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Chapter Twenty
From the far side of Hyde Park, the Dorchester wasn’t anything to write home about. It looked, truth be told, like a cream-colored apartment building with extremely well-manicured gardens out front. As Remy walked closer, though, the evidence that it was Vivi Swan worthy began to appear. Alert doormen in crisp suits and top hats. Valets taking the keys to cars Remy couldn’t so much as name, much less imagine driving. The warm glow of a gold-plated lobby. Remy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, fighting both the chill of the hour and the city, and approached.
The doormen didn’t stop him, though he saw their appraising looks. The attendant just through the doors, however, gave him a smile that clearly said,Just a moment.
“I’m meeting a friend here,” Remy said, smiling politely.
“Of course! I’ll give them a call. Which room?” he asked in a chipper British accent. His teeth were flawless; Remy wondered if bad British teeth were a stereotype or if this was just the sort of hotel where bad British anything was unacceptable.
“I’m not sure, I’m afraid. I’m producing with Vivi Swan, and she asked me to meet her,” he said smoothly. He’d prepared to be stopped—he looked perfectly fine but not like someone who had a room at the Dorchester—and had prepared for the look of surprise that the attendant was now giving him.
“I can wait for her. She’s meeting me here,” Remy said then brushed past the attendant to sit on one of the camel-colored benches in the lobby.
The attendant looked torn between his responsibility to maintain a high-profile guest’s privacy and Remy’s calm. It was ultimately decided when the elevator arrived and Vivi stepped out, precisely at one o’clock.
“Remy,” she said, smiling at him. She was done up as ever—lipstick, eyeliner, heels—but she was wearing a long tan coat with fluffy lining and a knit cap that made her hair frame her face prettily. She was holding an acoustic guitar case. Remy wanted to kiss her, but this wasn’t SALT, and he wasn’t sure where his feet were.
He swallowed.
“Miss Swan,” the attendant said kindly, bowing a bit as she breezed past.
“Have a lovely evening,” she said then tilted her head at Remy, indicating he should follow her. They went not out the front door but rather through the kitchen and through an employee exit that put them out in a parking deck.
“I know all the ways out of hotels,” she said when Remy gave her an impressed look. “The hotel in Berlin has a secret cellar exit that lets you out on the other side of the street.”
“How spy-like,” Remy said, following her through the deck, which dumped them into what was, essentially, an alley.
She laughed lightly. “Europe has better secret exits than the States. I think because the buildings are all old and elaborate? But it’s great for escaping without being followed. It almost makes me feel like I’m just…you know. Some girl, exploring a city. Like in a movie,” she said, sounding almost wistful. The tone of voice, what it did to her eyes and her lips, made her particularly beautiful.
“Alright. So where are we escaping to, exactly?” Remy asked softly.
“To London,” she answered, smiling up at him. Remy badly wanted to reach for her hand, but he could tell from the way her eyes kept scanning the darkened windows that this was probably a risk she wouldn’t appreciate, no matter how clever her escape route. Instead, he offered to take the guitar from her, and when she allowed it, gripped the handle hard to squeeze the prancing energy from his body.
London’s streets were dark and almost, but not quite, eerie. It wasn’t that they felt dangerous or malicious—it was that they felt soold. At night, without the distraction of cars and phones and people, it was as if the ghosts came out. Remy didn’t spook easily, but he was surprised Vivi was so calm about walking through a city in the middle of the night, not because she was Vivi Swan but because she was a hundred-fifteen-pound girl in heels. He hoped very badly that he wasn’t going to be expected to fight a British punk to defend anyone’s honor.
They walked past Buckingham Palace, which Remy recognized from movies, then past gardens and another massive park of rolling hills and trees stretched up into the cold stars. They approached the river, still and black and hemmed in by stone walls. Westminster Abbey—Vivi told him what it was—appeared before them, its two towers glowing gold in the navy sky. She was clearly familiar with London and clearly eager to share that familiarity with him.
“The royals get married there. I was so obsessed with Harry and Meghan’s wedding.”
“So was Celeste. Why?” Remy asked.
Vivi shrugged. “The spectacle of it, I guess? I mean, that was a hell of a thing for Meghan to do, marry into royalty. And then, to watch her take her life back after they hurt her, to just leave with Harry and their family and…I don’t know. I admire it,” Vivi said and took a step that brought her closer to Remy, close enough that their elbows knocked against each other, soft through layers of coat material, sending the guitar case wobbling on its handle for a moment.
“Can’t have been easy,” Remy mused. “When Val and I left Florida—not that it’s the same, but you know what I mean—it was like cutting off a limb. It had to be done, but…” He took a deep breath.
“Would you have done it without Val?” Vivi asked.
Remy immediately shook his head. “Not a chance. He and I are a packaged set.”
“Where does Celeste fit in, then?” Vivi’s voice was caught between amused and sincere.
Remy sucked air through his teeth. “That’s…something I’m figuring out.”
“Three’s a crowd?”
“Something like that,” Remy said.
“You sound jealous, but I’m not sure if it’s of Val or Celeste,” she teased and then linked her arm through his playfully, like an apology—but one that came with a leap in his heart. It was the first real touch, the first significant one, since the SALT office, and it felt dangerous and glorious and perfect. Vivi left her arm linked with his as they approached the river, but Remy saw her scan the area, looking for prying eyes or phones, fighting an internal battle over the desire to be close to him and the desire to stay off the tabloid pages.
