The Hotel Where We Met

by Belinda Jones

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Time Travel Romance; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

There's a very particular reason why Chloe Sinclair hasn't met her Mr Right: he doesn't exist.

And the reason he doesn't exist? The wrong people meeting at the wrong time throughout history. Now, Chloe has to travel back in time to matchmake like her love life depends on it.

Present-day Chloe is staying at the iconic Hotel Del Coronado - part historic landmark, part Californian fairytale. Guided here by a very special friendship, Chloe embarks on a magical journey through the decades: from the Victorian era to the glamorous Roaring Twenties, stopping off in the Fabulous Fifties before grooving into the eighties.

Her adventures of the heart go far beyond her wildest imaginings, as Chloe soon learns that true love is all a matter of timing.

READERS LOVE MOLLY JAMES

'A unique storyline that had me gripped from page one!'

'A fairytale for grown ups who enjoy a bit of escapism.'

'Amazing book, unique theme, could not put it down!'

'Made me smile, laugh and cry (more than once)!'

'The characters are as warm and sunny as California!'

Release date: April 10, 2025

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

I wonder what the chances are, statistically speaking, of being seated next to the future love of your life on a plane?

With all the personal data available on us now, you’d think we could get a little extra guidance in terms of seat selections, maybe have a Hollywood casting director pair up our passport photos or divide the plane according to who, at seven a.m., opted for a cocktail over a coffee in the departure lounge.

I’d probably add a ‘special meal’ section so those folks don’t have to feel quite so self-conscious about peeling back their foil ahead of everyone else, and assign a ‘quiet’ row for the sleep-eager types already sporting their neck pillows at security. There’s just so much scope for matchmaking.

Of course, now that we’re boarding, the thing we have most in common is the mutual dread of being assigned the human germ-dispenser or armrest-hogger as our neighbour. The fact that I have the middle seat would normally make me feel all the more hemmed in and disadvantaged, but not today. Today I tell myself I now have twice as many chances of being seated next to someone life-changingly wonderful. Lucky me!

‘Just for the duration of this trip, I want you to be open to the possibility of romance,’ James implored. ‘From the minute you get your itty-bitty bag of pretzels just keep telling yourself, “This is my time, my turn! The universe has a treat in store for me!”’

And James was not the sentimental or spiritual type, far from it. It’s just this place I’m headed to – this island paradise lapped by the Pacific Ocean – made him believe in love because year in, year out for over a decade, his heart was transformed there.

The original plan was for us to travel to California together. I suppose in a way we are, I decide as I reach down and check my carry-on bag for the hundredth time. My stomach dips as I make contact, but I yank up my spirits and reach for my pendant, silently chanting, This is my time, my turn!, rubbing the gemstone like it’s a mini Aladdin’s lamp.

And then it happens. A handsome man appears in the aisle. As he shuffles along checking the seat numbers I take in his upsweep of dark hair, face-contouring stubble and superfine white V-neck T-shirt, tapering from broad shoulders to black jeans. When he stops beside my row and reaches up to put his case in the locker above I can’t believe my luck. Not least because I just caught a glimpse of his bronzed stomach. Perhaps he’s a teensy bit young and toned for me but as inflight entertainment goes . . .

‘Do you mind if I . . .?’ His grey eyes meet mine as he motions to the window seat.

Do I mind? ‘Not at all,’ I say, eagerly clambering out, if not in the most elegant way, accidentally yanking the hair of the woman in front as I grab the seat back to steady myself.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ I apologise to her and then fluster to him, ‘It’s all such a squeeze, isn’t it?’

He sighs the sigh of the long-legged. I want to say that the seat dimensions must be the revenge of a man with a Napoleon complex but don’t want to start babbling before he’s settled. I wait patiently as he tucks his essentials into the seat pocket, pulls out the pillow from behind his back, sends a last-minute text, etc.

‘So, are you heading – Oh!’

I stop short – he’s already got his headphones on, serious matt black Beats ones.

‘What was that?’ He lifts one ear can.

‘Um . . . From your accent, I was wondering if you’re heading home or just visiting San Diego?’

There’s a fraction of a pause before he replies but it’s enough time for me to see this thought flit across his eyes: Oh god, she thinks she’s in with a chance.

Suddenly I feel like I’ve sidled up to a guy in a bar, offered to buy him a drink and been turned down flat, only to find I’m stuck on the adjacent bar stool for the next eleven hours.

I feel my face flush and a rushing in my ears as he makes his monotone reply, something about how he’d just been in London for work.

‘It’s my first time going to California. Can’t wait!’ I say and then turn briskly away and give every ounce of my attention to the movie options – preferably ones devoid of love scenes. They really should have little blinkers on the screens so not everyone can see what you’re watching. I had such a near miss with The Shape of Water on my last flight. Perhaps I’m better off choosing from the classics – ones I’ve already seen . . .

I’m so tense and self-conscious now. I want to tell him, ‘If no one takes the aisle seat, I’ll move along, give us a bit of space . . .’ But I feel like he’d file a restraining order if I so much as touched his arm. This is why we should be pre-sorted before the plane. I’m not in the same league so I shouldn’t be in the same row. I make a show of looking out towards the rest of the plane and catch the eye of the flight attendant assisting an elderly woman. He gives me a little ‘lucky you’ wink but I want to hiss, ‘It’s not what you think, Isaac. If there’s an empty seat next to a giant, crying, frothing baby, I’ll take it!’

Still, it is looking like I should be able to move along – we’re getting close to take-off and no one has claimed seat 38C. I gently unclick my seat belt and start levitating in that direction when a flurry of last-minute, ran-all-the-way heat and blush-pink sportswear arrives.

‘Oh my gosh, I didn’t think I was going to make it!’ She swishes her waist-length, silky blonde hair as she settles into place.

‘Well, you can relax now!’ I smile reassuringly as I inhale her candyfloss scent. I’ve been in her shoes too many times. Well, not literally – I would never wear peep-toe, dagger-heel ankle boots to fly in – but I know how awful it is to be rushed and panicked.

I watch as she glugs at her silver water bottle and then catches sight of my neighbour.

In turn, I sense his whole demeanour change. Before he was pressed so close to the window I thought he was considering wing-walking. Now he’s fully in the huddle.

‘Hey!’ He gives one of those cool-guy head jerks.

‘Hi,’ she says coyly, before her mega-lashed eyes widen. ‘Aren’t you with Sunset Models?’

‘Yeah!’ he cheers. ‘I thought I recognised you!’

‘Summer.’ She offers a bangled hand.

‘Kai.’ He reaches across me.

Could this get any worse?

Before they start discussing their best angles and the burden of being physically blessed, I offer to swap seats. ‘So you guys can chat?’

‘Sure!’ Summer enthuses.

We’re just unbuckling when the engines rev and a female attendant tells us, quite firmly, that we’ll have to wait until the captain turns off the seat belt sign before we can switch.

‘No worries,’ Summer chirps, ‘we can wait.’

Can we?

If I had a cloak of invisibility, I’d drape it over the pair of them so I didn’t have to witness the illuminated, engaged expressions on their faces. Even looking at the seat-back screen feels like I’m interfering with their eye contact so I take out the airline magazine and keep my head down, pretending to read an article on hot air ballooning.

I wish James were here. He’d just roll his eyes at them and make everything better. I listen to them talking about how they got signed, their least favourite booker and best SoulCycle instructor, then:

DING!

I’m out of my seat quicker than if it had an ejector button.

‘Do you need your bag?’ Summer goes to reach under the seat.

‘Oh my god – James!’ I bash her leg in my eagerness to grab it and grasp it to my chest.

The pair of them eye me suspiciously.

‘Precious contents!’ I say, though it probably doesn’t help that I take it with me every time I get up to stretch my legs.

Ultimately pheromones win out and I cease to be of concern.

Is there anything more annoying than flirtatious giggles when they are not your own? It’s all so excruciatingly intimate I feel like I’m sharing a table with one of the First Dates couples. A few times the changing light causes me to glance towards the window and I see him looking at her the way I would have hoped – for a millisecond – he might look at me. Obviously not now that I know what he’s like but just the concept of having someone’s eyes rove over you in such an appreciative way . . .

‘Pulled pork or pasta primavera?’

Great, now I have to act as the waitress on their dinner date as I pass along the trays of food and plastic wine glasses.

They make the same selection, watch the same movie and choose the same filter for their selfies.

Twice Summer flips her hair and flicks me in the face, the second time several strands adhering to my lip gloss. That’s when I decide to take my emergency sleeping tablet, even though I was settling in for an eighties movie marathon. I so envy James graduating from teens to twenties during that decade. Give him a curly wig and a baggy sweatshirt and he could do all Jennifer Beals’ moves from Flashdance. I feel my voluminous hair was so much better suited to that era but I was only a toddler then. All those missed opportunities for rah-rah skirts and scrunch-drying.

‘Blueberry or strawberry?’ Isaac the flight attendant stops by with our frozen yoghurt options.

‘Do you have any gooseberry?’ I ask.

He gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Sorry, we’re all out but I do have something for you.’ He beckons me along to the galley and hands me a mini bottle of champagne. ‘By way of consolation. The flight is full or I’d upgrade you in a heartbeat.’

‘That’s so kind of you,’ I gasp, regretting having taken the tablet. I probably shouldn’t mix the two. ‘I might save it for a bit later?’

‘Whenever you like. See if you can give him a black eye with the cork!’

I smile, feeling a little bit better. Besides, it’s not Kai’s fault the great matchmaker in the sky did such a sterling job. And it doesn’t mean there isn’t still a chance for me. Maybe when I get to my resort – I’m hardly looking my best now and really I should try and catch some zzzs prior to landing. One last circuit of the plane and I’ll call it a night.

As I inch along the darkened aisle I study the movie selections of the few passengers who have yet to nod off, all the while hugging my bag to my chest, whispering to it as I go.

‘The Diane Keaton collection is proving popular,’ I note. ‘I wouldn’t mind watching the original Book Club again, just for Candice Bergen and her twisted Spanx – remember how we watched her scenes over and over?’

James was always my favourite person to sit on a sofa with – best commentary, best snacks. I kept threatening to pitch us to Gogglebox but he said he’d never agree because the lighting was so harsh. He had a point, it is glaringly bright. I much preferred the ambience he created with his dimmer switch and outsize candles. Come to think of it, he was exceptionally well-lit the first time we met . . .

I’d bought tickets to one of those immersive experiences, taking you back to a New York jazz club in the 1940s. I’d previously had great fun at a Gatsby flapper party with my girls but this time I’d made the mistake of going with my boyfriend. Steve refused to don the trilby and a wide, deco-print tie I’d sourced for him and remained testy and closed off even after his third Sidecar cocktail. At one point I excused myself to powder my nose and the event photographer asked me to pose with this stunning man sitting at a small table set with two champagne glasses and a Carlyle lamp. His suit was the same rich burgundy as the ruched silk lampshade and he looked so dapper with his dark, brilliantined hair.

‘James.’ He introduced himself as I approached, and then paid me all the compliments about my cinched-waist dress that I’d hoped to hear from Steve. My mood lifted exponentially, making the return to Steve’s side all the more of a downer.

I tried to persuade him to join me on the dance floor, reasoning that it was so dark no one would see him, but he was having none of it. I was on the verge of giving in and going home when, out of the shadows, a hand extended towards me.

James!

I turned to Steve, who gave a disinterested shrug, then stepped into his arms, just as the song changed to Ella Fitzgerald’s dreamy rendition of ‘Time After Time’. Swaying along with the swish of the cymbal brush and tinkly piano, I felt both like I was floating and finally anchored. It’s a feeling I’ll never forget.

I split up with Steve that night and moved in with James a month later. I still had the occasional dud relationship over the years, which James said helped remind him why that part of his life was now over for good. Friends always said it was a waste that someone so lovely was single and they were forever trying to fix him up with gay relatives and co-workers, but in many ways we were each other’s significant other. And I feel very lucky to have had that.

I roll my eyes as I return to my plane seat – the lovebirds have raised the armrest between them and are snuggled under the blankets. But they are not asleep.

I couldn’t be any more uncomfortable. I consider my little champagne bottle. It’s only a glass or two and it was a herbal sleeping tablet.

Pop goes the cork.

Turning away from them, I scroll through the options on my seat-back screen, looking for something short to entertain me while I sip – maybe a sitcom or even a game? Oh, here’s the chat screen. I wonder whether anyone actually ever texts a stranger in another seat? I should’ve paid more attention to other passengers while I was walking around. Mind you, by now most of them would probably take a session with a chiropractor over an offer to join the mile high club.

Calling 38C! The dark screen springs to life.

Have I accidentally started it? I hold up my hands, afraid to touch anything else. Is that an automated message?

Please click to start conversation.

Do I dare? I hesitate but the champagne tells me it’s the right thing to do.

Hello, gorgeous!

My heart immediately sinks. They must have seen Summer take this seat and not realised she’s switched.

‘I think you want 38B, but she’s otherwise engaged,’ I type.

Chloe Sinclair?

How does it know my name? I twist around to see if I can see Isaac. Is he up to mischief? Trying his best to keep me amused? This new airline really does go above and beyond, the least I can do is enter into the spirit of things.

‘Go ahead, mystery typer!’

Suddenly the screen fills with balloons and animated crystals clustering to form the word Congratulations!

What’s he up to now? Am I going to get to visit the captain in the cockpit? Will he be Andy Garcia?

You have been chosen to have a question answered by the In-flight Oracle.

Oh. Okay. That’s not bad either – I do like a bit of online tarot. What shall I ask?

You have a choice of three questions.

Well, that narrows it down. I eagerly await my options. Here we go:

1) How can I make a million dollars?

2) How long will I live for?

3) Why have I not met my Mr Right?

Hmm. Aside from the morbid and possibly threatening number two, I guess it’s pretty obvious I don’t have a million dollars from my economy status and anyone can see I’m not wearing a wedding ring.

Need help deciding? The screen prompts me.

‘Just give me a minute!’

I definitely don’t want to know how long I’m going to live – imagine if it said fifty-nine minutes and I’d be the only person on the plane to know it was going to go down? Of course, it could just be me expiring, but I’ve been thinking about death way too much of late so a firm no to that.

A million dollars would be nice but it seems as though I get this offer twelve times a day in the form of Facebook ads – How to 10x your income while eating 5x more chocolate!

I look accusingly at number three: Why have I not met my Mr Right? Have I not asked this question enough times? Not even in a particularly sulky or complaining way of late. These days I’m more curious than anything – is there a rational reason, something that would help me accept, once and for all, that I am destined to fly solo? Or maybe there’s a simple tweak I could make and after a lifetime of miserable mismatches things could really turn around. I can see the Oracle’s suggestion now: Take up martial arts or home brewing and have men falling at your feet!

‘Number three!’ I make my selection. ‘I’m all ears.’

You have not met Mr Right because he does not exist.

My shoulders sag. All that build-up for a trite dismissal. ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ I type.

He doesn’t exist because he was never born.

I frown at the screen. What does that mean?

He was never born because the right sequence of people did not get together throughout history.

I was already starting to feel muzzy-headed, now I’m also peeved. ‘What exactly am I supposed to do with that information?’

You must go back in time and matchmake four generations of couples to ensure his birth.

Is this going to turn into some kind of game? I wait for the screen to show me a calendar with the pages flipping back to some significant date and then adjust my headphones in case there’s a soundtrack. Nothing happens.

This is not something you can do online. The Oracle reads my mind.

‘I thought everything could be done online these days.’

Introduction, yes, attraction, yes, but not conception.

That’s true, I suppose.

Your journey will begin when you check in at the Hotel Del Coronado.

I startle when I see my accommodation named. But then I recall filling out the address on my ESTA. Like I say, our data is out there for way too many eyes to see.

‘Can you give me a little bit more information? Any tips or clues about how this will happen?’

Let me start by saying this: he’s worth the wait.

My stomach dips and I feel a little giddy – the mere thought that there really could be someone out there meant for me brings a tear to my eye. Imagine being with someone you don’t have to convince to love you, someone who would meet you and think, Oh, there you are! And you’d actually feel good and buoyed up. Hope. I feel a flare of hope! I bet James had a hand in this – a persuasive word with the cosmos.

‘Sorry.’ Summer nudges me. ‘I need to get by.’

Now? I turn to her.

‘H. . .