Thank God I’ve got a nice ass.

Sweetie, make sure you always wear clean panties in case of an emergency, is what Mama used to say.

Honestly, that’s probably the last thing I should be thinking about right now.

Only I can’t help it.

Clearly, her advice should have been, Don’t wear an ass-baring thong, in case of an emergency.

“Are you okay, LB?”

Not really, I determine internally, but instead manage to mumble a swift “Mmmhmm” reply to Jules, who is, incidentally, pulling down the back half of my round skirt—an effort to cover my exposed tush.

Wobbling with my hands and knees on the cobblestone sidewalk, in front of my apartment building, my eyes survey the pathetic scene before me.

Sketches are strewn about. Feminine products, that were once inside the confines of my purse, are now displayed on the cement. And it looks as though my phone, that slid onto the street, may be wedged underneath the tire of the waiting town car.

How I managed to tumble, is beyond me. One minute I was trekking, making my way to the curb so I could just hop in the town car when it pulled up. The next minute, I was down on all fours—and my skirt? Up. Bringing forth, a mighty exposé of my nice derrière.

I could literally feel the breeze skid across my butt.

How many passersby or—even worse—how many of my nosy, cell-phone-photo-taking, neighbors got an unrestricted view of my ass?

Dang.

Jules grabs hold of my arm to help me stand. “LB, you tripped on your high-heeled shoe; are you sure you’re alright?”

I plaster on a wide smile, trying to downplay the pain of embarrassment. “I’m fine, Jules. I just need my sketches, my phone, and my tampons,” I whisper. Along with a moment of silence…for my freakin’ pride. “But, I doubt my phone survived being run over. Honestly, who runs over poor innocent cell phones?” I look down, brushing the scant amount of dirt off my knees.

“I, uh, think this belongs to you,” the announcement flows out of an unfamiliar-sounding voice.

Not British. Not at all French. But definitely not something I hear much of here in Paris.

Instinctively, I spin around, eager to discover who’s behind the sultry New York accent. Could it belong to the hot new neighbor who moved in across from me a few weeks ago? I’ve been dying to see him because all of the women in the building are gushing over him, sayin’ he’s some sort of hottie.

Shucks. What if he saw my ass?

Yet, apparently the voice only belongs to my new driver.

The one who ran over my phone.

Great. Well, at least he’s easy on the eyes. Think Channing Tatum, only taller and embellished with a dimple-enhanced smile. At least from what I can tell. His brimmed hat and dark aviators shield most of his features. But he does have decadent-looking lips.

Not that I’m interested.

“Thanks,” I say, taking my cracked phone from his hand. “Although it won’t do me any good now, broken.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about your phone. I didn’t exactly see it in the street,” he says, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

I shrug, then serve up a congenial nod as I shove my broken phone into my purse. “I suppose.”

“My name is Jax—uh I mean Jack…Jack Moloney, by the way.” He extends his hand out to shake mine and I notice a glimpse of a tattoo on his wrist. It makes me immediately think bad boy. “I’m your new driver.” His dark eyebrows are raised high enough to display what seems to be a brazen disposition.

Wonderful. A tattoo-laced bad-boy driver. I need that just as much as I need that box of flowers I tossed into the waste bucket. Arabella would no doubt get a whopping kick out of this.

Mr. Bad Boy driver opens the car door and motions for me to get in as Jules hands me my sketches along with the items that fell out of my purse.

Heat rushes to my cheeks as I toss the tampons into my purse.

“Now, you’re certain you’re alright, eh? You landed quite hard,” Jules asks as I hastily slide into the backseat of the car.

“Yes, Jules, I’m sure.” I lean in close to him before saying, “Thanks for covering my ass,” in a hushed tone.

He cocks his head to the side and says, “Of course, LB. Shall I put a call into André at your office to let him know you’ll be needing a new phone?”

“Yes, that would be perfect, thanks.”

Jules nods, closes the car door, and waves as the car speeds off.

And I suddenly have this uncanny desire to hop into my own car and drive myself.