Winnie Takes Paris (Love and Travels #2)

1. Winnie

1

WINNIE

“ P aris n’a pas été bati en un jour.” Translation: Paris wasn’t built in a day. —French proverb

A colorful avalanche of clothing spilled from the suitcase atop the fluffy fuchsia-and-tangerine duvet. Sweaters, caftans, berets, and whimsical scarves in rainbow hues jockeyed for space with velvet slippers, black-and-white wingtips, and gold glitter-bomb high-tops. There was little to no chance of the industrial-sized accessory kit fitting inside the oversized luggage, and the regal Himalayan eyeing the mess from her perch on the nearby desk knew it.

“Liza is judging you.”

The cat purred in agreement, languidly swooshing her tail.

I propped my hands on my hips and glanced at my friend lounging on the chaise in the corner. “I don’t think she’s the only one.”

Max sat up with a gasp, clutching at a strand of phantom pearls. His sun-streaked brown hair flopped strategically across his face, falling neatly along his high cheekbones. “Me? Judge? Never.”

I chuckled fondly.

If possible, Max was a bigger diva than me. And that was saying something. In his watermelon midriff tee, pink micro shorts, and a wrist full of beaded bracelets, he was quite fabulous. And probably a tad chilly, too. The weather had been glorious in LA lately, but it was cool tonight. There was a hint of autumn in the air.

Max claimed not to notice. He was a Minnesota transplant and an unapologetic sun worshiper. Less was more in his book…when it came to clothes, anyway. His dress shirts were a size too small, his pants were all capri length, and if he could get away with wearing his Jimmy Choo slides, he was a happy camper.

In his defense, the poor guy wore scrubs and OMG, Crocs for his day job as a dental hygienist. It only seemed right and fair that he celebrate the real Max under those baggy blue cotton garments and plastic white slip-ons.

God, I was going to miss him…and my spoiled feline friend, Liza. And my human friends, Deacon and Andre and Jace and Bjorn, and my sister, Jazz, and my niece and nephew. I’d definitely miss my salon sisters, Jax and Serena, too. Okay, fine…I was going to miss almost everyone, but I’d be home in six weeks and just thinking about the Halloween-themed welcome home parties I had to look forward to would be enough to keep my spirits up if I ever got homesick.

I sincerely doubted that would happen, though. I was Paris bound, baby! The city of lights, love, croissants, wine, the Eiffel Tower, and ding dang berets…

Winnie is coming for you, gay Par-ee!

Truthfully, fucking off to Paris was probably a terrible idea for a guy hoping to get ahead at work. And tapping into my savings account to pay for my plane ticket…also a bad idea. But screw it. I’d tried being sensible and responsible. It wasn’t fun, and I hadn’t reaped any rewards at the salon.

Nothing, nada, zilch.

I’d pasted a phony smile on when that beach-blond idiot who called everyone sugar got the promotion and the chair that was supposed to be mine. I’d worked my booty off and yes, I’d been disappointed. However, I’d sucked it up, dusted off my go-to happy grin and gotten back to it, razzle-dazzling the clientele at The Lounge.

I’d shampooed my heart out, swept the floors, mixed the formulas, handled basic cuts, poured the tea, and dished the dirt. Same as I’d done day in, day out…year after year. Guess what? I didn’t get the next promotion either. I wasn’t as bummed, because Marcus really was an exceptional stylist.

However, last month’s diss had been a gut punch of epic proportion.

Get this…the new receptionist who’d been moonlighting at another salon was asked to join the team as a color expert, a.k.a. stylist. That was supposed to be my spot. My chair. I liked Kylie and I wanted to be happy for her, but I was oh, so sad for me. And let’s get one thing straight—sad was not in my repertoire.

I didn’t do sad.

Ever.

Sad was drab colors, gray skies, and tacky polyester shirts. It was unfortunate breath, bad sex, and running out of coffee on a Monday morning. Things I would never ever intentionally do or be part of if I could help it.

I was so unaccustomed to the emotion that I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me until my best friend, Raine, FaceTimed me from England and said three dreaded, horrible words :

“Winnie, you’re blue.”

Ugh!

I’d sobbed like a baby, spilling my guts out with mascara streaking my cheeks while my bestie had comforted me from afar. Poor guy. I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with me in that state. I’d been a wreck.

In my mind, I’d been disrespected. The more I thought about my predicament, the more I realized it was never going to get better. Management didn’t want me to be anything other than a glorified shampoo person. I was the comedic relief, the fun-time gal, the bad boy with a broom who had the latest gossip and was quick with a compliment.

“Oh, stop! Boy, you look a-maze-ing!” Clap, clap, clap. “Where’s the red carpet? I’m having a moment.”

Dramatic? Maybe, but effusive praise was much appreciated by Hollywood’s who’s who clientele. Semi-famous actors, directors, and models asked for me by name. I was well liked, damn it.

But it wasn’t enough. It was the adult version of being the last kid picked in gym class. Been there, done that…no thanks. Thirty-five-year-old me owed it to the painfully skinny, awkward gay boy who’d eaten lunch alone far too many times in the fifth grade. I needed to regroup and reevaluate my goals.

I’d wanted to be a stylist to the stars, but perhaps the cosmos was suggesting there was something else out there for me. Another path, another purpose.

Like…what, though?

I’d vented to my friends over mango margaritas and more chips and salsa than anyone should indulge in. Max told me to hang in there, Deacon told me to switch salons, and my brother-in-law, Milo, who was one shady motherfucker, said he knew a guy who could shake up the owner. Wow .

Of course, I ignored Milo. Jail wasn’t on my bucket list and sure, everyone claimed orange wasn’t their color, but oh, honey…every shade of orange did me dirty, and I wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, I liked the owner at The Lounge. If Lawrence didn’t feel the same about me or my future at his salon, I had to accept it and make do, or…move on.

Raine had suggested that a visit to England might do me good. I’d regretfully informed him that an impromptu getaway wasn’t in my budget. He’d sighed and dropped the topic.

But a week later, he’d had another idea. “Be me for a month in Paris.”

“ Excuse-ay moi ?”

“There’s a series of lectures in Paris about ancient Egypt, and Professor Creighton is scheduled to speak. He wanted to go early to do some research. I planned to fly back and forth, but Graham just surprised me with a trip to Bali. I can find someone else at the museum to take my place or… you could do it!”

“Love it…except, I don’t know anything about ancient Egypt,” I’d reminded him.

Raine hadn’t been bothered by the reality check. “Normally, that would be a concern, but your main job on this trip would be to make sure the professor gets to his train on time and that his socks match. You’d be a glorified companion. That’s all.”

“Paid escort to an old man? How did I get here so soon?” I’d lamented theatrically.

“Not that kind of escort, perv. And Professor C is only forty-four.”

“Oh.”

“The professor doesn’t like change, but I talk about you all the time and you met at our party, so he practically knows you already.”

“I don’t remember meeting a professor.”

“Oh, I thought I introduced you. Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s going to love you, and you’re going to love an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris!”

There was a generous stipend attached to the temporary position, too. Sweet deal.

But I’d still thought about the proposal long and hard. It wasn’t a matter of packing and catching the next flight. I had Liza to think of, and rent, and…a job. But Max’s cousin had agreed to sublet my apartment for a month, and feed my cat. And Lawrence had patted me on the back, congratulated me on seizing a fabulous opportunity, and said he looked forward to hearing about my adventures when I returned.

So…guess who was going to Paris? C’est moi !

Yep, I’d been memorizing useful phrases from Google Translate, and I was determined to be the best travel companion possible.

Deux cafés, si’l vous plait. Two coffees, please.

Où est la gare? Where is the train station?

Aide! Help!

Good start. However, I had no illusions that this would be a walk in the park. I’d never been to France, didn’t know the language, knew nothing about ancient Egypt, and my people never had issues with mismatched socks. This would be a challenge. But if anyone needed a reset, it was me.

I petted Liza as I scanned my overflowing suitcase. “I suppose I could do a teensy bit of editing.”

Max nodded his approval. “You can always buy something in Paris. And I do expect a trip treat. I’m hoping for a rhinestone-bejeweled Eiffel Tower shirt, please.”

“You shall have it.” I smiled affectionately. “I’m going to miss you, Maxy.”

“I’ll miss you too, honey. You’re going to text us, aren’t you? Liza will want updates. We want to hear all about the professor. I hope he’s a hunk,” Max said in a rush .

I snort-laughed. “I’m pretty sure he’s a smarty-pants geek, but even if he was a dreamboat, I would never flirt with Raine’s boss.”

“Then you’ll have to find a sexy Frenchman.”

This was my cue to give a saucy reply of the “Oh, hell yes” variety, but I didn’t have it in me. Raine was right. I was blue, and it wasn’t a good look. However, I had high hopes that a change of scenery and a solid month of eating my weight in croissants would clear away the cloud hanging over my head.

I needed to reclaim my zhuzh, and something told me Paris was the best place to start.

London first.

I said my good-byes to sunny LA, hopped a late-night flight to Heathrow, and landed in a rainstorm in London the following day.

Gray was just as bad as blue, and I had a moment of regret, wondering what I was doing. But then Raine picked me up and whisked me to the posh Grosvenor Square house he shared with his handsome husband and their black Lab, Linus, and I remembered just how lucky I was to have friends who felt like family.

Raine Edwards-Horsham was my brother from another mother. A vertically challenged, lighter-skinned version of me with a mop of brown hair and questionable fashion sense. I said that with love, of course.

We’d met at San Francisco State when he’d friend-stalked me in Anthro 101 seventeen years ago. I hadn’t thought I’d have anything in common with an eager twink from a teeny town in New Mexico, but Raine’s sunny disposition and relentless energy won me over. Like me, he was an optimist who wanted to believe the best in people.

I used to think I had street smarts and Raine had common sense, but we’d gotten into a few binds that would suggest otherwise.

Like the time I’d gotten us lost on a sketchy street in East LA, and Raine had interrupted a drug deal to ask for directions. Or the time I’d volunteered to bring a dish to a work party and had misread the ingredients for a stuffed-pepper recipe. I’d used a super-spicy habanero with a kick that had given the runs to everyone who’d partaken. As in there’d been a hefty line around the corner with some pale, miserable-looking stylists. Bad, I know…but Raine had put condensed milk in an eggnog recipe, so it was probably most accurate to say we were both mini disasters.

Past tense. Unlike me, my best friend had his act together now.

Raine had married a great guy with a dreamy accent who worshiped the ground he walked upon. They had a town house in London, a fancy estate in Cornwall, and traveled all over the world. I loved hearing about Raine’s life in the UK. This was home for him now, and I was simultaneously ecstatic for him and brokenhearted for myself. Our clubbing days in the Castro were long gone. Our margarita drag brunches in WeHo were reserved for his occasional trips to LA. Life had changed.

For Raine, anyway.

I needed a taste of whatever magic elixir he’d stumbled upon. Minus a geographic move that would require learning how to drive on the wrong side of the road, navigate public transportation on the daily, and memorize new money. But damn, this was nice.

I curled my long legs onto the fluffy sofa and sipped sauvignon blanc. My cheeks were warm from the alcohol and the roaring fire in the huge stone fireplace. And I had my best friend all to myself. Graham was away on business, and though I absolutely adored him, I was selfishly happy to catch up with Raine without having to explain who we were talking about or translate what Graham jokingly referred to as our colorful interpretation of the English language.

We covered important topics, like Max’s crush on the married dentist in his office, Deacon’s nipple piercing mishap, and which version of Love Island was truly the best. We discussed the new play Graham and he had seen last week, an exhibit they’d loved at the Tate, and their garden at Deverley.

In a perfect world, I could have stayed there, soaking up all the yummy juju without moving a muscle. But…I was here on assignment.

“Tell me all about Dr. Clayton, honey.”

“Professor Creighton,” Raine corrected. “He’s a brilliant, lovely man.”

I raised a brow at my American friend’s very British description of his boss. “Does that mean he’s hot?”

Raine snorted. “No, it means he’s a super smart, nice guy.”

“But…”

“No buts.” He took a sip of wine, then set his glass next to a stack of fancy books about English architecture on the coffee table. “You’ll like him. He’s sweet and—okay, there is one thing.”

“Go on.”

“He’s very…forgetful, like a real absentminded professor. It’s not a problem or anything.” Raine frowned. “At least, I don’t think it’s a problem. I haven’t been to a conference with him in a while. The last one was in Amsterdam. We got separated by a group of cyclists for a hot second. I spotted him on a bridge and poof …he was gone. He’s terrible about texting or answering his cell, so I was in full panic mode. Twenty minutes later, I found hi m in the red-light district checking out sex toys as if nothing had happened.”

I hooted with laughter. “Yeah, I bet he staged a getaway so he could do some private shopping. Was he looking for a plug for his male lover or edible undies for a lady friend?”

Raine rolled his eyes. “He’s very private. But I’m pretty sure he’s single and married to his work. I’ve thought about setting him up, but I have no idea about his sexual orientation. Besides, his perfect match would be an Egyptologist or an expert on Greco-Roman studies. Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone who’d fit the bill, and he doesn’t really talk about anything else.”

I wrinkled my nose. “What am I supposed to talk about with him?”

“Oh, please. You can talk to anyone.”

True. But a little insight would go a long way.

“You’ve worked for him for a couple of years now. You must know something personal about the professor.”

“Sure. He takes his tea with a dollop of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, and he loves biscuits…uh, cookies,” he translated with a chuckle, no doubt catching my confused expression. “Especially Jammie Dodgers. He’s a bit reserved, but it’s not as if you have to become best friends. Your job is to make sure Professor C gets to the conference center on time and?—”

“To make sure his socks match,” I supplied.

Raine hit me with a no-BS stare. “I cannot stress how important that is. Wardrobe choices might not matter in a library or museum, but there will be photographers and videographers at these events.”

I perked up. “So what I’m hearing is…the professor needs a stylist.”

“Not a professional stylist, Win. More of a helpful nudge with his color palette.”

“Got it. Don’t you worry about a thing! I’ve got you covered. ”

He smiled. “I know. I’ll introduce you properly at the museum tomorrow, and you’ll meet up the following day to catch the train to Paris. Eeps ! Oh, Win, you’re going to love Paris! Did I tell you about the time…”

I tuned my friend out. The wine had gone to my head, and my brain was swimming with new ideas.

See, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been thinking about this venture the right way. I could be the professor’s unofficial stylist and sharpen my skills in the most fashionable city in the world.

Maybe this was fate. Maybe being overlooked at the salon time after time was a blessing in disguise. Maybe the universe was waiting for me to lose my ever-loving mind, throw in my broom, and step away from the shampoo station.

I could learn a lot in Paris. I’d take a million photos, gather fabric samples, study hair styles, and go home with a whole new edge to my portfolio. When I got back to LA, I could take private clients…Hollywood notables, rock stars, techies with lots of money and no fashion sense. I could reinvent myself. Yes, this could be very good indeed.

I melted into the marshmallow cushions, sipping wine and humming along to Raine’s travel plans as a wave of gratitude washed over me. This wasn’t a hiatus from real life. This was an opportunity to become a better me, and I intended to seize it.

The following day, I wasn’t so sure.

My head hurt from one too many glasses of wine, the sky was pissing rain, and the Tube was a crowded maze of humanity with blank faces and dripping umbrellas. By the time we exited the station at Russell Square and walked to the British Museum, I looked like a drowned rat.

Confession: I was a faux museum gay. I mean, guy. You could count on my best behavior for one hour before I lost interest and made my way to the gift shop or better yet, the cafeteria for a pastry and bottle of screw-top Chardonnay.

The funny thing was that I loved art and I had mad respect for painters, sculptors, and visionaries. I just didn’t enjoy aimlessly wandering through hallowed halls, whispering and pointing as if I understood the significance of a Greek statue of a muscular man with a gorgeous derriere and a tiny willy.

But I had to admit, the British Museum had that wow factor. Behind the stately stone exterior with its formal columns and grand entry was a modern glass dome that flooded the lobby with natural light…even on a gray day.

I gaped in awe at the crisscross glass ceiling above us. “This is gorgeous.”

“It’s called The Great Court. It was built in 2001, and that alcove in the middle is called The Reading Room. It’s an archive now and a study space.” Raine tugged my raincoat meaningfully. “This way.”

He pulled a badge from his pocket and handed it over to a serious-looking man standing sentry at a private entrance. The guard smiled warmly at Raine, treated me to a brief once-over, and stepped aside.

We took an elevator to a lower level and emerged in a dimly lit beige-and-white corridor. Everything was dull and monotone, from the chipped tiled flooring to the drab paint on the walls. Glum city.

Raine picked up the pace, the way some weirdos do when they’re excited to be at work. I lengthened my stride to match Raine’s until he stopped at the end of the hall in front of a door with a discreet sign labeled, “Antiquities Department, Creighton.”

Setting a finger to his lips, he unlocked the door and motioned for me to enter a cavernous room with high ceilings and a tile floor lit by a small library-style lamp that cast a wide yellow-y circle on the table but did nothing to illuminate the space. Neither did the large windows covered with blackout shades.

I had two minutes, tops, before I suffocated.

“Hello, Raine. Was I expecting you today?” The deep timbre of a masculine voice rumbled through me, rooting me in place.

A second later, I nearly jumped out of my skin. A large man with wild dark hair and thick glasses cleared his throat and meandered to the table littered with…stuff. I couldn’t make out his features or tell what had his attention in the dim lighting, but damn, I was suddenly very curious.

“Yes, Professor C. I wanted to introduce you to my very best friend, Winnie Rodriguez. He’s going to be traveling with you to Paris tomorrow. I thought it would be better to meet here than at the train station for the first time.” Raine tapped my arm. “Winnie, this is Professor Alistair Creighton. Professor C, this is Win.”

I put on my friendliest smile and stepped forward with my hand outstretched. “ Enchanté, monsieur .”

The professor moved out of the shadows, blinking at me like an owl, and geez Louise…Alistair Creighton was hot.

He was a bear of a man, approximately my height but thicker all over with a lightly stubbled jaw, full lips, a straight nose, and bushy eyebrows. I would have done a double take on the street, and that wasn’t just a commentary on his beefcake appeal. The guy buzzed with the kind of energy associated with passionate people driven by an internal fire.

In his case, I supposed it was all things Ancient Egypt.

I studied the professor’s floppy brown hair, broad shoulders, and sexy forearms visible where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his oversized, nondescript sweater. His khakis were a size too big, and the tips of his shoes were hopelessly scuffed as if he’d dragged them on the floor. But those minor fashion faux pas suited the academic vibe and did nothing to detract from his obvious good looks.

His rapid-fire speech in French pulled me back to reality.

“ Bonjour. C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer . Je n’ai pas ?—”

“Ohh, no, no. I don’t speak French. Not really. I’ve been practicing a few phrases and ‘ enchanté ’ is one of them,” I admitted with a laugh. “I can also order us croissants, beignets, coffee, and wine. We’re all set, honey.”

The professor’s deep frown and blank stare gave me the distinct impression that he hadn’t understood a word I’d said. In English.

“Very well. Good to meet you,” Professor Creighton replied absently before addressing my friend. “Raine, you must see this. I’m fairly certain it’s Ammit. Not a great rendering, mind, but if you look closely, you can see the crocodile head. There’s evidence of hieroglyphics at the base. Rather badly faded. See here.”

Raine leaned in to examine the rock—yes, it was a fucking rock—and oohed in appreciation. “Incredible.”

I approached the table, watching their interaction with amused fascination. I’d always known Raine was a geek, but I rarely got to see it in action. It was cute. However, I had absolutely nothing to add to the conversation.

While they spoke animatedly about their rock, I strolled the perimeter of the dark room, pausing to read titles of the leather-bound books on the shelves. Gods and Pharaohs, The Rise and Fall of the Empire, Ramses II, Rituals and Beliefs. I wondered if the professor had read all of them, and my eyes widened a moment later.

Holy shit. He’d written some of these books.

Okay, it was official. I hadn’t felt this out of place since I’d shown up to class in leg warmers and neon-green sunglasses in my single-handed attempt to bring back the eighties at Oakwood Elementary. I’d failed miserably, and had even gotten uninvited to Misty Martinez’s co-ed birthday party.

Side rant: That tiny episode had marked the first time I’d been actively cognizant of being shunned for being…me. See, Misty had regretfully informed me that her parents weren’t comfortable with my kind, and I’d had no idea what that meant. What was my kind? How was I different? I liked bright colors and fun prints. Why was that bad?

No doubt it had happened a gazillion times in little ways before that day, and I’d just been blissfully unaware. Now I knew, and I’d immediately realized there was nothing I could do to change their views without becoming one of them, and that wasn’t going to happen.

I was a nonconformist to my very marrow. I didn’t know how to fit in. If the dress code was black, you bet I added some sparkle. If the occasion called for a song or a dance, I wanted a diva anthem and I wanted to choreograph that bit of genius myself.

Was I talented? No. Was I gifted? Not particularly. But I’d learned a long time ago that being “different” was my superpower.

And I’d learned to recognize that difference in others. Like the professor.

On paper, we had nothing in common but Raine. But I suspected that Professor Creighton lacked the conformity gene too.

The clues were all over the room. Not only was it packed with books, artifacts, drawings, and maps of old-time civilizations, it was littered with the remnants of days’ worth of to-go meals, empty coffee cups on the file cabinets, jackets, sweaters, and umbrellas. And get this—there was a cot in the corner with a blanket and pillow. This dude loved his job so much that he fucking lived here !

Christ, this was bad.

Alistair Creighton was not makeover material. He was a dedicated geek. A.k.a, the nerd version of my proud rainbow gladiator. We were two sides of the same coin…with currency that was only valid in specific circles. I couldn’t Eliza Doolittle him. I couldn’t do anything…except what I was being paid to do—escort a British brainiac who favored UPS shades of brown to Paris. Oh, joy.

Note to self: read the fine print, honey.