Loving Madeline

Chapter 370: His Charm

Charlotte’s POV

"I’m sorry if I told him you were my girlfriend," Jack said, his tone casual, but I could hear the hesitation behind it — the way his words lingered, waiting for my reaction.

I inhaled sharply, biting down the frustration bubbling in my chest. "It’s okay," I replied, forcing my voice to stay calm even though I wanted to yell at him. It wasn’t okay, but I reminded myself that Jack was only trying to help. He had, after all, just gotten me out of a very uncomfortable situation.

He slowed his pace a bit to walk beside me, hands in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world. On the other hand, I was still trying to calm my pulse.

"You may go now," I said, sounding dismissive as we reached the corner near my hotel. "You don’t have to walk me the rest of the way."

But instead of taking the hint, he chuckled, a low sound that made my irritation spike.

"It just so happens," he said with a grin, "we’re staying at the same hotel. Sofia mentioned where you were staying." He responded.

I stopped mid-step.

My heart gave a little stutter. Of course, he is.

I turned slowly to look at him, my eyes narrowing. "You’re kidding."

"Nope," he said, clearly amused by my reaction. "What are the odds, right?"

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. Perfect.

It was going to be a long week.

We’re adults, Charlotte. I think the least we can do is be civil with each other," Jack said, his tone calm, almost too rational as if that could somehow smooth over the years of silence, the unresolved tension still thick between us.

I gave a short nod, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. "Of course, we can be civil," I said coolly. "But let me remind you—just so there’s no confusion—we can never be friends."

That hit him. His eyes flickered, and he didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared straight ahead as if weighing his response carefully.

"If that’s what you want..." he murmured, then paused before adding, "but can I at least invite you to dinner?"

I turned sharply to face him, my brows lifting in disbelief. "What? Are you serious? Do you honestly think I would sit across a dinner table with you?"

He gave a half-smile, the kind that used to charm me once upon a time. "Come on, Charlotte. We need to talk."

I shook my head, my jaw tightening. "There’s no need for us to talk, Jack." My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take it back.

"I know," he said, stepping in front of me as if to block my path, his voice lower now, more sincere. "But I need to."

I exhaled, exasperated, and stepped around him. "Jack, I don’t want a conversation with you. Not now. Maybe not ever. But..." I hesitated just for a breath, "thank you for what you did tonight. I mean that."

Without waiting for his reply, I quickened my pace, leaving him behind in the hotel lobby.

Or so I thought.

The elevator doors had just begun to close when I heard footsteps — fast, determined — and then, of course, he slipped in just in time.

I clenched my fists, staring straight ahead as the doors sealed us into the painfully small space. It was just the two of us. The hum of the elevator and the faint music overhead were the only sounds between us, but the silence was deafening.

The display dinged and stopped on the same floor as if fate wasn’t finished toying with me.

Of course.

I stepped out first, refusing to look at him and acknowledge the tight twist of emotion curling in my stomach.

This wasn’t just awkward — it was personal.

Fate had a very twisted sense of humor.

"Would you stop following me!" I snapped, my irritation bubbling over as I spun around to face him in the hallway.

Jack didn’t even flinch. Instead, he chuckled — low and amused, like this was all some kind of joke to him.

"I swear, I’m not following you," he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "But if you don’t believe me..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keycard, holding it up like a badge of innocence.

I glanced at it, my eyes narrowing—then widening in disbelief.

His room number.

The one printed right there.

Directly across from mine.

My mouth fell open. "You’ve got to be kidding me," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head as I stormed past him. I didn’t wait for another word.

I unlocked my door, stepped inside, and closed it behind me with more force than necessary.

Once the door clicked shut, I leaned against it, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. The moment felt surreal — like some cosmic joke played in slow motion.

After a quick shower and a few minutes with a blow dryer humming in my ears, I threw myself onto the bed, hoping exhaustion would take over.

It didn’t.

I tossed. I turned and flipped my pillow. I pulled the blanket on, then threw it off again. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shut off my thoughts.

Because Jack was right there.

Just a few feet away.

A door and a hallway separated me from the one person I came to Paris to get away from.

How was I supposed to forget about him when he was this close?

I came here to escape — to breathe, clear my head, stop replaying every memory, argument, and time he made me feel like I mattered, only to take it back with a careless word.

And yet... after what happened tonight, after the way he stepped in to protect me like it was the most natural thing in the world, my heart — my stupid, traitorous heart — wouldn’t listen to reason.

I didn’t want to feel this.

I didn’t want to remember what it was like to be near him.

But here I was... wide awake in the middle of Paris, aching for a man I had sworn I would never let back in.

"Good morning!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

The moment I stepped out of my room, my heart still sluggish from sleep, I froze at the sight of Jack leaning casually against the wall just outside my door. Arms crossed. One ankle resting over the other. He looked... irritatingly fresh. His hair was slightly tousled like he didn’t even try, yet it worked — of course it did. His crisp white shirt hugged him in all the right places, sleeves rolled to his forearms as he’d just stepped out of a magazine cover instead of a hotel hallway.

My heart stuttered, and I hated it.

I didn’t greet him back. I didn’t smile. I didn’t even glance at him again. Instead, I walked past him as if he were just another guest loitering in the corridor — like he meant nothing to me.

But the universe clearly wasn’t done tormenting me.

I only made it a few feet before I had to stop in front of the elevator. There was no escape, no side hallway to turn into, and no excuse to return to my room. So I stood there, pressing the elevator button with more force than necessary, silently begging the doors to open immediately and rescue me.

Jack casually pushed off the wall and came to stand beside me. Too close, of course. Just close enough that I could smell his cologne — that warm, woodsy scent I knew far too well.

He said nothing; he just stood there like he had every right to be next to me like we were just two old friends starting their day. But we weren’t friends. And this wasn’t normal.

I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator doors, trying my best to steady the hammering in my chest. Each second felt like an eternity, my pulse echoing in my ears like a ticking clock I couldn’t silence. I focused on my breathing—slow, even—as if that could somehow mute the heat radiating from Jack’s presence beside me.

It was impossible to ignore him.

He didn’t speak or even glance my way, but the air between us was thick with unspoken tension—the kind that buzzed beneath the surface — electric, frustrating, and far too familiar.

As soon as the elevator doors slid open, I stepped inside without hesitation. Jack followed, but I kept a good foot of space between us. I walked briskly toward the hotel restaurant, pretending I wasn’t aware of his footsteps echoing behind mine.

I chose a quiet corner table, hoping it would offer me some peace — some space to gather myself. I barely had time to pick up the menu before Jack casually pulled out the chair across from me and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I looked up, my brow arching in disbelief.

"There are plenty of empty tables, Jack. Why do you have to sit at mine?" I asked, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he smiled — that same frustratingly charming smile that once made my knees weak. "Because you chose the best table in the room," he said, gesturing toward the view behind me — the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Paris skyline. "Why would I settle for less?" I said as I rolled my eyes, refusing to let his charm disarm me, not this time.