Chapter 17
17
ALEXA
My mom is over for lunch. It’s cool to be able to see her live and in person, even if I’m thinking of bailing on Paris. The downside is, I don’t cook much, even though I mastered dinosaur pancakes in San Francisco. So she’s getting eggs for lunch.
However, all is not lost because I managed to turn them into an omelet, which I am told is very French.
Thank you, YouTube.
“How are things, honey?” she asks, taking a bite of my omelet without disturbing her lipstick.
"Well, I'm living my dream."
She nods but clearly thinks I’m full of it. "Are you, honey? Your latest writing reads like love letters to what you left behind. Your Instagram is full of family-friendly Paris spots. That’s… a different Alexa thank the one I—and all your followers—have been reading."
"That was for research, Mom."
She sighs and shrugs, ready to give up. "All right. Fine. But I think you're doing what I did— running from love because you're afraid it might hurt. Running from a life you never thought would be for you. But life takes funny turns, honey. Take it from me.”
“Do you regret it, Mom? Leaving?”
She stares out my window at the gorgeous building across the street. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. It’s not black and white. Nothing is, really. But here's the thing about running from love—the running hurts more than risking it."
I put our lunch dishes in the sink and we settle onto my couch, surrounded by half-written articles about Paris romance that somehow all mention kid-friendly activities.
"What if I mess it up?" My voice is tight and the words stick in my throat.
"Oh, honey. You already did. By running. The question is—are you brave enough to fix it?"
I half-laugh, even though nothing is actually funny. “I don’t know, Mom. It's not that simple."
"It is. You're making it complicated because you're scared. That’s understandable. But here's something I learned too late— be scared. B e terrified. Just don’t let that fear win."
I consider her words.
"I gotta tell you, honey, you're braver than I ever was. You see what you're doing. You're facing it. I just ran and called it freedom."
"I ran too."
"Well, let’s put it this way. No irreparable damage has been done. It’s not too late for you."
"I don't know, Mom. I don’t know how to go back," I admit.
"Maybe you don't go back. Maybe you go forward. Just... differently than planned. Look, I love that you’re here in Paris. That I can see you anytime I want. But I want you to be where you belong. And I’m not so sure that Paris is the place."
I glance at my Paris view. At my dream job. At everything I thought I wanted.
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I need to mess up in the right direction."
She laughs, a sharp, knowing sound. "About time."
I lean back, staring at the ceiling, letting her words sink in. Sometimes the truth hits like a freight train, and sometimes it sneaks up on you like the smell of fresh bread on a Parisian morning.
"Okay," I say finally. "I’ll figure it out. But you better be there to catch me if it’s a total disaster."
She smirks, grabbing her coat and heading for the door. I think she has a date with some young hottie. "Disaster or not, at least it’ll be yours. And you know I’m always here to catch my little girl."
As the door closes behind her, I glance back out the window, where I’ve been spending entirely too much time daydreaming. Paris, my dream job, the life I’ve built. And I wonder—if it’s not here, then where?
I call Ryan at noon my time, six a.m. his time, in New York. Not because I've been staring at flight schedules, but because I've finally figured out what's wrong with my writing.
"I can't do this anymore," I tell him before he can lecture me about missed deadlines.
"Finally." He doesn't sound surprised. "The Paris stuff is… not working. No offense. It’s just that I know your work and know you can do more. Do better. I mean, what am I going to do with that piece where you wrote a thousand words about how the Louvre needs a dinosaur exhibit?"
“Yeah. I hear ya,” I say. “But I do have an idea.”
"I’m listening.”
I pull up my laptop, where I've been drafting something different. "What if we changed the angle completely? What if I acknowledge I'm still the child-free travel expert, but write about what happens when that person suddenly finds herself knee-deep in family craziness?"
"Go on."
"So, here’s what I’m thinking," I start, my fingers crossed. " Minty Fresh Takes on Family —or Freshly Minted: Family Edition . I see it as a column about family travel from the perspective of someone who used to think kiddie pools were a form of mild torture. It’s messy, unpredictable, and occasionally hilarious—because, let’s face it, nobody gets through a family trip without some pandemonium. That’s where the stories are."
He's so quiet, I can hear the sounds of New York City waking up in the background.
So I continue. "Here’s an idea—an honest look at what happens when you try to explain the Eiffel Tower to a six-year-old who just wants to know where the snacks are. Or how an art museum becomes a scavenger hunt when you let the kids take the lead. It’s not Pinterest-perfect travel. More like the kind where you discover the world through their eyes—and learn how to laugh at yourself while doing it."
He finally responds. "This is good. Really good. It's you, but different. Better."
"It's real."
"It's authentic.”
I pull up more ideas and read them out loud.
Luxury travel: downgraded but survivable. How to turn five-star perks into something real—like knowing where the good wine is while the kids melt down in the lobby .
He chuckles. I think I’ve got him.
Chaos, meet coffee: A guide to finding sanity (and maybe a croissant) when the itinerary explodes . Unplanned adventures that somehow work out—sometimes even better than the ones you planned. Sometimes worse, but at least they’re memorable .
"I’m liking it,” he says. "It’s a new direction for you, but… it feels like it fits.”
"Am I torching my perfect image?" I ask.
“Make that part of the story. Be open about your pivot. Think how encouraging that will be for your followers.”
And how some of them will hate every word I’m writing.
"So… I can do this?" I mumble, mostly asking myself. "Even though it basically nukes the brand I’ve worked so hard to build?"
"Especially because of the brand you built. Build a new one based on it. People will want to hear about your journey. People love a good trainwreck—preferably one with feelings. But maybe don’t call the Louvre piece How to Appreciate Art While Wondering If He’s Ghosting You ."
“Oh. I sent you that? I don’t remember sending you that.”
Note to self—cut back on red wine.
“Yes, you certainly did send that to me, Alexa. Almost made me cry,” he laughs. “All I could think was who took our Alexa and what have they done with her ?”
At least he can laugh about the mess that is my life.
I scroll through the drafts on my laptop. At what I’ve been trying to spin into gold. At the words that are just a giant mess.
"Send me the first column," he says. "The one that admits you’re in over your head. That you’re terrified and second-guessing everything, but you’re still showing up."
"You mean the one that says I’m falling for a guy with kids and a life I swore I’d never want?"
He shrugs. "That sums it up, doesn’t it?"
"Sure," I mutter, opening a new doc. "Why not. Let’s throw my dignity under the bus while we’re at it."
"Glad you’re catching on."
I click my tongue at him because, unfortunately, he’s right.
I call Jonas before I even consider what time is it in San Francisco.
Oops.
"You up?" I ask.
His response is immediate. “Yeah. You forget how to subtract nine hours from your time zone?"
He’s not surprised to hear from me. Not at all. Like he knew I’d been calling.
Seems everyone knew this except for me.
"I am… planning my next article. And thinking of you. Professional research, you know."
"Writing about Paris romance?"
"Writing about coming home."
He’s silent for what seems like an hour. " Home ?"
"If, you know, I’m still welcome. Heard there's a hockey game next week. Thought I might need to cover it. For the column."
"Very professional."
"Super duper professional." I start to pour another glass of wine but carry the bottle to the kitchen and pour what’s left down the sink. "I… though I might need someone to explain the rules of hockey to me again."
"I'm sure Lukas would volunteer."
"I was thinking of a different teacher. Someone with more... hands-on experience."
Silence again. I try not to hold my breath.
"When?" he asks.
"The home game. Thought I might surprise the kids." I pause. "And maybe interview a certain player. For research, of course."
"Professional research? What about a conflict of interest?"
"Definitely compromised. I’ve kind of thrown in the towel on all that," I say. The wine makes me braver than usual. "Just watched one of your games."
"Oh. You must be an expert then."
"Among other things. Learning a lot about... warming up. Positions. Scoring. That sort of thing."
His voice is making me hot. I can’t deny it.
"Sounds like very thorough research," he says, his voice getting gravelly.
"Yes. I was thinking I might need some... clarification on certain plays."
"Now?"
"Well, I am up. You're up. Might as well be productive."
"Professional productivity?"
"Something like that."
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I urge gently.
“I’m, ah, at a loss for words. What do you want me to say?”
“Anything, so long as it’s dirty. Tell me how much you want to see me naked, Jonas.”
Jonas hesitates before finally speaking again. “I want to see you naked. Then I want to fuck you.”
A soft giggle escapes me. “Say it like you mean it.”
He takes a deep breath, and I can hear him getting settled in in his bed. “I want to fuck you,” he says quietly. “I want to slip my hard cock deep inside your hot, wet pussy.”
Oh my God. I slip my hand my panties. “Mmmm. I like that. Would you also like to go down on my pussy and taste me?”
“Yup.” His voice goes deeper, rougher. “I’d love to lick and suck your clit, then bury my tongue inside you.”
“Oh, God. You’re getting me there. I’m fingering my pussy now. It’s so wet.”
Holy shit. I’m having phone sex with Jonas Knight, hockey star and hot-as-shit dad. My breath gets choppy. “Your dirty talk is getting me close to coming. Are you naked?”
“I’m wearing boxers.”
“Take them off.”
I can hear rustling, then he comes back on the line. “Done.”
“That’s better,” I croon. “Is your cock nice and hard?”
“Fuck yeah. It’s hard and pointing toward the ceiling. I wish you were here so I could slip it inside you.”
“I know you do. Stroke yourself for me, Jonas. Imagine your big dick in my mouth right now. My wet tongue is licking your hard shaft while my lips are wrapped tightly around the head. Then I take it all the way into my mouth until it touches the back of my throat. Now I’m playing with your balls while I’m deepthroating you. You taste so good.”
“Fuck,” he pants. “I think we should do a sixty-nine.”
“Oooh, I like it,” I say.
“Mmmm, yeah. You’re on top of me, taking my cock down your throat like you said while your delicious pussy is sitting on my face.”
Damn, he’s good at this.
“Then I start stroking your cock with my hand while I suck your head harder and harder, getting all the more turned on by the feel of your tongue in my pussy. I get you almost to the point of coming, then I stop just in time.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t come yet. I have to fuck you first.”
“That’s right. I need your dick inside me. My pussy is begging to be filled. I need you. Right now. Deep inside me. Fill me up, Jonas. Fuck me, please.”
“Your pussy feels so hot and wet and I slide my cock inside you. You’re so tight. It feels fantastic. Can you feel me inside you?”
“God. Yes,” I reply, breathing heavily. “You’re in so deep. You feel so big. Fuck me hard, Jonas. Make me come all over your beautiful cock.”
“What position do you want to be in?”
“Just fuck me on top. I want to kiss you and touch your chest while you give it to me.”
“Okay,” he begins, his breaths becoming more shallow. “My tongue is in your mouth. My cock is buried deep in your pussy. I keep thrusting into you, harder, faster, deeper. Your nails dig into my back as I pound you into the bed. I wanna make you come. Your hips are thrusting off the mattress to meet my every stroke. My cock is hammering you. I can sense you’re really getting close now. You want to come. You need to come.”
I can’t help it. I explode into moans of delight over the phone. I know my breathing is loud in his ear. I moan and pant some more, before my ragged breathing fills the line and I continue to rub my pulsing core. “Oh, God, Jonas, I need you inside me.”
“I’m coming,” he grunts.
After, our naughty call, I pull up my flight confirmation. One-way ticket to San Francisco, departure in three days. Not because I'm wine-brave or missing anybody or tired of Paris.
But because it's time.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ryan:
Better be filing one hell of a story from this
Coverage from the family section
Finally writing from the right angle.
Then, Mom:
Booking flights?
Done
About time
Lucy:
Tell me you're not stress-eating croissants
Nope. Stress-booking flights
Fewer calories
I glance around my perfect Paris apartment. At my perfect Paris view. At everything I thought I ever wanted.
One more text from Jonas:
The kids miss you
Just the kids?
Very professional question
Very professional answer
Come home and find out
So I do the only thing left to do. I finish packing.
The suitcase doesn’t close right on the first try. Fitting my life into a bag never does. But that feels about right—this is going to be messy, imperfect, and possibly a disaster.
And I’m okay with that.