Paris, France

Present Day

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“Total garbage,” I yell, tossing the long, rectangular box into the trash. I look at my best friend Arabella’s wide-eyed face staring at me through my tablet screen. “Why can’t the men I date read my freakin’ bio? It’s not like I date dummies for Heaven’s sake. They can all read.”

Um, no he didn’t…roses? Ugh.

I ease onto the stool in front of my vanity table, and blow my nose into another tissue, waiting for my best friend, Arabella, to bring on her voice of reason. This is the third guy I’ve dated in less than two months who’s basically failed.

“Now, hun, perhaps the idiot didn’t read your bio?”

Okay. I love Arabella to bits. The two of us have been best friends since we were sorority sisters in college. But, her explanation makes no kinda sense. You see, my hatred for everything flowers and candy has been liberally sprinkled all over my social media profiles, like fact-boosting fairy dust.

It’s not like it’s fake news.

It’s basically unmissable.

Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus—all share the same blatant description of yours truly:

Lauren Blake, Fashionista Extraordinaire. Creator and CEO of Haute Couture Clothing. Lover of cupcakes and fashion. Hater of flowers and candy.

Even Wikipedia exhibits that concise, yet highly explanatory bio.

“Really Arabella?”—she flashes an icy eye roll at my cynical timbre—“of course Jean Clau read my bio. He told me he looked me up on Google before he even asked me out.”

She lets out a tiny yawn before saying, “Well, sweetie, maybe he forgot? I mean, you’re probably the only woman on the planet who loathes flowers and candy.”

Even though she may indeed have a valid point, I can’t help the way I feel. Flowers and candy are the epitome of some seriously overrated bull crap. I’ll never drop my panties for a guy who believes my heart can be easily bedazzled by cliche’d endowments.

Why, oh why, did he have to ruin it by sending me one-dozen roses?

It’s a crying shame too. Jean Clau was nice.

French. Intelligent. Gorgeous.

You know, perfect on paper.

Plus, he was a hell of a good kisser with a sweet-tasting mouth that made my lady parts swoon in envy each time his tongue danced with mine. I can only imagine how it would have been if we had—

Well, never mind that. It doesn’t matter now anyway. He sent me flowers—an automatic deal-breaking dream crusher.

#BoyBye #ReadMyBio #Never

Arabella takes a sip of whatever it is swirling around in her teacup. I can only assume it’s chamomile tea, but she’s been known to add a little something extra to her cup, if you know what I mean. Even if it is close to her bedtime. We are separated by time zones. She in Savannah, Georgia. Me in Paris, France. The two of us have our daily FaceTime chats in front of our vanities, while she gets ready for bed and as I get ready for work.

“Woman, I told you at least a dozen times to leave those stuffy business types alone.” She sets the cup down on her vanity table and picks up a hairbrush, its bristles running down her soft auburn-colored curls. “Now what you really need is one of them bad boys. Not a bad bad boy. A good one. A hot good bad boy.”

Hot good bad boy?

Not my thing.

And she knows this.

Arabella peels off her faux mink eyelashes just as I give my eyelashes a few strokes of mascara. “Arabella, you know—”

She interrupts with an over-exaggerated sigh and an equally over-exaggerated eye roll. “I know, I know. Your daddy won’t ever approve of you bringing home a bad boy. But honestly, Lauren, I reckon your daddy won’t approve of anyone.” She blinks several times, as she takes another sip out of the small porcelain cup. “You know I’m right, sugar.”

She is right.

Daddy won’t approve of anyone I bring home. He never has. I suppose he wants me to marry a politician like my sister Becky did.

Becky.

The perfect daughter.

Becky with the good body. Becky with the good looks. Becky with the…good hair. While most twinsies end up being besties, Becky and I never did click. And since we’re fraternal twins, we look nothing alike. Polar opposites. Like the moon and the sun. She’s skinny and I’m not. She’s got brown eyes. Mine are blue. My hair is black. She dyed hers red. She’s a bitch, while I’m a sweetheart.

Most of the time.

“Anyway,” I mumble, as I apply a coat of lip gloss to my mouth, “when are you coming back to Paris? I miss seeing your gorgeous face for real.”

She dips the tip of her pinky into a tiny container of balm, then carefully dabs it onto her lips. “Babe, I was just there two months ago for three whole weeks. You know I can’t afford to be away from my own business longer than that.”

Last year, Arabella, formally known as the southern socialite Arabella Princessa Royale, launched her own clothing and makeup line called Royale Beauty. When she came to Paris two months ago to visit me, I set her up with clients to help expand her business. Since then, she’s been bombarded with orders.

“I know, but two months seems so long ago. I barely remember saying goodbye to you at the airport.” I deliver her my award-winning pouty face.

“Now hun, how can you possibly forget that day at the airport? The day you bumped into,”—she pauses as she allows a mischievous grin to settle onto her face—“the fella you described as the man of your dreams?”

Not only do I feel my cheeks burn, I can see the scarlet flush on my cheeks in the mirror. That day at the airport, I bumped into the most delicious-looking man.

Tall. Dark. Manly.

He was so good-looking, I swear I forgot how to speak. I was so beside myself, I ran out of the airport and darted into the town car like a woman on the run.

“Oh, yeah”—I lower my head in embarrassment—“that guy. Well, I know the odds of me seeing him again are low. And frankly, I probably wouldn’t even recognize his face if I saw it since it…”— I pause, pondering my last statement. “Okay well, I would remember his eyes, dark and mysterious” I quickly amend. “Besides, soon after that, I met Jean Clau, who I also swore was the man of my dreams…and look at me now. Still pitifully single. Perhaps I shouldn’t even bother dating. You know, stick with what I do best.”

Arabella frowns. “Work? Oh hun, surely there is more to life than just getting buried in and under your work.”

“Not my life. Anyhow, I need to focus on closing this deal with the folks in New York City. Then, I’ll go back to dating”—I pause and smile into the screen as I pat my hair into place—“maybe.”

Arabella applies moisturizer to her face and says, “You’ll always have Truffles. Oh, and good luck today, hun. I hope it all works out. Shall we meet up again via FaceTime in eight hours?”

“You bet. Nighty-night.”

“Go kick some ass, honey,” she says before our call comes to an end.

After taking one last look at my reflection in the mirror, I grab a small bottle of eye drops out of my makeup basket.

You can’t step out with reddened eyes. There is no way anyone can ever know that you’ve been crying.

Crying. Me. Lauren Blake—The Ice Princess?

Yep. Crying. And not over Jean Clau…per se.

Crying over the realization that I’ll probably grow old without anyone by my side.

As if on cue, Truffles, the only reliable male in my life, jumps onto my lap. He’s an adorable rescue Yorkshire terrier I got when I first moved to Paris six years ago, small enough to fit in my purse. I usually take him everywhere with me, but today he’s stayin’ home.

“Hey, darlin’. You behave while I’m out today. Jules will take you out later for a walk, as usual.” I rub the spot between Truffle’s ears and his back leg flops uncontrollably.

Lifting Truffles off my lap, I let out a chuckle as his rough tongue lightly brushes my cheek. “Here you go,” I say, placing him down onto his pillow-top bed, “Mama has to run, now. My car should be waiting for me.”

By the time I make it down the elevator, Jules is waiting for me, his smile eagerly greeting me. He’s been the doorman here at Chateau De Grenelle since I moved to Paris. Over the years, the two of us have grown rather close. And since Jules, at age twenty-eight, is only two years younger than I am, he’s just about as close as I’ll ever get to having the little brother I never had.

“Bonjour, LB”—his eyes gravitate to the stack of sketches I’ve got in my hand—“are those for that big meeting you have today?” he asks, his Parisian accent still as strong as it was the first day we met.

“Yep, and I hope it goes well since I’ve lost perfectly good beauty sleep over this project.”

“Bonne chance. I do hope it goes well. And, I’m quite certain you can lighten your workload if you just ask for help every now and then.” He pauses as he walks briskly alongside me while I make my way to the front double doors. “Oh, and I am very sorry about the flowers. I saw them being delivered this morning. I know how much you—”

“That’s quite alright, Jules. I’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Can you walk Truffles for me later?”

Jules nods, “Of course I can.” He stops me before I push the double doors open. “Uh, your car is not quite here yet. But it should be pulling up soon. You’ve got a brand new driver today, remember?”

Crap. I forgot all about the new driver thing. Apparently Peter, the driver I’ve had for the last six years, has decided to take a break. I just hope the new driver measures up. He’s got pretty big shoes to fill.

“Well, he’s already late. Not a good sign,” I say, tapping my new shoe against the marble floor as I peer out the glass door. I take my cell phone out of my purse to glance at the time.

“He’s not late yet. And”—Jules flashes that cynical side-eye that silently warns sarcasm alert—“you can always catch an Uber. Or better still, take your own car out for a spin.” He rubs his hands together, his lips parting in a sinister grin.

Jules has been kidding me for months about driving my own car. But I’ll never get behind the wheel of my car again.

Ever.

Not unless there is some type of an emergency.

Like an apocalypse.