“I’m telling you, boss. I’ve seen him somewhere on TV. Or something.” André pushes his shoulder against my office door, holding it open while I mosey on in, then he stalks right behind me, practically on the back of my heels.

He’s been chattin’ my ears off since the two of us set foot onto the elevator back up to the second floor where HC offices are located.

“No, hun.” I rest my hand on my hip. “Believe me, I already Googled him this morning because he looked kinda familiar to me too.” I grab hold of my purse, sweater, and the folders of designers he put together for me. “He’s just a driver, André. There’s nothin on the internet about Jack. Not even a single social media profile so”—I pat him on his shoulder—“give it a rest, okay?”

André rolls his eyes, reminding me the one thing I admire about him is also the one thing that irks me about him.

His tenacity.

“Come on, boss, look at him. Does he look like a plain old Jack to you? He’s like sex on a stick, hot,” he whines, following me as I exit my office.

Sex on a stick, hot? To me, the guy is irritating. Like a fly at a family picnic.

Plus, it’s hard to see the whole shebang when it’s masked by dark sunglasses and a hat.

What’s he hiding behind those glasses anyway?

“Well, he’s just plain old Jack the driver to me,” I say, pressing the elevator call button. “I’ve got enough to focus on André and quite frankly, so do you,” I scold, eyebrows raised, an indirect reminder we all must do our part to get this publishing deal.

His shoulders and his head sink briefly, then raise back up, before he mumbles, “Yes, boss. You’re absolutely right.”

The elevator doors crawl open and I back into it, my eyes still on André. “Perfect. We have lots to accomplish over the next week. I know it’s still early, but I’m heading out now. I’ll peruse these designer options at home.”

André waves goodbye as the elevator doors ease to a close. “Have a great evening, boss.”

---

Jack is quiet during the drive back to Chateau Grenelle, which suits me fine because I can use the quiet time to unwind. And since he drives like he’s racing a herd of turtles, it seems I’ll have all the time I need to unwind.

It’s raining outside now and Paris rain is like no other.

Magical. Intoxicating.

I’ve had dreams of romantic strolls along the narrow streets, walking arm in arm, kissing just as the rain begins to fall.

But not all dreams come to life. Not the romantic ones anyway.

I’m learning that the hard way.

And while I try to just brush it off, tell people, including Arabella, I’m fine being married to my work, it’s a flat-out lie.

The ugly truth is, I’m a lonely woman living with this sort of hole in her heart.

A hole that gets patched up only temporarily, with me always hoping, praying the adhesive sticks.

Breaking news: patches aren’t forever.

The sun is setting now and the streets glisten with charisma, the drops of rain tap-dancing on the pavement.

When I first visited Paris, I knew it was where I wanted to be. It’s where Hot Mess Couture sprouted into Haute Couture. Mama said I’d never make it here on my own when I went back home and declared I was packin’ up and movin’ to France. She scoffed and said I should stay put in Savannah and pitch my clothing line to JCPenny. While Daddy, well, my daddy has always been Team Lauren. He helped me get settled, putting a down payment on my apartment at Chateau De Grenelle when he found the place via a realtor buddy. My baby needs to live as if she’s going to conquer the fashion world is what he said, showing then he had confidence in me, bigger than the whole state of Texas. I lived on revenue generated by Hot Mess, which was doing well as a brand despite the name. Then the beautiful people of Paris inspired the birth of Haute Couture. Paris is fashion and, my-oh-my, do the women here get it right. And it’s not really what they wear, but more of how they wear it—not with arrogance.

With fearless confidence.

Bravado. Swag.

Paris isn’t a Hot Mess. It’s high-fashion decadence. It’s Haute Couture. I spent weeks at the drawing board, sketching new designs reflective of my newfound epiphany. Designs that screamed high fashion, for women and men. All shapes and sizes.

Dresses. Blouses. Skirts. Pants.

Shirts. Cardigans. Jeans. Slacks.

I began to sell hundreds online. And when my small US manufacturer could barely keep up with the demand, I called Daddy for help. His expertise in real estate, along with his international connections, is what helped me snag the building that houses Haute Couture headquarters: complete with the café and HC Boutique on the first level, the offices on the second, and a massive third floor wing, where all the clothing is sewn. The building, along with the custom storefront signage, didn’t come at a cheap price. Nothing good ever does. There’s always a price.

Money. Sweat. Tears.

That’s what I spent building Haute Couture into what it is today.

Has it paid off?

Heck yeah. But now I want more.

I want Haute Couture Magazine.

“Same time tomorrow morning, ma’am?” Jack’s tone is serious. Less jovial. Subdued.

“Please, Jack, if you and I will be spending time together on the roads of Paris, call me Lauren.” I open the door to the town car to let myself out, the cool rain dancing on my bare legs. “Thanks for the safe ride home. See you tomorrow. Same time.”

He lifts his hand to his temple, giving a two finger salute in acknowledgment.

Then I close the car door and make a beeline for the double doors, praying as each heel splashes against the pavement, I don’t have another ass-baring fall.

“Bonjour, LB, you’re home early,” says Jules with his bright face, as I barrel through the double doors.

“Yes I am for once.” I smile. “How was Truffles today; he give you any grief?”

Jules’s usual smile quirks up one side of his mouth as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “You know Truffles adores me; everything went well. Managed to take him for a stroll right before the rain fell. The little pooch is a quite the lady magnet. I’ve got a date now, thanks to him.”

I chuckle. “A date? Well, isn’t that sweet. Where and when?”

He squares his shoulders to straighten his posture.“Tonight. And we’ll just meet for some coffee. You know the routine.”

I beam a smile at him and pat his shoulder before saying, “That’s wonderful, Jules. I can’t wait to hear all about it tomorrow. But for now, I’m headed up to get buried in these.” I hold up the folders.

“How did the meeting go?”

“Good. But they need me to fulfill one thing before we move forward. And that’s what I’ll be trying to come up with tonight.”

“Bonne chance,” he says as I walk to the elevator. “Have a good night,” he adds in the distance.

After I press the button outside of the elevator, the sound of the ding comes right away and the door slides open. And when I step in and press button eleven, I lean back against the elevator wall, waiting for the door to close, my eyes closed, taking a deep breath in then out. This evening would be the perfect night to cuddle by a fire, with a glass of wine—I drink only on special occasions and La Boutique’s almost yes, is still a cause for celebration.

The door is just about to close when I hear, “Hold the elevator, please.”

A male voice. Sexy. British.

Stopping the door from closing, a suit covered arm reaches in, and then…

My heart literally stops. God, is he gorgeous. And he’s wearing one of my suits. Last year’s collection, and he wears it quite well.

He flashes a smile that makes me feel like I can combust, melt into a puddle of bliss on the floor of this elevator.

One perfect eyebrow lifts and he practically sings the words, “Hello there, I’m Simon. I just moved in here a couple of weeks ago.”

He must be the new guy who moved in. The one all the ladies in the building are swooning over. Mind you, most of the ladies in this building are senior citizens. But still. They sure are right about him. He’s definitely hot.

“I’m Lauren,” I mutter, after releasing the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

“Blake, right?” he asks, still flashing that combustible smile. “Lauren Blake of Haute Couture,” he confirms, tugging at the sleeve of his suit jacket, “I’d recognize you and your lovely clothes anywhere.”

This man, all wonderful, smellin’ of woodsy cologne, with blond hair I want to rake my fingers through, deep blue eyes, that I swear, are making me pant, standing next to me in all his sexy glory could very well be…the real man of my dreams.