déco lobby, I can’t tear my eyes off him. I’m shocked by how out of place he looks. Dark hair pulledback. Pale pistachio green suit. Impressive build… His physique clashes with his style, ripped straight from a TV series of another century. What’s that show my gran wouldn’t miss for anything? I’m mindful of details, but I don’t care much about watching TV and can’t put my finger on it. Who cares anyway?
Third, it’s easy to figure out that the man’s gaze—no doubt intense—is solely focused on her as he confidently strides her way and engulfs her in a tight, carefree, and warm embrace. I can’t hear their whispered words. She’s on tiptoe to hold the embrace until he lifts her from the ground and whirls her around.
Spying on their reunion sends goosebumps across my skin. I’ve never shared that kind of intimacy with anyone. Would I want that? I shake my head dismissively. Nope, I’m much better off keeping my encounters casual. It’s easier to handle on so many levels.
I wonder what they are to one another. Given the direction the petite African-American woman came from, I’m guessing she works here. But why do I care?
When he finally releases her, I notice the megawatt smile on her pretty but tired face.
Eventually, my spine stiffens when I register that I’m unabashedly staring at their intimate moment. Shame on me! Grunting at myself for being hypnotized by them, I force myself to look the other way, get going, and follow the directions that Simon gave me.
Within minutes, I’m standing in the corridor of the east wing of the hotel, which I was told is old yet recently remodeled, while the west wing is still under renovation.
I’m waiting for the elevator to take me to my junior suite on the sixteenth floor. It’s stuck on one of the top floors where the suites are located, Simon said earlier. Most comfortable. Most wanted. Most expensive. Shocker!
It’s one perk of being the best in my field of expertise—I’m not bragging, just stating facts. All of my wealthy clients include the price of any accommodation they deem necessary to complete the job, in addition to the hefty amount they’re paying me. By now, my reputation precedes me, and they’re all well-aware I’m a grumpy motherfucker. I can’t complain, even though I’ve only cashed twenty percent of this mission upfront. I’m not worried; I’ve worked with this kind of organization before.
Everything in this area of the hotel evokes a sense of quaint elegance mixed with ominous grandeur. I couldn’t be happier. It somehow suits my preferred fashion aesthetic, which is a cross between steampunk and the Victorian era. The two massive elevators in the more modern entrance of the hotel looked nothing like the one I’m waiting for. I haven’t seen the cabin yet, but if the wrought-iron sliding door is any indication, it’ll be different, and I wonder why the two parts of the hotel don’t look alike.
I don’t have time to dwell on it because my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. Retrieving it, I look at the screen and smile.
Noé
Did you make it safe?
His overbearing concern warms my heart. Since saving my life at Mont Saint-Michel about five years ago, Noé’s became my protector, savior, and best friend. Well, he was my one-night stand first, right after I broke it off with my jackass of aboyfriend. I guess Noé and I needed to find an outlet from the stress-induced traumatic event we’d shared.
That day rewired my brain. I wasn’t the same person after. The mask I wear as my persona only lifts for the happy few. Noé is one of them. One day at a time, a genuine friendship grew from our unlikely bond. The distance between Normandy and Paris was never an issue. Nor were his five years on me—or the fact that I’d taken an alternative path, cutting college short after discovering my true calling. One that sent me all over the world.
I hastily type a response as I hear the elevator approaching.
Théo
