I’d say I’ve been waiting in the lobby of Chateau De Grenelle for a good seven minutes.

Palms sweating. Heart beating out my chest.

I check my reflection in the glossy elevator doors as I stand here, waiting for Lauren to step out.

Then I fidget with my hands.

What the hell do I do with them? Let them dangle at my sides?

Dude, that doesn’t even look remotely cool.

I shove them in my pockets.

Yeah man, that’s better.

I hear the sound of the elevator coming down.

Brace yourself. Here she comes.

And when the door slides open, I finally understand what she takes my breath away really feels like.

Euphoria times infinity brushed with, wait, what?

“Hi,” she mutters, her smile all warm and beautiful.

We walk toward each other, meeting halfway, now standing close, her eyelashes fluttering as those baby blue’s peer up at me. Even in her heels she’s a petite princess with endless curves in all the right places.

“Hi,” I grin, unashamed of how happy I am to see her.

“You shaved your beard,” she says, a soft pink tone creeping up her face.

It feels hell-a good to know I can make her blush.

I rub my naked chin as I peer down at her. “You like?”

“It works.” She giggles and I wish I could kiss her all over that sarcastic lip gloss-coated mouth.

Take it slow, man. You let her get away from you at the airport. Don’t you dare let her get away now.

“You ready to go?”

Her tongue swipes her lips. “Mmmhmm.”

We walk to my car, arms and hands close enough to brush.

She pivots to face me. “A Porsche?”

“Uh yeah. A little toy I bought this evening to cheer me up.”

I open the door and she slides into the seat, a whiff of her signature perfume striking my senses like, oh my God.

We ride in silence, both of us presumably taking in the City of Lights, absorbing Paris, allowing it to pour into our souls.

One thing I can’t deny, Lauren is a charismatic combo of beauty and sexy—the reason why a word like bexy may be coming to a dictionary near you.

“Where are we headed?” she asks, crossing one leg over the other.

“A place my Gramps suggested.”

---

About thirty minutes later we pull up to Shagri-La Hotel. Lauren whips a set of speculative eyes on me.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you know they have a few good restaurants here.”

A smile creeps up on her face, washing away all the doubt she was showing. “Of course.”

The valet takes my keys then Lauren and I walk up a small set of steps, to glass sliding doors that open as soon as we draw near. Our shoes hit the marble floors while overhead glass chandeliers illuminate the walkway as I lead Lauren to a restaurant my Gramps says will sweep her off her feet.

And when we arrive to Shang Palace, Lauren’s eyes gleam. “Jaxson, you brought me to the only Chinese restaurant in all of Paris? I could just hug you.”

I wish you would.

Once we are seated I admit, “I’m sure glad you like Chinese food.”

“I have been craving it, truthfully. André had Thai delivered for lunch today. Not the same,” she says, accepting a menu from the server.

We order the chef’s special: wonton soup, fried rice with barbecue pork, and braised lobster with spring onions. Along with sparkling water and green tea.

Lauren admits she doesn’t prefer to drink alcohol. I don’t dare push. Besides, I don’t think I could handle liquor anyway.

Lauren alone is intoxicating.

“Thanks for picking me up Jaxson. Especially on such short notice.” She opens her napkin, resting it on her lap.

“My pleasure. I was out for a leisure drive, you know, taking my Porsche out for a maiden voyage.”

“You only just bought it today?”

I chuckle at her innocent amusement. “This evening. I was a little down and needed a pick-me-up.”

The waiter drops off a small kettle of green tea along with our bottles of sparkling water, then gives a slight bow before walking away.

Being the gentleman I was raised to be, I pour tea into a cup for Lauren, then pour some into a cup for myself.

“Thank you,” she says. “Why were you a little down?”

Her blunt-force inquiry doesn’t catch me off guard. “You really want to know?”

She sips some tea. “I asked, right?”

Resting my cup of tea on the crisp linen-topped table, I cock my head to the side, looking right into Lauren’s eyes and say, “You. You had me a little down.”

One eyebrow raised, she says, “Me?”

“Yes. I guess I was down because when I came clean about who I really am, you didn’t even seem to care. Then you gloated about your date tonight. A date I wished you’d canceled.”

“And why is that?” Her cheeks brighten.

“You really need to ask that question, Lauren?”

She observes me for a few tense seconds before a smile slowly dances on her lips. The absence of words over her actions expresses more than she’ll ever know.

Then, like perfect timing, our food arrives, and Lauren and I partake in consuming every delectable bite, fitting in pieces of small talk in between.

“What inspired you to start Haute Couture?”

She swallows her sip of sparkling water. “Spite.”

My forehead furrows. “Spite?”

“Yes”—she bites on her lower lip—“my mama, with whom I never seemed to get along, used to indirectly make fun of my weight. She would take me and my evil twin shopping for clothes, hand us both the same small size, which she knew damn-well would only fit skinnier-than-me-Becky, then say, Oh yeah Lauren, I suppose they don’t have your size here. I guess we’ll have to special-order yours from the catalog where they sell plus size.”

She pauses for a few seconds to take a bite of lobster, then goes on.

“So, I got fed up, asked my daddy, who has always been my biggest supporter, if he could buy me a sewing machine and he hooked me up. By the time I got to high school, I had designed an entire collection of prom dresses for all sizes, including the skinny bitches like Becky. Of course, by then, I had outgrown my chubby stage, but wanted so badly for all girls to be able to go to a store that had the same style dress in size zero to sixteen. No girl left behind.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, saddened by what sparked her inspiration. “And after high school?”

She produces a soft grin. “Well, I had an entire collection of dresses, pants, skirts, and blouses by the time I got to college. Four, by the time I graduated with a degree in Fashion Merchandising. I called my line of clothing Hot Mess Couture. Living in the south, the term Hot Mess didn’t always have a negative connotation.” She lets out a genuine belly laugh. “Then, my best friend Arabella and I took a trip to Paris for the summer. I fell in love and the fashionable women, walking the streets all decked out in their eloquence, got me wanting to bring my line of clothing here. So I did it. Came here to Paris and about six months later, Haute Couture—a brand of high-fashion clothing for women and men of all shapes and sizes—was born.”

I sit silent for a moment, completely fascinated by her, her story, and her drive. She took a negative experience and let that drive her to success. Something her dad and mom should be proud of.

“Wow, Lauren, I-uh, I think you’re amazing. Simply amazing.”

Her eyes glisten as if my words make her want to tear up.

“Would you two like to see our dessert menu?” comes the waiter, breaking the awkward silence skating between Lauren and me.

I look to Lauren—if she’s up for some, I am too.

“Not me, I’m stuffed,” she says.

“Okay, I’ll bring your check then.”

After I pay, we exit the restaurant, then I lead Lauren up a flight of stairs that takes us to a rooftop deck with a view of the city. We stand close, shoulder to shoulder, admiring the view of The Tower.

“It’s absolutely beautiful up here, Jaxson.” She grabs a loose strand of hair, flounced around by the breeze, and tucks it behind her ear.

“Are you cold?”

She shakes her head before the word, “No,” escapes her mouth.

“Jaxson,”—she turns to face me—“it was you, right? The one I bumped into at the airport two months ago.”

Now this blunt-force inquiry—I can admit, I was not prepared for. I suck up the shock, swallow it, and say, “Yes, Lauren, it was me.”

Unable to peel my gaze off her lingering one, I lean in close, my thumb grazing her smooth cheek. I want to kiss her, feel her tongue intertwine with mine.

And when our lips lightly touch, we break away, both startled by, “Do you mind taking a picture of us?”

An elderly man holds out his flip phone, his female grey-haired companion grinning from ear to ear.

I smile, grab his archaic phone and wait for them to strike their romantic pose, the shot of the Eiffel Tower as the stunning backdrop. They hear the click from the phone’s camera before they break their pose and go on their merry way.

Lauren and I both chuckle. Then she leans in close to me, her head resting on my chest. I breathe in the scent of her hair, as we stand here, my arm around her. We’ll have another chance to finish that kiss.

But for now I want to savor this moment. Just us.

Me. Lauren. Paris.