Always In My Heart

Chapter 8- I Promise

Oh my, they really have spoiled me.

I walk into the luxurious, Shangri-La Hotel, in the heart of Paris. The crystal chandeliers hanging elegantly from the ceiling are appealing to the eye. I guarantee that one of them alone probably cost thousands of dollars.

The service here is incredible already! As I arrived, there were people waiting to take my bags for me. The people here are very nice, so far, as I was very weary at first of the typical, angry frenchmen stereotype. But so far, so good.

I walk over to the check-in desk at a leisurely pace. It feels good being out of my usual routine, as I have become almost numb from my daily routine back in London.

The blonde woman at the front desk is very attractive. She is wearing a neatly ironed, grey suit with her blonde hair pulled tightly up in a bun. She is talking quickly and angrily to someone on the phone. I swallow hard and hesitate stepping closer to the desk until she has finished the call.

'Je pensais que je vous ai dit tout à l'heure!" she yells angrily into the phone. I blink, swiping awkwardly through the apps on my phone, pretending to be busy.

"Ugh! Peu importe! Ne me appelez pas jusqu'à ce que vous avez une réponse!" she says furiously, hanging up the phone.

She looks me up and down, examining my casual attire. I gulp, feeling extremely awkward being dressed the way I am in this fancy hotel. I am still wearing my sweatpants, t-shirt, and red beanie; the clothes I wore on the plane ride here.

What? Does she really expect me to wear a fucking tuxedo on the airplane? Just to go right up to my room and shower anyways?

Sheesh.

"Puis-je vous aider?" she snaps at me. I stutter back a confused response.

"I... uh, I'd like to check-in," I mutter, stepping closer to the desk. She blinks at me, immediately switching to English after I finish my sentence.

"Okay. Name?" she asks in a heavy, French accent. She is obviously confused as to why someone dressed like me is checking in at the Shangri-La.

"Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson," I say, looking down at my fingers as I pick at my nails. I look up to see her scrolling quickly through the computer. Her expression immediately softens when she finds my name. She looks at me wide-eyed.

"Oh! I... I uh, Mr. Tomlinson! I apologize Monsieur! I..." she stutters, apparently now knowing the reason why I'm in Paris. I smile softly at her.

She quickly grabs the keys to my room from the wall behind her. Her persona has quickly changed from annoyed and disgusted to flustered and upset with herself for talking to me in such a way. She sets the keys on the counter in front of me with a smile.

"Here are the keys to your suite, Mr. Tomlinson. If there is anything at all you need, please do not hesitate to let us know. Jacques will be up shortly with your bags," she says. I smile and nod.

"Thank you very much," I say, scooping the keys up from the counter.

"Enjoy your stay! I will have Francois show you up to your suite," she walks back and motions to someone that I cannot see. A tall, dark haired, Frenchman appears from behind a curtain. He has the stereotypical, thin, French mustache. He nods politely at me, his arms behind his back.

"How are you this afternoon, Mr. Tomlinson?" he asks, his accent even heavier than the woman's.

"I'm doing well, and yourself?" He nods once.

"Wonderful, Monsieur."

Francois shows me to the stunning, gold elevators and presses the button for me. We step inside and I stand towards the corner, my satchel over my shoulder.