Chapter 3 — Grounded in Paris

Third Person

The air inside Charles de Gaulle Airport was thick with tension, a palpable mix of frustration and fatigue rippling through the long lines of stranded travelers. Outside, the storm raged on, relentless sheets of rain hammering against the expansive glass windows. Lightning flickered in the distance, carving jagged lines into the darkened sky. It was the kind of storm that felt almost personal, as if the universe had decided to upend Paris in one dramatic gesture.

Amelia Duval adjusted her scarf with a sharp tug, her fingers brushing against its silk fabric as though grounding herself. The announcement blaring overhead confirmed what she had already feared: all flights out of Paris were grounded for at least three days. Her gaze briefly darted to the bronze compass dangling from its leather cord around her wrist. The needle quivered, slightly off true north. She exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain calm. This was a logistical challenge, nothing more. She would adapt.

Then she saw him.

Ethan Blake stood several feet away, leaning against a pillar near the information desk. His leather jacket clung to his frame, darkened by the rain he must have been caught in before arriving at the airport. His sandy hair, damp and tousled, fell into his eyes, and the scruff on his face had grown into a fuller beard. He had the look of someone who thrived in disorder, as though chaos itself bent around him. It irritated her to no end.

Amelia froze, her pulse quickening despite herself. A confusing swirl of anger, unease, and something sharper—something she didn’t want to name—coursed through her. For a moment, her fingers brushed against the compass at her wrist, the familiar weight offering a small anchor in the storm of her emotions. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and she debated whether to slip away unnoticed. But the thought was moot; they were both stuck here now. She tightened her grip on the handle of her carry-on, her nails digging into the smooth leather. She would not let his presence rattle her. Not again.

As she turned toward the exit, she caught a glimpse of his luggage—an unmistakably battered duffel bag with a scuffed leather patch bearing his initials—being loaded onto the same cart as her sleek black suitcase. A sinking feeling settled in her chest. Their paths were converging, whether she liked it or not.

The boutique hotel La Maison des Pluies was only a short cab ride from the airport, though the storm turned the streets into rivers, making the journey feel interminable. Amelia stared out the rain-streaked window, her thoughts a jumble of irritation and exhaustion. She had chosen this hotel specifically for its understated charm and quiet location, a place to gather her thoughts before her exhibition. Now, it felt tainted, its refuge overshadowed by the knowledge that Ethan was likely en route to the same destination.

The cab jolted over a particularly deep puddle, splashing water against the curb. Amelia’s hand reflexively went to the compass, her fingers brushing its tarnished surface. Its needle wavered, much like her composure. Briefly, she wondered if being stranded with Ethan was some cruel twist of fate—or perhaps a chance to finally close the door on their unfinished history. The thought unsettled her even more than the storm.

Inside the hotel, warmth greeted her like an unwanted embrace. The lobby was intimate, with velvet armchairs clustered around a crackling fireplace. The air carried the faint aroma of lavender and cedarwood, and the light from antique sconces cast soft, flickering shadows on the walls. It was the kind of place that invited a sigh of relief. But Amelia felt no such thing. Not yet.

She approached the front desk, her voice clipped but polite as she checked in. The receptionist, a young man with a kind smile, handed her a brass key, its weight substantial in her palm. “Room 302,” he said, his tone almost reverent.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smoothing her scarf as she turned toward the staircase. The bronze compass swung lightly against her wrist, a comforting weight. She had taken only a few steps when the door behind her opened.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Ethan’s boots left faint, wet tracks on the polished wood floor as he shook the rain from his jacket. For a fleeting moment, Amelia considered rushing up the stairs, but something held her still. When his eyes met hers across the room, the air seemed to shift, charged with the unspoken tension that always hung between them.

“Amelia,” he said, his voice carrying that infuriating mix of surprise and casual familiarity.

“Ethan.” Her response was cool, measured. She adjusted her scarf with a deliberate motion, then turned and ascended the stairs without another word.

The storm showed no signs of abating, and by evening, the hotel had settled into a subdued rhythm. In the lounge, candles flickered on low tables, their light casting soft shadows on the walls. Amelia sat in an armchair near the window, a glass of red wine cradled in her hand. Her tablet lay open on the small table beside her, but she wasn’t reading. Instead, she stared out at the rain, watching it streak the glass in erratic patterns.

She heard his voice before she saw him. Low and rumbling, it carried from the bar, where he was speaking to the bartender. Her grip tightened on the stem of her wineglass. She didn’t have to look to know it was him. It was maddening, how her body still reacted to his presence, her senses attuned to him in ways she couldn’t fully suppress.

Ethan appeared in her peripheral vision, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He hesitated, then crossed the room and sank into the armchair opposite hers. He didn’t ask for permission. He never had.

“You’re not going to ignore me for three days, are you?” he asked, leaning back with that insufferable smirk of his, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

“That depends,” she replied, her gaze fixed on her tablet. “Are you planning to make it easy?”

He chuckled, the sound low and familiar. “Probably not.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. The storm provided a steady rhythm, the rain drumming against the windows like a heartbeat. Amelia finally looked up, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were tired, softer than she remembered, and something in them made her chest tighten.

“Why are you here, Ethan?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean Paris, or this chair?”

“Both.”

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, his expression thoughtful. “Paris? The festival, obviously. As for this chair…” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Curiosity, I suppose. You’ve always been hard to read.”

She bristled, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “And you’ve always enjoyed trying, haven’t you?”

His lips quirked into a half-smile, but there was no malice in it. “Guilty as charged.”

Her fingers brushed the compass at her wrist, the motion instinctive. “Well,” she said, setting her glass down with a deliberate click, “if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She stood, smoothing her blazer with precise movements. “Enjoy your evening, Ethan.”

He didn’t stop her as she walked away, but she felt his gaze linger. Once inside her room, the door locked behind her, Amelia leaned against it, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She closed her eyes, the weight of the day pressing down on her.

The storm outside raged on, but it was nothing compared to the tempest within her.

Morning brought no reprieve from the rain. The hotel’s breakfast area was a quiet hum of activity, the clinking of dishes and soft murmurs of conversation blending into the background. Amelia sat at a small table by the window, a croissant untouched on her plate. She stared into her coffee, willing herself to focus on the day ahead.

Ethan appeared again, his movements unhurried as he filled a plate with scrambled eggs and fruit. He saw her and, to her dismay, made his way over.

“Good morning,” he said, sliding into the seat across from hers without waiting for an invitation.

She sighed, setting her cup down. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?” He picked up his fork, his expression feigning innocence.

“Insert yourself where you’re not wanted.”

He grinned, a boyish expression that hadn’t changed in all these years. “It’s a gift.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, punctuated only by the clink of his fork against the plate. She told herself she didn’t mind his presence, that it was simply a quirk of circumstance. But deep down, she knew better.

As the rain streaked the window behind him, Amelia’s gaze drifted to the bronze compass on her wrist. Its needle wavered, unsteady but persistent. She traced its etched surface with her thumb, a small, grounding gesture.

The storm outside showed no signs of stopping. And neither, it seemed, did the one between them.