The Layover - Cassie Cross Page 0,2
minutes, and even gets Evan to check and see if he knows anyone who has a place. What few rooms we do find are priced for supermodels, not regular people who just want to eat their way through the city and relax.
“Maybe one of the cab drivers will let me sleep in his back seat,” I say, just throwing the option out there to see if it sticks.
I kick a pebble across the sidewalk, then stand and rummage through my bag to fish out a jacket. It’s early spring and the region has been unseasonably warm, but tonight there’s a chilly breeze.
Not wanting to put my phone down, I awkwardly cradle it against my chin as I try slipping my arm through the sleeve. I almost have my other arm through when my phone breaks free and crashes against the ground.
I reach for it quickly; it’s my only lifeline right now. I must go for it at the same time someone else does, because our heads crack together with what feels like an ungodly force.
The guy manages to get the phone, while I stand and clamp my hand against my forehead, trying to get my bearings.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
His voice trails off, either because I am severely concussed or because my stomach doing somersaults turned off blood flow to my brain. Because I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s whispered my name between kisses, yelled at me when I was being a little too stubborn. It’s comforted me when I was crying, and used to be my favorite sound in the world.
Until its owner used it to break up with me going on four years ago now.
He’s still gorgeous as ever, and the years since I’ve seen him have definitely been more than kind.
“Macy?” he asks, the confusion on his face melting into that crooked smile I used to dream about.
“Hi Beckett.”
Chapter Two
As I stare at Beckett like a deer in the headlights, I vaguely make out Lindsay calling my name.
“I think someone wants you,” he says, passing the phone over to me.
I blink a couple of times because the world is still a little shaky, then take it from him and press it against my ear.
“Are you okay? Who’s that? Should I dial whatever international nine-one-one is?”
“It’s Beckett,” I say.
She’s quiet for a couple of seconds. “Oh. Are you okay?”
I know she’s not just asking about my physical well-being. Lindsay is well versed in the terms of our breakup. Am I okay? My heart’s still cracked from the last time I saw him and if the pain in my head is any indication, now my skull is too. He tentatively reaches out and presses his hand against mine where it rests near my hairline in an attempt to soothe the ache.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, too distracted by the heat of his skin to be able to elaborate. “Can I call you back?”
She hesitates, but agrees. “Yeah, sure. Should I keep looking for a place?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Do I need to run a background check on him or anything, see what he’s been up to over the years?”
I laugh. “No, I don’t think he’s resorted to a life of crime.”
Beckett looks at me like he thinks I might need medical attention.
I’m fine, I mouth to him before gently ducking out from under his touch so I can think straight.
“Okay. Call me if you need anything. If I don’t hear from you by morning, I’ll fly over there myself.”
“Deal.”
We say our goodbyes and I tuck my phone back into my pocket.
“Do we need to go to the hospital?” he asks, half teasing. He’s much taller than I remember. The lines of his face have sharpened, and there’s a peppering of stubble along his jaw that wasn’t there back when we dated and really works for him. His brown hair flops across his forehead, messy from him running his fingers through it. I’m reminded of all the times I’d tease him about needing a cut, how his eyes would flutter closed and he’d hum happily when I’d run my fingers through it.
He’s always been handsome, but he’s gorgeous now. Fit to be memorialized in marble at the Louvre.
“I’m fine,” I promise him.
“What are you doing here?” we ask each other in unison.
Beckett decides to go first. “Why am I on this corner, or why am I in Paris?”
That’s the writer in him talking; overly wordy and wanting to make things as clear as possible.
“Both.”
He holds up a canvas bag I didn’t