TWELVE
Seven hours and twenty minutes later, I landed in Paris and headed to my boutique hotel. The taxi dropped me off and I made my way through the lobby to where a frazzled older woman was speaking with a young man at the front desk. He looked about thirteen, but I’m sure he’s older. His youthful face doesn’t match the composed way he handled her frustration. He spoke to her with such patience that she calmed down immediately. I squinted to read his name tag. Simon. I rolled my eyes—Simon was a name for someone who smelled their own farts, not a sweet-faced kid like him.
Laughter from the lounge caught my attention, and I glanced over my shoulder. Two men sat in ridiculously oversized chairs, surrounded by four stunning women in short skirts and sky-high heels. The women are probably younger than me by a few years and radiated sexual energy. I was creeping towards thirty and it felt like a lifetime ago I gave off those kind of vibes.
The men, though, are what kept my eye. Both dressed in impeccably tailored suits—sharp, sleek, and perfectly fitted. A man in a suit was always a weakness of mine. There’s something about that Peaky Blinders energy—the serious face, the vest, and the hint of power. Some of my favorite smutty reads have this exact plot. They exuded confidence, like men who scaled businesses and carried conversations that never missed a beat. I would never say no to Thomas Shelby!
The man on the left, however, held my attention. He’s got that serial bachelor look—always traveling, a woman in every city. No judgement. He probably smelled like the kind of cologne that lingers and drove you crazy. The way he smiled lights up the entire room. Real laughter. My heart skipped a beat.
I snapped out of my thoughts when Simon called my name and handed over my room key. “If you need anything, just let me know,”
he said sincerely and I had to suppress a laugh. If only he knew how easily his offer could be misinterpreted. Maybe, I’m just immature. More likely, I just need to get laid.
I glanced back at the men by the bar, especially to catch a glimpse of the one with the killer smile. His face belonged on a magazine cover—shirtless on a sailboat, a bourbon ad or I can think of another place to put it. Yep, it’s definitely me. I’m the problem.
Our eyes meet as I started to walk toward the stairs. He doesn’t look away. It’s clear he knew I was staring. Amateur hour on my part, but I’m not backing down. I can look at whoever I want, and today, it’s him.
I turned towards the stairs to avoid tripping with my bag, but can’t resist one more glance. He’s watching me, a slight grin tugged at his lips. I smiled back. Yes, I was checking him out. Yes, he was very aware of it. No shame in it.
Simon, at the front desk, assured me my bags would be sent up. As I’m headed to my room, I can’t help but laugh at myself. This trip was starting to get interesting right out of the gate.
I text both my mom and Amelia to let them know I arrived safely. After unpacking, I changed into a white silk sleeveless shirt and wide-leg trousers. I snapped a selfie to send to Lena.
Me: The girls are in their French era.
Lena: Daaaammmnnnn!
Me: Miss you.
I made a call to my aunt Manon. She’s not close with my mom and uncle for reasons never discussed, but I adored her. Vibrant and free-spirited, she’s a successful marketing manager in Paris. We planned to meet fora quick dinner before my late-night client meeting.
“So, tell me everything, cherie,”
she said dishing out a creamy concoction. “How is New York? How is your affaire de c?ur?”
I laughed shaking my head. “There’s no affaire de c?ur, Manon. It’s just work, work, and more work.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “You are too young and too beautiful to be chained to work! You must live! Feel the joie de vivre!”
I smiled sipping my wine. “I am living, I promise. I’m here, aren’t I?”
She smiled knowingly. “Yes, and Paris will do you good. This city has a way of waking people up, reminding them of what matters.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And maybe even who?”
She feigned innocence. “Moi? Matchmaking? Never! But… if a charming Frenchman crosses your path—what harm could there be in a little romance?”
I laughed,“I’m not here for romance, just to relax and take in the city.”
She sighed, dramatic as ever. Manon is the most French of anyone in our family. “Everyone comes to Paris for romance. You’re so pragmatic. Just like your mother.”
We laughed and the conversation flowed like no days had passed since the last time. By the time we part ways, I feel energized by her presence, and slightly tipsy from three glasses of wine. Pretty damn perfect!
I met clients at Le Mary Celeste, an intimate bar in Le Marais that buzzed with life yet was still low-key. The night proceeded as planned and we caught up with lots of laughter, plus another glass of wine. Before heading back to the hotel, I stopped by the kitchen to chat with the manager and head chef. They are two of my favorite Parisians. Once again, the manager begged me to marry his son—the answer is always no thank you. The chef, despite his perpetually grumpy demeanor, always kissed my checks and gave me a smile that showed his dimples-a gift just for me.
As I headed back to the hotel a little after midnight, a new feeling swirled inside of me—the kind that only Paris and maybe wine brought.
The lobby was still full of life, but I wanted to go to my room and pass out. Digging into my purse to grab my room key, a man collided into me while walking backward away from a conversation. His glass of wine swished dangerously as he turned around to see what he ran into and it spilled all over me.
Immediately, the wet sensation pulled my eyes down to stain of red across my chest. My shoulders dropped in disappointment. I breathed in a heavy sigh and I looked up to see my shirt assassin.
“Merda. Ti devo delle scuse.”
Fuck me. Speaking rapidly in Italian, a mix of apologies and jokes, was the sexy guy from yesterday. I’m silent, somewhat shocked. After drinking for most of the evening, my brain decided to not brain.
“My apologies,”
he whispered. He spoke flawless English. Of course he did.
“It’s okay,”
I finally made words exit my mouth. He’s not only hot from a distance—but it’s better up close. Our eyes met and I can’t look away. He has ocean eyes, so striking against sun-kissed skin. My hands wanted to move through his dark wavy hair. He wore navy tailored pants and a partially unbuttoned white linen shirt, his watch sparkling on his wrist when it caught the light. I started to feel too warm. What’s wrong with me? I bit my bottom lip and held my breathe. He stood there and smiled.
My hand moved to his upper arm, “I’m sorry.”
“For what? I spilled the wine. I’m embarrassed. Forgive me.”
He spoke with rapid firing skills.
I felt his triceps through his shirt. He was built strong. I loved great arms. Why am I touching him? Retreat. Release.
I pulled my hand away, trying to seem nonchalant. He watched me move my hand from his arm to my chest, attempting to calm my racing heartbeat, even through my wet shirt. We stood there—silent. His eyes shifted down to my lips. I just watched—like being frozen in time. His eyes came back up, we both smiled. Even his lashes were dark and sultry. This guys was too pretty and now it seemed unfair.
“Luca!”
Someone called him back to the bar. He hesitated—he doesn’t want to go back. I could tell. I don’t want him to leave. We had an entire conversation in that moment without saying more than five words. That’s a first for me.
“Good night, Luca,”
I said and turned on my heels to head to my room. I reach my room, pulled off my wet shirt and bra, flopped on the bed and sighed. My heart pulsed, it beat in my ears—and every feminine part of me woke the hell up. I had to text Lena just to validate the reality of this movement.
Me: Hot Italian guy spilled red wine all over the front of my white shirt.
Lena: How hot?
Me: Fuck boy hot, but a man!
Lena: Why are you texting me!! We talked about this. This is what we prepared for.
Lena: You are beautiful, smart and VERY successful. You better hit that!
Me:
Oh Paris, you’re full of surprises.