Page 23 of Counting Down To You

But not now. Because, right now, there is someone coming into view outside the hotel entrance.

Lucie.

Leo starts walking toward her, leaving me with no choice but to follow. Lucie is checking her phone, but she glances up as we approach. The light of her screen illuminates her face, so I see something flickering in her gaze, before it’s carefully concealed. She looks back down, typing something on her phone.

“The others are coming,” she says without looking up. She’s wearing a long blue coat, and her near-black hair is pinned up in a sophisticated knot.

Leo nods, then looks toward the hotel entrance. “In that case, I’m going to quickly check something at reception. Be back in a sec.” And he disappears up the front steps, leaving me and Lucie alone.

For a moment, it’s painfully quiet, Lucie still swiping away. Then she puts her phone into the handbag she’s carrying and looks pointedly down at my shoes. “For God’s sake, he didn’t even tell you what to pack?”

I look down at my feet too. I’ve gone for my Converse, the most practical shoes I brought with me. Already they are a little damp. “We didn’t really discuss it, to be honest,” I say. Which is accurate.

Lucie sighs and I think again how impressive her sighs are. “Hang on,” she says, already turning and heading back into the hotel, leaving me standing out the front like a bloody lemon.

Lucie reappears within minutes. “Here.” She shoves a pair of boots into my hands. “They’ll probably be a bit big, but the paths might not all be clear from the snow earlier and it’s better than getting your feet soaked.” I look from the boots back up to Lucie, who shrugs. “I keep a spare pair at work. There’s a few shops in town—it’s not exactly the Parisian high street, but you’ll be able to find something on your day off. Until then…” She shoves the boots toward me again.

It’s an olive branch, I think. So I take the boots. “Thank you,” I say, bending to switch my shoes.

Lucie grunts her acknowledgment as Leo comes back out, chatting to Elodie, with a tall man—in his fifties, perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair and an impressive scowl—trailing behind. Lucie looks deliberately away from them as I stand up, holding my trainers.

“You don’t like him,” I state quietly, safe in the knowledge that Elodie’s chatter is masking our conversation.

Lucie meets my gaze. “I don’t like him.” Well at least she’s honest.

“And you don’t like me? Because I’m dating him?” I stumble over the last part and hope it’s not noticeable. I wonder briefly if Lucie fancies Leo—or had done at one point. She’s saying she doesn’t like him, but plenty of people are secretly in love with someone they claim to hate. I don’t quite get the hate you but long for you vibe, though.

“I don’t know you,” Lucie says, a touch of impatience in her voice. “Look, I apologize for how I treated you when you got here. We’d only just found out that there was a new GRM coming, and then the news of you and Brooks—it threw me a bit. But that is personal, and I am—or I usually am, anyway—professional.” She takes a breath, and I can see the effort behind her words. “I want you to know I care about the hotel. I care about my job. So I won’t get in your way or anything—okay?”

I don’t really know what to say to that. It’s not exactly super warm, but it’s more than I thought I’d get, and it’s a lot better than openly antagonistic. And, I remind myself, I’m only here for a few weeks. So I nod, offer Lucie a small smile. “Okay. Thank you.”

Lucie nods too, then glances again at Leo. “Just…be careful, okay? That’s all I’m going to say.”

And yet that in itself is enough to make me wonder.

Nick, the redheaded chef from earlier, is the last to join our little group, and the six of us head toward the bar together, after I take a quick detour to dump my trainers back at home. The pavement is mostly clear of snow, presumably from people walking back and forth, though there are places that are distinctly slushy, making me grateful for the change of shoes.

“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask Elodie, falling into step with her. “Isn’t it her birthday?”

“Oh, she’s already there,” Elodie says, the glint of her jewelry more obvious under the moonlight. “Housekeeping finish earlier than us. We are going for…”

“Moral support,” pipes up Lucie from behind.

“Free drinks,” declares Nick.

“Because you are making us,” says the man I don’t know.

Elodie makes a tch sound, then smiles at me. “Ignore my husband, Ali. He’s rude both in the kitchen and out.”

“Your husband?” I don’t know why I sound so incredulous. Elodie’s perfectly entitled to be married. He’s just very…scowly.

“Oh! You haven’t met yet, have you? Marco, say hello to Ali.”

Marco. As in the head chef?

Marco grunts what just about passes as a hello in my direction, then mutters something in French to Elodie. I wonder if he is actually French or if he’s just speaking it to have a private conversation with her in front of the rest of us.

When we get to the bar, there is a handful of people outside puffing on vapes and cigarettes, the smoke curling up around the iron lanterns hanging over the entrance. I’m overwhelmed by the heat of the place as we step inside, a combination of the fire crackling in the corner and the many bodies already crammed inside. I can smell hops and sweat, woodsmoke and pine. Green tinsel and fairy lights run along the wooden bar, and a band is set up on one side of the bar, a female singer taking the lead.