Page 14 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)

SEBASTIAN

W here the hell has Harper been?

On one hand, I should be glad that it’s been a day and a half since I last saw her. On the other hand, I’m almost starting to get worried.

We haven’t been able to avoid our paths crossing multiple times a day since we got here. As much as I kept telling myself I wished they’d stop crossing, now that they have for almost thirty-six hours, it’s feeling kind of creepy.

Plus, we’re staying across the hall from each other, and our walls are paper-thin. I can usually hear her come and go from her room, but I haven’t noticed any noise from that direction in the same period of time.

The conference ended yesterday. My presentation went pretty well. Not as well as Harper’s. Maybe not something I’d admit if it weren’t so obviously true. I made a decent showing and didn’t embarrass myself, whereas she wowed professors with decades of tenure from around the world.

It’s fine. She wants to be an academic, and I don’t. Get her on a hockey rink and see how impressive she is there.

I have my ticket to the Louvre booked today. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. But as I step out of my hotel room, ready to head to the greatest museum in the world, my eyes fall onto Harper’s closed door.

It is weird that I haven’t seen or even heard a peep from her for this long.

Ugh. I should check on her.

Closing my door, I step across the hall and knock firmly on hers. “Harper?” I call. “You in there?”

No answer after a couple seconds. I turn down the hall, ready to head out to the museum having at least done the bare minimum to check on my classmate while we’re both overseas. But something keeps me from taking that first step away.

I knock on her door again, louder this time. And my voice is also louder as I put my mouth to the door and yell, “Hello? Anyone in there? Harper?”

I press my ear to where the door meets the doorjamb, searching for any sound from within.

My brow scrunches. The faintest sound filters to me, like a low and weary groan.

My stomach clenches, worry clawing up my back. Was that sound just a creak from this centuries-old building? A rumbling from a pipe somewhere in the wall?

I press my tongue against my inner cheek, feeling indecisive. I don’t want to miss my entry time to the Louvre. I’ve heard they can be strict about it, and if I have to wait in line to buy a new ticket at the ticket counter, I’ll probably waste hours.

But …

“Shit,” I breathe to myself, knowing I won’t be able to enjoy the museum with these worries weighing me down. Especially after hearing that weird sound from her room. What if she tripped on a wet floor coming out of the shower and hit her head? She’s clumsy. I wouldn’t put it past her.

Even without seeing her for a day and a half, Harper Brees finds a way to annoy and inconvenience me on this trip. Of course.

I go to the lobby, intending to explain to the person at the desk that I’m worried about my classmate who I’m traveling with, and to ask if they can use the master key to help me check on her. But there’s no one at the desk.

I feel each second that ticks by as I’m at risk of missing my timed entry. With an impatient eye roll, I plop down onto a couch in the lobby and wait for the hotel employee working the desk to show up.

I wait …

And wait …

Fuck, did the staff here decide to go on strike today or something? I mean, this is France, after all.

Maybe they know they don’t have anyone new checking in today so they’re off doing something else. I approach the desk to see if there’s one of those bells to ring, but of course, there isn’t.

I glance at the time on my phone. Fuck. If I hang around for ten more minutes, I’ll miss the window of time I have to enter the museum.

“Hello?” I call out into the empty lobby. “Anyone here?”

The next thirty seconds of silence answers that question for me.

“Damn it,” I grumble. It’s not like I’m about to go kick Harper’s door down.

But …

Feeling crunched between my impulse to check on Harper and the rapidly shrinking window I have to get to the Louvre on time, a crazy idea pops into my head.

I’m out of the hotel and hurrying to the side of the building that Harper’s window is on before I can second-guess it.

Our rooms are on the second floor, and there’s a railing that wouldn’t be difficult for me to climb. The hotel windows are tall French-style windows that swing open, and there’s no screen. If she hasn’t locked them, I’ll be able to get in.

It feels like overkill. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the feeling of worry that’s buzzing through me, that has my stomach feeling tight and hard in a way I can’t explain.

There’s no reason that not seeing someone I’m actively trying to avoid for a day and a half should have me feeling this level of concern, but it does. And that weird groaning sound I heard when I put my ear up to the door didn’t help.

If I climb into Harper’s room and find it empty, I’ll at least be able to put that second concern out of my mind.

It’ll be easier to tell myself that our paths simply haven’t crossed and she’s out doing something.

I’ll be able to jog to the Louvre and make it in time to enjoy it without this irrational worry encumbering me.

I look around to make sure no one’s watching before grabbing hold of the railing and scaling the wall. I find Harper’s window already opened a crack, and all I need to do is push it inward to be able to hop into her room.

A weird feeling laces through me when my shoes land on her floor.

I mean, yeah, there’s the fact that I’m basically acting like a burglar that has me a little off kilter. But there’s another sensation that pulses through me like a strong current, knowing that when I lift my head in less than a second, my eyes are going to land on the bed she’s been sleeping in.

When I do lift my head, I find that it’s the bed she’s still sleeping in.

She’s turned on her stomach, her auburn hair bright against the crisp white of the bedding. Her limbs are sprawled out, the duvet and pillows disordered around her.

Instantly, a surge of adrenaline rockets through me, a sharp throb panging at the base of my cock as my pants suddenly feel two sizes too tight.

Once I recover enough of my senses to shove those reactions deep down and lock them up, I feel some relief. She’s alright, and I was worried about nothing, just like I should have realized I was.

Except …

She slept through all that banging I did on her door?

At … one in the afternoon?

That relief flies away, replaced with even more concern.

It’s not like Harper to nap in the middle of the day. Especially not when she’s in the city I know she’s always dreamed of visiting, when the weather is just begging you to get outside and walk around.

Shit, I was wishing I’d gotten lucky enough to schedule my Louvre visit for a day with worse weather when I went outside for breakfast this morning.

“Harper?” I whisper cautiously. I don’t know why I’m being cautious, though, because no matter how I wake her up, when she turns in her bed and sees me standing in her hotel room, I know she’s going to shriek and throw something at me.

I can only hope it’s a pillow instead of something harder or sharper.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even stir. She still doesn’t, even when I call her name louder and take a step closer to her bed.

When I get closer, I notice that her usually pale skin looks wan and sickly. When I glimpse her face, I see that she looks utterly worn out and exhausted, even when sleeping deeply enough not to hear me.

Is she sleeping?

Shit. Panic washes through me, and all worries about whatever Harper’s going to hit me with or throw at me go flying out the window. I kneel next to her bed, nudging her shoulder gently but firmly.

“Harper, wake up,” I say urgently, struggling not to raise my voice.

When she stirs, I have to shake my head at myself over how much relief I feel. Of course she was just sleeping deeply.

But, still, not all of my worry goes away. Especially as her eyes flutter open, make contact with mine, and her first reaction isn’t to scream at the top of her lungs and treat my breaking and entering into her room as her excuse to do as much physical damage to me as possible before help arrives.

Instead, she just looks at me, her eyes dim and her expression blank. She just blinks slowly before asking, “Sebastian?” in a voice so thin and tiny that I have to strain my ears to hear it.

My lips tug into a frown. Instinctively, I bring the back of my hand up to her forehead, and my eyebrows jump when I feel how hot it is.

“Shit,” I grumble. “You’re burning up.”

All I get in response is a groan just like the one I heard from the other side of her door minutes ago.

She doesn’t even have enough energy to ask me what I’m doing here.

Forget that, she can hardly keep her eyes open. I’m sure she doesn’t have the strength to get out of bed to stay hydrated.

Maybe if I find her keycard, I can go to the shop down the street, buy a bunch of bottled water to put near her bed, some medicine, maybe something small to eat for later if she has the appetite, and then sprint across the city to make it to the Louvre in time …

A heavy sigh pushes out of my body. I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to enjoy strolling around the museum, looking at paintings and artifacts, when I know Harper’s lying here, way sicker than I’ve ever seen her, with no one to take care of her.

“Damn it,” I sigh, letting myself slide back and lean against the wall next to her bed in defeat. “Not like I’ll never have the chance to come back to Paris again and see it,” I grumble to myself, shrugging.

With a breath, I pick myself up, find her keycard, and go to the store. I bring back a bunch of bottled water, some orange juice for vitamin C and Powerade for electrolytes, and some medicine.

“Come on,” I say to Harper when I’m back crouching by her bed. “When’s the last time you drank anything?”