Anger churns in my chest.

Heat burns my cheeks.

Yet all I can do is stand here, not sure what to say to him first. Apparently, he was leaving his apartment and evidently the small suitcase he’s toting was the noise that drew me out here.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, his voice low. “I’m really sorry about last night. I got stuck at the office all day. I had left in a hurry yesterday morning, leaving my phone behind. And when we got locked in a project, I was unable to break away. Obviously I couldn’t ring your cell, since I didn’t have my own. I didn’t get back home until after 2 a.m.”

He approaches me, and hits me with those stormy-blue eyes.

“Oh,” I say, “Well, I guess that explains why you stood me up.”

He comes even closer, his thumb tracing my cheek. “Oh Lauren, I would never stand you up. I quite like you. It pained me not to be able to reach out to you last night. Since then, I have your cell memorized; that way in the future I can dial you from any phone.”

I lean onto the doorframe, and fight the smirk that’s forming on my lips. “Oh really? So, what’s my number then?”

He leans in, close enough for me to smell the mint on his lips. “03 58 45 83 51,” he hums, then lifts my chin, planting a soft kiss on my trembling lips.

Wow. It’s just about all I can think but manage to say, “Oh, yes, that’s definitely my phone number.”

He pulls away. “Can I get a rain check? I’ve gotta head back to London on some business returning late Friday. But I’ll keep in touch via text while I’m away.” He smiles. “Take you out on that date this Saturday?”

I bob my head. “Of course, I’d like that a lot, Simon. Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks, doll. Talk soon,” he says, rolling his suitcase behind him as he makes his way to the elevator.

Shutting the door, I lean my back against it and sigh. See, I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation why Simon was a no-show. He didn’t leave me hanging. He had a work emergency with no way to contact me.

Feeling relieved, I plop back onto the couch and finish off the last of my coffee as I scroll through some of my social media profiles to see what André has been posting on my behalf. He does a great job pretending to be me on all of the platforms, interacting with a few of my fans, posting all sorts of relevant photos and status updates. He even posted a picture on Instagram featuring a bowl of my favorite soup with the caption Food is my second favorite F-word. Fashion is the first. Obviously. #SexySoup.

Five-hundred seventy-thousand likes. Not bad.

Jules knocks at my door, dropping Truffles off from their excursion.

“He was good, as usual. And I saw Simon headed to the garage with a suitcase in tow,” Jules says, his eyes wide and curious.

I explain to Jules all that Simon told me and Jules just nods.

“I see. Well at least he gave you a good reason. Anyway, I’ll be headed back to my post downstairs. Enjoy your day, LB.”

“Thanks, Jules.”

Why do I get the feeling I am the only one in my circle who likes Simon? Am I missing something? Arabella doesn’t like him. Jules doesn’t seem enthused about me dating him. And Jaxson obviously doesn’t care for him either.

Truffles runs to the kitchen, straight to his bowls filled with kibble and water, laps up some water, and crunches on a few of the kibbles, playing a game of hide and seek with a few of them.

Silly pooch.

I lean against the wall, sliding down, my back feeling the cool abrasion of it even through my satin robe. I park my bottom on the floor right next to Truffles, petting him as he enjoys the rest of his breakfast. Then I scoop him up in my arms, raise myself up and waltz back to my room.

“Come on, Truffles, Mama is gonna play hooky the right way. I’m going back to bed.”

Hours later, I awaken to my cell phone’s chime.

Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.

Four messages from Jaxson Malone.

Jaxson: Hey there…how’s the day away from the office going?

Jaxson: Have you had lunch?

Jaxson: Or what I meant to say was, can I take you to lunch?

Jaxson: Because there is something I’d really like to discuss with you.

The back-to-back procession of text messages makes me snicker.

I wonder what he’d like to discuss with me.

Me: My day is going well, thank you. No, I haven’t had lunch. What do you have in mind? Shall I Uber somewhere to meet you, or were you planning to pick me up?

Text bubbles pop up. He’s replying.

Jaxson: Uber? No silly, I’ll pick you up. In an hour?

Me: Sounds good.

After my shower, I realize I’ve effectively done nothing work-related.

Can I count this as a mental health day? I suppose I can call it whatever. It’s my company. But this is probably the last time I’ll work from home.

It’s raining outside again—a norm for Paris. Entering my walk-in closet, I pull the switch dangling from the ceiling to turn on the lights. Rows and rows of clothes stare back at me begging ooh, pick me, pick me.

I pick my favorite pair of indigo jeans, ripped at the knee, and a fluffy oversized sweater, a cool light gray to match the current status of the Paris sky.

And ballet flats. I can’t be bothered with heels. Not on hooky day.

My hair ends up in an Ariana-Grande-style ponytail.

Long. Full. Wispy.

If only I could sing like her.

A light coat of poppin’ pink lip gloss goes on my lips. I don’t feel like wearing much makeup.

Then I kiss Truffles goodbye, grab my purse, phone, keys, coat, and head out.

Eager to know what’s on Jaxson’s mind.