Mix 'N Match (No Match for Love) (15 page)

“Do you have a room preference?”

“I usually stay in that one” —he pointed to the room to their right— “so that’s probably where Phillipe put my luggage. Yours should be in the other room.”

“Great. I’m going to bed now. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t sleep on the plane.”

“Zoey . . .” he began again. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say—don’t be angry at me? It’s okay if you antagonize Alan with your crazy schemes? Truthfully, a subdued version of Zoey might make the next two weeks easier, in more ways than one.

Zoey pinned him to the floor with a glare that could’ve cut diamonds. “Goodnight, Mitch. I’ll be ready to leave by nine o’clock.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, but shut her bedroom door firmly behind her.

Mitch rubbed a hand over his face and silently groaned. He was forever screwing things up with her. He hadn’t meant to be insulting.

In his own room, he sank down onto the queen-sized bed, this time letting out a real groan. The mattress was the perfect balance of soft and firm. He reached down and gently eased one shoe off, then the other. His feet let out a sigh of relief at being released from their tight confines. He’d have to consider dressing more casual and wearing the tennis shoes he’d brought for his morning runs if they kept walking all over the city.

No, these shoes would be fine. They weren’t here to play tourist, and Phillipe would drive them to their appointments with Juliette.

Mitch stripped down to his boxer-briefs, then lay back on his bed. Hopefully Jasmine would still be on her lunch break. She’d seem excited for her first day when he’d talked to her a few hours ago. She’d already found someone interested in the contract for the apartment and would be moving home this weekend.

The phone rang and rang. Maybe she was already off break. He was just about to hang up when Jasmine finally picked up.

“Hello?” Her voice was a strained whisper.

Mitch sat up in bed, frowning. “Hey. I’m just calling to see how your first day is going.”

“Great. Everything I hoped for and more.” He heard the false brightness in her tone, hiding the stress underneath.

“Jas, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Jas . . .”

She let out a sigh. “It’s just been a stressful day,” she said, her voice still a whisper. “I don’t think the boss likes me. There have been some communication issues, and I got her coffee order wrong and took some samples to the wrong design house. But it’s nothing. I’ve got things under control.”

“That doesn’t sound under control. Where was the communication breakdown?”

“I’m sure it’s just some traditional hazing of the new intern.”

“Wait, you mean your boss is trying to make you fail?” The hairs on the back of Mitch’s neck pricked up in anger.

“Not my boss. Her assistant. But it’s fine. I have a plan, and tomorrow will be better.”

“Jasmine, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I swear, Mitch, I am going to lose it.” Someone said something, but the words were muffled, as though Jasmine had covered her phone. When her voice came back on, it was nervous. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Mitch.”

“Bye,” Mitch said. But Jasmine had already hung up.

He set his phone on the bedside table, wishing he could jump through the line and wring the neck of the assistant trying to make Jasmine look bad. He took a deep, cleansing breath. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe Jasmine would decide fashion wasn’t worth it after all and go back to school.

She was making a huge mistake, and there was nothing he could do about it but sit back and watch.

Mitch closed his eyes and lay flat on his back in the middle of the bed, slowly and consciously relaxing each muscle in his body. It would take at least thirty minutes of meditation to make the stress from today disappear.

Today, Zoey would be subdued. She would be calm. She would channel her inner Brooke.

She would hopefully avoid Alan.

She speared the last bite of her omelet and chased it down with a croissant. That settled it—she was never returning to California. She wondered if Luke’s personal chef accepted coupon books filled with IOUs for eternal gratitude and undying love as payment.

Her phone skittered across the desk as it rang the trilling chime that meant someone wanted to video chat. Zoey quickly downed her juice and picked up her phone. Brooke was trying to call her.

Act natural. Don’t let on that Alan’s here.
Zoey quickly wiped her mouth with the napkin and then accepted the call. “Hey,” she said, putting on a bright smile.

“Hey,” Brooke said. Her makeup was flawless but didn’t cover the anxiety in her eyes, even if it did mostly hide the dark circles. Brooke shifted, and Zoey could just make out the bookcase behind Brooke’s desk at Toujour. Looked like she was putting in another late night at work. “How are things going with the wedding planning?”

“We visited Versailles yesterday. It’s so beautiful, Brooke.”

Brooke smiled, and some of the tiredness left her eyes. “Isn’t it perfect? I’m so excited. I know Luke’s security team was a little leery about the location, but when we visited in March, I knew it was the perfect place for our wedding. It’s so different from anything else.” She didn’t say the words, but Zoey knew what Brooke really meant—Versailles was completely different from the vineyard in California where Brooke had planned to marry her ex-fiancé. No doubt the differences had helped convince Luke the security risks were worth it. Plus, when they’d chosen the location, the paparazzi had merely been a nuisance instead of a threat.

“It is perfect,” Zoey agreed. “Juliette is really sweet and seems competent.” She’d be even sweeter if she could stop being all sexy and appealing with her long legs and French accent, but Brooke didn’t need to know that. “We’re meeting with the string quartet this morning, and I think we’re reviewing the cake options tomorrow. Juliette mentioned something about a tasting. Oh, and the florist in a few days.”

Brooke sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “I wish I could be there. I hate that the paparazzi is preventing me from being a bride.”

“I know. But Mitch and I have everything under control.” Zoey wished she could reach through the phone and give Brooke a squeeze. “I’ve got your back.”

“I know you do. Luke and I are finally in such a great place. I just want our wedding to reflect that.”

If it didn’t, Zoey would be to blame. She swallowed hard. “It will. Promise. Now, you want nontraditional music for the ceremony, right?”

“Yes, but still really classy. No Bach or anything. Just pretty, pretty instrumental songs. Can you video chat with me while you’re there so I can hear them play?”

If it weren’t for Zoey, Brooke would be here doing this herself. Zoey rubbed her finger over the side of the phone case, wondering if Brooke could feel her guilt from an ocean away. “Of course I will, as long as the internet connection’s good. But I have everything under control. Okay? You can trust me.”

“I know, and I do.” Brooke blew out a breath, causing her bangs to puff outward. “I hate this. I hate the whole freakin’ media.”

“Parasites, all of them.”

“You have no idea how much I appreciate this, Zo.”

“I’m the reason you aren’t here yourself. I’m
so
sorry, Brooke. If I could go back in time and change things, I would.”

Brooke’s brows furrowed, and she pursed her lips. “There’s no way you could’ve know this would happen. It’s not your fault.”

Except it maybe—probably—was. Zoey wished she could stuff this guilt into a garbage sack and toss it in a bin.

“The paparazzi hasn’t been giving you any issues there, have they?” Brooke asked, leaning toward the camera.

“No,” Zoey said quickly. “I haven’t run into a single pap.” Which was technically true. They’d more run
away
from Alan than into him. And besides, they still weren’t one hundred percent sure he was paparazzi.

Except he totally was.

Brooke leaned back in her chair, letting out a sigh. “Good. I can’t wait for those bottom feeders to find some other pseudo-celebrity to stalk. I just want to live my life in peace and quiet.”

Zoey had a feeling that life as Luke’s wife would never be peaceful or quiet. The paparazzi would get bored and go away eventually, but Luke was a business tycoon regularly listed in Forbes magazine as one of the top one hundred richest men in the world. “Things will calm down after the wedding.”

“I hope so.” Brooke picked up her phone, glancing at something on the screen. “I’d better go. I’ve got a meeting with the staff in the morning to explain our new online application process and I still need to prepare. Don’t worry, it’s easy. I’ll show it to you when you get back.”

A lump formed in Zoey’s throat, and she forced herself to nod. “Sounds good. I’ll talk to you later, then?”

“I’ll plan on it. Lianna will email you some photos of flower arrangements I really love to give you an idea of what I’m going for. Thanks again, Zo.” Brooke gave a little wave, and then the screen went dark.

Zoey closed the app on her phone, trying to push back the guilt. It would be selfish and cruel to bring up her job woes to Brooke right now, when she had so much else on her plate. Brooke adored Toujour and everything about it. The promotion to head of the Los Angeles office had been a dream come true. She’d never understand why working there made Zoey feel claustrophobic.

Maybe she could still work at Toujour while doing makeup artistry on the side. With Brooke moving out, Zoey would pay double in rent, unless she decided to find another roommate. It didn’t make sense to give up her only stable source of income, especially since Toujour was doing so well right now. Zoey had more clients than she could keep up with.

But her makeup business was also exploding, and she was having to turn those clients away.

Anger ripped through Zoey, the fury taking her breath away. Why did she let Brooke’s opinion matter so much? Yeah, she was closer than a sister, but this was Zoey’s life. Any other job—and any other boss—and Zoey would’ve quit months ago.

A knock sounded at her door. “Zoey, are you about ready? Phillipe’s waiting downstairs.”

Zoey glanced at her phone. 8:45—fifteen minutes before they’d agreed to leave. “Give me five minutes,” she called. No way she was leaving this room without brushing her teeth. Not because she thought Mitch would get close enough to smell the tomato and green chilies on her breath, but because it was polite.

“Okay,” Mitch said. Footsteps, muffled by carpet, disappeared as he walked away.

Zoey decided to wear the gladiator sandals today, just in case they ended up running from Alan. She piled her hair on top of her head in an elegant high pony that would do double duty keeping her neck from getting so hot and sweaty. Paris in August was a lot hotter—and stickier—than she’d anticipated. Her loose boho blouse with the open back and crisscross ties in front nearly hid her jean shorts.

Zoey grabbed her yellow purse with the short strap from off her dresser and dumped the contents onto the bed.

Mitch was wrong. Alan hadn’t bugged her purse. She’d gone through everything last night.

But it didn’t hurt to check again.

She glanced at the door to make sure it was still shut, then slowly picked her way through the items in her purse, looking for anything out of place that she might’ve missed in her previous check. She grabbed a slender knit purse with fringe along the bottom and dropped her wallet, phone, and lip gloss inside after checking each item. There was nothing out of place.

Mitch was paranoid. Alan wasn’t tracking them.

Nineteen minutes later, Zoey emerged from her bedroom, her most-definitely-not-bugged purse slung across her shoulder so it rested against her opposite hip. Mitch sat on the couch in the living room, his tablet predictably in his hand.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

“It’s 9:04. That’s as good as on time.”

“I’m worried we’ll get caught in traffic. Did you eat?” He finally looked up, his warm eyes drawing her in. “I’m not sure when we’ll stop for lunch, and I don’t want you to starve today.”