that give me the right to make a scene?” She tried to meet the other passengers’ eyes, but there were no takers. “Doesn’t it?”
Cool fingers circled her upper arm and an accented voice said calmly, “Please return to your seat or we will be forced to make a stop in New York City where you will be escorted off the plane and detained. Do you understand?”
Jasmine attempted to tug her arm out of the attendant’s grasp but the woman was freakishly strong. Fucking French.
“I—” When she turned her head she was met with the sincerest smile she’d received from the woman yet.
“Please,” the woman said soothingly. Her sincerity came as such a surprise that Jasmine’s knees buckled and the woman had to help her back into her seat.
Jazz caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume—Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, if she wasn’t mistaken—as the flight attendant leaned over her to secure Jasmine’s seat belt. Tasteful, subtle, perfect.
“I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day. Please don’t make it any worse.” Before standing, the woman tucked a handful of tissues into Jasmine’s fist and, moving close to her ear, whispered, “Whoever this man is who hurt you? He did not deserve you.”
THE SECOND JASMINE opened the door to her hotel room, she smelled roses.
Ugh.
Towing her bag behind her like it was an old, arthritic dog who was too tired to go for a walk, Jasmine made her way through the suite she had so lovingly booked months ago. Months ago when she thought she’d be sharing this room with the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. But he’d been lying to her the whole time! Asshole.
The room was gorgeous—dammit! Twelve-foot ceilings and original crown molding from when the hotel was a mansion owned by a famous jeweler who had bought it for his mistress during the Renaissance. Now the beautiful, airy suite only mocked her. The Louis XIV furniture taunted her, reminding her that she’d chosen it for Parker. She preferred country chic. The filmy white drapes only served to remind her of the ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown that hid in her closet like a shameful secret, never to be worn.
But the worst was what she found on the polished cherrywood table in the sitting area: a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, with an envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Parker Wright propped between the berries and an ice bucket. Inside the bucket was a bottle of champagne sitting at a jaunty angle, chillin’.
Like a villain.
Stupid champagne.
Jasmine plucked the bottle from the bucket, unwrapped the foil on top and popped the cork. It ricocheted off what she hoped was an imitation painting, then off the crown molding, landing somewhere behind a potted plant. Not bothering with the crystal flutes, Jasmine drank directly from the bottle like it was water and she was dying of thirst.
“Hair of the dog,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She set the bottle on the table, unconcerned with the wet patch left on the highly polished tabletop, and rummaged in her bag for aspirin. Instead of the travel-sized bottle of pills, she located her cell phone.
According to her phone it was 3:23 and there were forty-seven—yes, forty-seven!—texts waiting for her. Reminding her—as if she needed any more reminders—of the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours.
With a groan, she tapped the message app...
Five from her mother. Delete.
Two from her father. Delete.
Thirteen from her best friend, Ashley...hmm. Maybe she’d read those later.
Twenty-seven from Parker.
The man was desperate.
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but instead of deleting the messages, she deleted him from her contact list.
“Liar. You’re dead to me,” she muttered before tilting her head way back and letting the bubbly burn down her throat.
Parker’s voice rose between her ears, C’mon, Jazz. I figured you knew. Nothing has to change between us. I still love you, you know, as a best friend. He’d made that statement while sitting in bed beside his lover. Then he’d gotten out of bed and approached her, hands out, pleading. You can have whatever life you want, I won’t interfere. All I ask is that you keep my private life secret.
Honestly? In this day and age, why did he need to pretend? Well, she’d asked him that question directly.
It’s my father. He’s homophobic, okay? I’ll lose the trust fund.
God! So, all of this was for the money? He’d deceived her for years just so he could maintain his precious lifestyle?
Not that she’d minded the lifestyle. It was what had kept her from making demands, from thinking too hard about the lack of intimacy and passion she’d yearned for. Parker’s generosity seemed proof enough he loved her, and she’d been so wrapped up in their perfect life, she’d failed to see what was happening right in front of her.
With bottle in hand, Jasmine wove toward the window, pushing the drapes aside so she could admire the view.
And what a view. The rounded Parisian rooftops, the Eiffel Tower—so close she could practically lick it. The view was the reason Jasmine had chosen this suite, a dream come true...
Opening the French doors, Jasmine stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony. Fresh air. That was what she needed. She plunked herself down in the chair and set the bottle on the glass-topped bistro table as she gazed out at the magnificent sight.
And she had no one to share it with. She was completely and utterly alone. She sighed, slumping with the weight of self-pity. Wasn’t she allowed? She’d been ready to give Parker everything, thinking he’d felt the same way. She shut her eyes. Maybe her ex-fiancé cared for her, even loved her, like he’d said. But it wasn’t the kind of love she’d thought it was. The love she’d always craved. And she wasn’t ready to forgive him for tricking her into believing that it was. Her phone chirped, and Jasmine automatically glanced down. Another message from Ashley. Tapping on the message app, she skimmed the messages.
Jazz? Are you okay? Call me.
Please, let me know you’re okay.
Your parents are worried. You should call them.
Jazz? Are you in Paris?
Instead of replying to the text, Jasmine touched the FaceTime button. Her best friend answered immediately. The video was grainy, but Jasmine could still see the dark circles beneath Ashley’s hazel eyes and that her fine blond hair had yet to be combed.
“What time is it there?” Jasmine asked by way of a greeting.
Ashley blinked. “It’s twenty to ten.”
“In the morning?”
Ashley’s
