Chapter 35
Samantha
Paris was even more beautiful than I’d imagined. It was a big city, full of life and intense energy. But the air smelled different than New York, the people were more elegant, and the architecture was some of the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
I stood in the winding neighborhood of Montmartre, looking up at the extravagant, white-domed church of Sacre-Coeur, watching the tourists pass by. I’d just had a baguette with fresh cheese, and in my bag I carried a well-thumbed guidebook and a pamphlet of conversational French phrases. It was all perfect for the role of “American tourist,” but this time it wasn’t a role. It was just who I was.
How I got here was a blur. There had been that photo of Aidan and my stupid reaction to it. My logical mind had told me that there was a rational explanation, that the Aidan I knew wouldn’t spend the morning making love to me while he was already fucking a supermodel. I’d told myself to talk to him about it even as I’d packed my bags and gone to the airport. It was like I was splintered into two people, and the crazy Samantha had already maxed out her credit card on a plane ticket before she even knew what she was doing.
Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted any excuse at all.
I’d landed, found a hotel. Remembered to call work and tell them I wasn’t coming in. Crashed and slept. Then I’d woken up, showered and changed, and gone walking.
I looked around, letting it sink in for the millionth time. I was really in Paris. I’d gone to the Eiffel Tower first, then the Arc de Triomphe. Being the awestruck American tourist I was. I didn’t know where the best bistros or the coolest jazz clubs were. I’d learned the hard way that they didn’t do American coffee here, but shots of espresso topped with milk that powered you straight out of your jet lag. I wore jeans and a soft cotton T-shirt and carried a messenger bag. I wasn’t sophisticated, and I didn’t care. This was the city I’d always dreamed about, the greatest place on Earth.
At the bottom of my bag, my phone was off. Was Aidan still trying to talk to me, I wondered? Maybe he was angry with me by now. I felt an ache deep in my stomach at the thought of him that last day, the way he’d touched me. No man had ever touched me like that, and how it made me feel was terrifying.
I didn’t think he would touch another woman like that while he was making promises to me. It was just a photograph. But then again, we’d played a lot of games. Maybe Aidan played other games I didn’t know about.
The thought made me want to throw up.
I gazed at Sacre-Coeur for a while, then wandered down the hill to the neighborhood streets. This was idyllic Paris—café’s, patios with bright umbrellas, Parisians walking by with their groceries tucked under their arms. I found a café with a menu in English and sat down, ordering a cappuccino.
On the table next to me, left by the last customer, was a copy—an actual newsprint copy—of the New York Times. I’d only been gone from New York for just over a day, and still I leaned over and picked it up, leafing through it, the splintered part of me that still longed for New York, and Aidan, eager to scan the news.
My cappuccino came, and I sipped it as I turned the newsprint pages. And then, in the business section, I saw the headline.
The Egerton brothers, the ones who had commented on my ass, were under investigation by the SEC. They’d been set to offer their company publicly on the stock exchange, but then evidence had come to light that proved they had stolen the software that they’d used to launch the company. The theft itself would have gotten them in trouble, but the fact that they were going to sell shares in a company based on fraud brought in federal investigators. The company was finished, there would be no IPO, and both men were looking at criminal charges and possibly jail time.
My mind went back to Aidan at the airport as we’d waited for our flight to Chicago, reading a report about the Egerton brothers on his laptop. This was originally a revenge thing for me, but now I’m finding interesting information. And then: You should know this about me, Samantha. I’m not a nice person, especially in business.
I had a sinking feeling. Was this Aidan’s doing? Because of me?
It was absurd. What kind of ego did I have, thinking that the biggest financial story of the year was because of me? But Aidan had been so sure. And he’d said he had interesting information.
I blinked at the story in front of me as the words blurred and came into focus again. If it was true, what kind of person did that make Aidan, the man I’d spent hours in bed with before I left New York? Ruthless. Cold, even. Sure, the Egertons were jerks, and if they’d stolen software and then tried to sell public shares, then they deserved a federal investigation. But now they were ruined, maybe forever. And I had the feeling that Aidan Winters would have no problem sleeping at night.
I closed the paper and pushed it away. Then I reached into my bag and got out my phone. I turned it on, letting it power up and find a signal. Messages and alerts started downloading, several dozen in all. Texts from Emma, who I’d told where I was so she wouldn’t worry. And then texts from Aidan.
At first he’d texted me like normal, and then when I hadn’t answered he’d been curious. Then alarmed. But the latest text was from an hour ago, and he wasn’t alarmed anymore. I scrolled to it and stared at it, taking it in.
I hope you’re enjoying Paris,he wrote. I’m on my way.