Page 42 of Meant to Be

Three days later,when I checked in to the Bristol, the lady at the front desk handed me an envelope with my name written on the front, informing me that it was from a gentleman guest. I nodded and thanked her, thinking it was probably from Wilbur. But the look of restrained glee on her face made me wonder.

There’s no way,I told myself as I declined the bellman’s offer to help with my bag and took the elevator up to the tenth floor, eyeing the envelope the whole way. When I got to my room, I started to open it but felt so foolishly hopeful that I made myself put it down on the bed and wait a little longer.

I went to work unpacking and getting organized for the week. It was a ritual that never got old, especially when I was in an upscale hotel. I arranged my makeup and toiletries in the marble bathroom; hung my dresses and skirts in the closet; filled the dresser drawers with my knits, nightgowns, and underwear; lined my shoes against one wall; and placed my handbags, clutches, and belts on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Last, I put my jewelry in the safe, setting the code to 3005, my childhood apartment number in Hackensack.

At that point, I sat on the bed and picked up the envelope, feeling a bit more in control. It probably wasn’t from Joeanyway, and even if it was, I didn’t have to get swept up in one of his grand romantic gestures. I owed him exactly nothing. But as I opened the letter and saw his initials at the bottom of the page, I could feel my heart beating faster. Then I scanned up to read:

Dear Cate, I know you’re going to be very busy this week, but I took my chances that you might have an opening in your schedule. I’m in Room 1010 if you want to reach me. If I don’t hear from you, no worries. Paris is never a bad idea. Fondly, JSK

I put the letter back down on the bed as it started to sink in that Joe was not only in Paris but alsoinmy hotel, andonmy floor—which I didn’t believe for one second was a coincidence. It was just further evidence that he could get anything he wanted. Whether a room in a sold-out hotel or a girl.Anygirl. Honestly, my mind was a little blown, but I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by his effort or suspicious of his intentions. I ruled out the former, telling myself there was no way he’d come just to see me. At the very least, he had a backup plan—another woman he could call and wine and dine. His spontaneous trip to Paris wasn’t romantic—it was about the thrill of the chase, and the fact that he couldn’t take no for an answer. The second he got what he wanted—which undoubtedly was sex—he’d move on to his next conquest. I’d been down this road before, just never with stakes this high or a man this famous. I told myself it was all the same thing, though, and as long as I knew the deal up front and didn’t cross any lines, I could play along with his game. So I picked up the phone and dialed his room.

Joe answered on the first ring, saying a cheerful hello.

My heart pounding, I said, “Hey, Joe. It’s Cate.”

“Cate!” he said. “You got my note! I’m so glad to hear from you!”

“Uh-huh,” I said, cool as can be. “And what brings you to Paris?”

“Umm…I’m here to see you…. I mean, I was hoping to take you to dinner,” he said, sounding the slightest bit flustered.

“So, you really rolled the dice with that one.”

“What can I say? I live on the edge.”

“You sure do.”

“Well? Are you free at all?” he asked.

“Well, let’s see…. I’m pretty booked this week—but I’m free tonight if you are?”

“I am!” he said. “And I’dloveto have dinner with you. Where would you like to go?”

“How about Epicure? Right downstairs?” I said, thinking the hotel restaurant seemed like less of a date than going out on the town.

“Perfect. I’ll make a reservation,” he said. “How does seven sound?”

“Make it eight,” I said, figuring I might as well make him wait an extra hour.

—

A long napand a cold shower later, I was standing before my closet in a plush white towel, a second one wrapped around my head, debating what to wear to dinner with Joe Kingsley. Obviously I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want to flatter him by trying too hard, either. I also wanted to reinforce the point that I was a serious professional woman—and that he was crashing my business trip. In that vein, I contemplated my go-to camel-colored pencil skirt, which I could pair with a black cashmere sweater or a crisp white blouse. Then again, I didn’t have to be quite sobuttoned up. I could just as easily play his game while looking a bit sexy, which might be more satisfying, especially when it came time to reject him.

Ultimately, I opted for a clingy but still understated black sheath dress—a sample from our new collection—and four-inch strappy stilettos that would put me at his height, maybe slightly taller. I kept my jewelry simple, wearing only diamond stud earrings and a slim gold cuff bracelet, and pulled my hair back in a low, tight chignon. Finally, I did my makeup with a light hand—as usual—just a little concealer and powder, along with black mascara and my signature red lipstick.

Glancing at the clock, I saw that I still had a few minutes to kill before I hit the “fashionably late” window, so I sat down to call Arlo, who was in Brazil for a soccer match. I was prepared to tell him the truth—that I was having dinner with a pushy client who happened to be Joe Kingsley—but felt a little relieved when he didn’t answer his phone. I would tell him later, no big deal, I told myself as I gathered up my room key, lipstick, and compact. I stashed them all in my small black clutch, then headed out the door.

A moment later, I was off the elevator and walking toward the restaurant. As I gave myself a final pep talk about not, under any circumstances, falling for Joe Kingsley, I spotted him standing by the maître d’s podium in his new Wilbur suit and was freshly overcome by how handsome he was. I stopped in my tracks and took a deep breath just as he looked up and saw me. His face lit up, and I saw him mouth an unmistakablewowas I walked the rest of the way to him at a confident runway pace.

“Wow,” he repeated in a whisper when I reached him. “Hello, Cate.”

“Hello, Joe,” I said with only a hint of a smile.

He hesitated, then placed one hand on the small of my back,the other on my shoulder, and gave me a double-cheek kiss, which can feel a little pretentious coming from an American. But I decided it worked in this case, perhaps because we were in Paris—or maybe because he was Joe Kingsley, after all. American royalty.

“You look stunning,” he said.

I thanked him, debating whether to return the compliment. I decided that he’d heard it enough and simply said, “I like your suit.”

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