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  My mouth slackens. “This is your favorite restaurant?”

  “Well, the food here is pristine. Perhaps after tonight it shall be our favorite restaurant?”

  Simon guides me through the entrance, his hand grazing my back, sending insta-chills all over my body.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Grant,” says the host, “c’est super de vous revoir. I see you have a reservation for”—his wondering eyes glaze over me—“two?”

  “Oui. Réservation pour deux,” Simon confirms, his British accent like butter even while speaking French.

  The restaurant décor is posh ambiance. Wood-paneled walls. Linen-clothed tables. Staff members draped in black suits and red ties—even the ladies.

  We’re taken to a small square table, suited for two, where the petite waitress hands us menus and babbles something about our server being with us soon, before she disappears.

  “Thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight, Lauren. Your company is quite an honor.”

  I remember to breathe before I say, “My company is an honor? I can say the same about you, Simon.”

  His cheeks turn pink for a minute and I swear his eyes let out a flicker of a sparkle. He’s super dreamy. Again, the man of my dreams.

  “What do you suggest I order? I’ve never been here and everything on the menu looks so impressive.”

  His icy blues hang on me for a few lingering seconds before he murmurs, “Very impressive.” Then he shakes his head as if he’s trying to rid himself free of sinister thoughts. He clears his throat, and adds, “The vegetable tasting menu is pretty popular. Chef Alain owns three organic vegetable farms and has fresh vegetables sent here via train about three times a day.”

  “Then vegetable tasting menu it is.”

  “Wonderful. How about a glass of wine?”

  “Oh,” I say, “I don’t really drink. Only on special occasions. And rarely on the first date.”

  “Surely, our meeting and the fact that we are neighbors, are factors worthy of a celebratory swig. Life itself is a special occasion.”

  I suppose the fact that I scored the publishing deal with La Boutique is cause for a celebratory swig as he so eloquently put it.

  “Okay, order me a glass of your favorite, please.”

  Simon orders our meals, glasses of wine, and water, making me swoon at the allure of all his suaveness.

  He certainly seems to be a great catch, but I obviously need to know more about him.

  All the things, like Arabella said.

  “So, Simon you know who I am, what I do for a living. Tell me about you.”

  He rests his hands on the table, his eyes still the smoldering blue that makes me salivate. H.O.T.

  “I’m a software designer for a Fortune 500 company. They sent me here, as a part of their plans to expand. Since I speak fluent French and have lived here once before, I became part of the Paris team—there are only about ten of us here right now.”

  The waitress approaches our table, carrying a round serving tray with four glasses of wine on it. She places two on our table, one for me, the other for my handsome companion, before she zips to another table.

  I lift my glass, breathe in the fruity aroma, and take a sip of wine, then ask, “Does that mean your time here in Paris is only temporary?”

  He smiles with his eyes and mouth and says, “I certainly hope that’s not the case”—he pauses to take a sip of his wine, savoring it slowly before he adds—“not now anyway.”

  Our food arrives. Heavenly. Decadent.

  No wonder this place has earned its acclaimed star-merit.

  We gobble our meals, each studying the way the other eats. The place is packed now, diners’ voices occupying the tables getting louder. The chef emerges from the kitchen, making an effort to touch every table, thanking guests for coming.

  I lean into our table and say, my voice low, “Does he always do that? Pop in and chat with guests at each table?”

  “Who, Chef Alain?”

  I nod as I continue to observe the chef, now approaching our table.

  “Yes, he’s known for that.”

  “Bonjour! Comment était cotre repas?” The chef asks, looking at Simon then to me.

  “The meal was exquisite,” Simon says and I nod in agreement.

  “Fantastique. And it’s always a pleasure to see you here, Simon.” The chef looks at me and says, “You are Madame Lauren Blake, no?”

  I blush, flabbergasted he even knows me. “Yes, I am.”

  “Merci à deux d’être venus. It is such a pleasure to have you here. I hope you both have a wonderful evening.”

  Chef Alain walks over to another table, striking up conversation with its occupants.

  Simon chuckles. “You probably don’t realize how famous you are. Like I said, it’s an honor to be here with you, Lauren.”

  I drink more of my wine, and wonder why a catch like Simon Grant hasn’t been caught.

  With a tilt of my head I ask, “You don’t have a significant other?”

  He squares his broad shoulders. “If I had someone significant, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  Single. Unattached. Thank goodness.

  He lifts his glass, sips, and swallows. “And you? I’m assuming since you’re here with me, you too are significant-less.”

  “Safe assumption.” I wink.

  We order a dessert trio of tulipes, crème brûlée, and macarons, accompanied by coffee, both of us savoring bites, while sharing stories about our family, friends, and past relationships.

  He’s a beautiful discovery.

  Like a brand new constellation, a Starbucks secret menu, a G-spot.

  When we stroll back to his car, he opens the passenger side door and stands in front of me, the bright light from the moon peeking through the ominous clouds.

  He leans in, as I look up and into his eyes. “Will you go out with me again tomorrow night?” he asks.

  It takes less than five seconds for me to say…

  “Yes.”

  His eyes, bold and enticing, hold mine hostage for a long while, then he brings his lips in my breathing sphere; hints of mint and cologne send my senses into a spiral. Spinning, whirling, twirling.

  And then closer, until our lips finally touch. Soft. Smooth. Heavenly.

  All the feels…

  All. The. Feels.

  Chapter 16

  Jaxson

  I’m jealous.

  There. I said it.

  Icy Hot Princess had a date last night with some dude next door and I’m jealous.

  It was all she talked about on the drive home from HC Headquarters. That and the fact La Boutique offered her the publishing deal she so badly wants. I’m happy for her. About the publishing deal. Not the date. Just to be clear.

  After I dropped her and Truffles off at Chateau De Grenelle, I drove straight home, showered, and helped Nana and Gramps pack. Then, the three of us enjoyed a bowl of Nana’s famous onion soup. The two of them got on my case, adamantly suggesting I come clean with Lauren about who I really am.

  “Jaxson Malone will catch up with you eventually. Run from all of the Dixie Lane drama, yes. But you can’t run away from you,” Gramps said as we all ate outside on the terrace.

  Then Nana couldn’t resist chiming in, as well, when she said, “Besides, what is so bad about Jaxson Malone, anyway? The fact that the fame-seeking mutt turned down your proposal? She is the one who needs to hide, Grandson. Not you. America loves you, has sympathy for you. And so do your fans here in France. Believe me, there are many who have streamed that show, many who probably have issues of that magazine Alpine—”

  “Alpha Male,” I corrected, then chuckled.

  She giggled. “Yes, that one. Anyway, what do you think Lauren will do if you tell her who you are? Hire another driver? Why would she? Perhaps knowing you have a celeb background may make her feel comfortable with you—closing the gap with having something in common. And if she remembers bumping into you at the airport, then what’s
wrong with that?”

  I thought long and hard about their advice, then decided they’re right. Why hide who I am from Lauren? Explain that I came to escape the media, the show, and that I just want to chill for a bit, help out with the business. She may have a sassy bite to her, but I don’t see Lauren as the type to ridicule.

  So, I plan to tell her today. Either on the way to HC Headquarters or on the way back this evening.

  The double doors fly open. It’s Lauren making her way to the car now.

  Glowing. Beautiful. Dressed in tight jeans and thigh-high boots.

  If she weren’t a fashion designer, she could certainly pass for a model.

  Her long ponytail rocks back and forth with her every step.

  It’s hard to look away; like the Mona Lisa, Lauren is that something new each time you see her.

  I hop out, open the door for her and say, “Good morning,” as she brushes past me. “Where is Truffles?”

  She smiles, her teeth the color of pearls. “Oh, Truffles decided to sleep in, so Jules will entertain him today.”

  Icy Hot Princess slides into the seat, I shut the door, and a whiff of her perfume dances around my nose.

  Damn, she smells so good. Apples and Violets. Her signature scent.

  On the road, she busies herself with her phone, scrolling, scrolling scrolling. And I gotta ask her what I’ve been wondering most of last night and all of this morning.

  “How was your date?”

  She smirks, still looking down at her phone. “It was lovely. I think I may have found the man of my dreams, Jack.”

  Great. That’s not quite the answer I wanted to hear.

  “Sweet. So yesterday was a victory day, with the news of the magazine, and of course it seems you may have found Mister Right.” I hope she doesn’t detect the sarcasm dripping from me.

  I wanna barf.

  “Yep,” she says, now looking up, a pensive glow in her eyes. “What happened to your girlfriend, Jack? When I asked you if had one, you said, not anymore.”

  “She broke my heart. It’s part of the reason I’m here in Paris. To forget.” I admit, without hesitation.

  Her immediate head tilt and set of furrowed brows on display speaks volumes. “Aww, Jack I’m so sorry to hear that. I do hope your heart heals soon. Paris is a wonderful place to help you forget about your past. God knows it has helped me.”

  More curious than ever I ask, “Oh, you came to Paris to forget your past?”

  She chuckles and moves her gaze out the window. “Well in my case, I came Paris to escape.”

  Hmm. Let the mystery unfold.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, escape what?”

  She sighs, still looking out the window, then says, “My mama. My sister. Savannah.”

  Her phone rings. Bad timing.

  She removes it from her purse, looks at the screen, and answers, “Hey André, everything alright?” She pauses. “Really? Wow, how sweet. I can’t wait to see them. I’ll be there soon. And can you ask the café to have a warm croissant and an iced coffee waiting for me?” Another pause. “Lovely. See you in a bit, sweetie.”

  Looking amused, she tosses her phone back into her purse, before she folds her arms, taking a deep breath in then out. A smile tugs at her lips.

  “Everything good?”

  She nods. “Everything is more than good. Apparently my date sent a gift to my office this morning. One dozen small teddy bears. I guess he took the time to read about me and my dislike of flowers. André said he peeked at the card and it says ‘if not one dozen flowers, surely one dozen teddy bears will suffice. Thanks for last night. I’m looking forward to spending more time with you.’ ”

  She lets out a breathy sigh.

  And me?

  Well, it should be rather obvious.

  I’m still jealous.

  Chapter 17

  Lauren

  He’s perfect.

  Simon Grant is perfect.

  One dozen teddy bears? Melt my tender little heart.

  I’m at my desk sipping on my iced coffee, staring at the gift Simon sent over. Thoughtful. Out of the box.

  Not flowers. Not candy.

  Amazingness.

  When I shared details of my date with Arabella via our FaceTime chat this morning, she didn’t seem impressed. For some reason she doesn’t like Simon. Not sure why—she hasn’t seen him. She said he still sounds like the stuffy business types I need to get away from.

  “I told you, a good bad boy will rock your world,” is what she reminded me.

  Ugh. Honestly I don’t know one single bad boy. Maybe Jack, my driver. I mean, he’s got that tattoo and all. But really, other than him, I don’t usually cross paths with any guys who aren’t the stuffy business types.

  “Madame Blake, the photographers for the Foxy shoot are here,” says Celesté via the intercom.

  “Great, have André show them where to set up and I’ll meet them in thirty minutes,” I reply.

  Foxy is Haute Couture’s line of accessories.

  Handbags. Purses. Earrings. Sunglasses. You know, anything that adds glitter to an outfit. I’ve asked my photographers to capture some of my most popular items of the Foxy line for the magazine.

  My magazine. I still can hardly believe it.

  Work over the next week is going to be tight. Long hours. Maybe six days in a row, now that I have a confirmed publishing deadline all around the time of my annual Haute Couture Fashion Show. I’m not worried at all about The Show. That team totally knows what they’re doing as this will be the fourth year.

  But the magazine…that’s a different story.

  So much to do.

  Photo shoots. Layout designs—that’s where my new employee Daniella Belle, I mean Daniella Michaels, will help me out. She’s got a keen eye. André will enjoy working with her. As long as he doesn’t go full-on fanboy.

  Then there’s the front cover. I’ve racked my brain over this for quite some time now. Do I want a model, a group of models wearing HC clothing? I’ll need to decide that soon.

  “Lauren, the photographers are ready for the shoot; are you on your way down?” André asks via the intercom.

  “Yes, hun. I’ll be right down.”

  It’s been hours and I’m famished. André is eating a late lunch with the photographers. He ordered takeout delivery of Thai food from a service called foodora. While all I want is to escape to the café for some of my favorite soup.

  And when I order and make my way to a booth, I spot Jack, eating, looking down at his phone. He’s about two hours early. Bless his heart.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth, now sitting across from him.

  His mouth drops as he shifts in his seat. “Uh, hey, fancy meeting you here.” His voice is low and deep.

  Peering down at his food, I say, “I see you ordered the soup?”

  “Yep. I’m looking for an ailment to cure my attitude.” His lips curve into a smirk.

  His lips are full. Pillow-y soft-looking.

  Not that I’m interested.

  “What are you doing here so early again?”

  He leans forward and smiles. I notice a dimple on his chin. It’s actually pretty adorable. I have an urge to see his whole face. No hat. No glasses. Just face.

  Jack raises his eyebrows. “Eating lunch, obviously.”

  I lean back into the soft booth cushion and fold my arms. “Right. Well, so am I. As soon as my soup arrives. It’s been such a long day so far. All I want to really do is go home and sink into a warm bubble bath. Maybe read a book.” I pause, as an afterthought emerges. “But I have another date tonight.”

  His head dips a quick nod. “Then don’t go. Cancel your date. Go home. Take a bath. Read a book.”

  I scoff. “I can’t do that. Simon is great and—”

  “Do you really like him?”

  I blink.

  “Lauren?”

  “Jack?”

  “Well, do you?”

  “Of course I d
o. He’s amazing. Do you know he took me to Arpège last night? A Michelin-star restaurant?”

  He shrugs, clearly unfazed. What’s his deal anyway?

  The waitress practically bounces over to the table to deliver my soup and glass of water. “Madame Blake, here’s your soup. I love your sweater. It’s lovely.” She looks at Jack then his empty bowl. “Are you all done?”

  Jack nods and rests his elbows on the spot where the bowl was. The waitress skips off toward the kitchen.

  “How about I just let you eat your lunch in peace,” Jack says, rising up from the booth.

  I reach for his arm. “Wait. Please stay. I don’t like to eat alone.”

  He looks down at me for a few long seconds, then slides back down into the booth and mummers a soft, “Fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  He folds his arms.

  “Jack. Take off your hat and glasses.”

  He chuckles. “Bossy much?”

  “Please? I want to see you.”

  “Why?”

  Blowing the soup I’ve scooped up on my spoon, I study him, trying to imagine what the eyes shielded by the dark glasses look like. What the hair underneath the hat looks like. Then my eyes glaze over to his arm—his tattoo peeking out from under the jacket’s long sleeve. The fact that most of him is hidden in plain sight makes me that more curious.

  “Why not?” I say, chin in the air, slurping the yummy soup off the spoon.

  “There you go again. An answer with a question. Anyone ever tell you that’s annoying?”

  “Only you, Jack.”

  He lifts his hand to his hat and in one move, removes the hat with one hand and smooths out his hair with the other.

  Dark. Thick. Nice.

  Not bald like I had suspected. I mean why else would anyone be so obsessed with wearing a hat?

  “Satisfied?” He smirks.

  “Almost.” I point to his glasses.

  “Lauren, wait. I need to tell you something.”

  Those words are never the start to anything good.

  “What? You’re not quitting, are you? I’m just beginning to like you.”