Okay. I was dying to see her. So what? Sue me.

However, I also want to let her know that Gramps and I have decided to close the business. As the top client, she deserves to know.

Was I expecting her to agree to go out to lunch with me?

Nope.

Yet, when she said yes, I gotta tell ya, I danced around my fucking house like Tom Cruise in that 1980s classic, Risky Business. Underwear, socks, and all. But instead of Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock and Roll blaring throughout the house, I rocked the hell outta Bruno Mars’s That’s What I Like. You know, gotta add some relevance.

After my dance party, I showered, slid into jeans, a slim-fitting white shirt, and cool suede Chelsea boots.

And now I’m here, at Chateau De Grenelle, chillin’ on a bench in the lobby, waiting for Lauren to emerge from the elevator.

“Bonjour!” says Jules. He’s always so friendly to me.

“Hi, there. How’s it going?”

“Great.” He lifts his chin toward the direction of my car parked out front. “Nice Porsche. Is it yours?”

I nod and smile in admiration. “Yeah. I love it. She purrs like a kitten.”

“Nice. I’ve always wanted a fancy sports car. Maybe some day.” He cocks his head as he surveys me from head to toe. “You look different. No more hat or dark sunglasses?”

I chuckle. “You noticed. And no, I decided to ditch the hat and glasses and return to my more usual style.”

The elevator ding pulls my attention from Jules and our conversation. I jump up and make my way to the elevator, certain it’s Lauren.

And it is her.

Euphoria spills into the atmosphere. Again.

“Hey,” I say, after I give myself a few seconds to catch my breath. I’m not able to keep my grin from growing. Sucker.

“Where are we headed?”

“Somewhere within walking distance. The rain has stopped.”

“For now, anyway.”

“You two have fun,” says Jules while he holds the doors open for us.

The sidewalks are damp, the rainfall from earlier this morning leaving the whole city doused. Paris is even sexier when wet.

“Thanks for coming to lunch with me, Lauren. I realize you were probably busy.”

Our hands collide and the tips of our fingers graze. I know that chill I just felt has nothing at all to do with the cool breeze.

“Actually, I have done nothing work-related all day. Nothing. When you sent your series of text messages, I was curled up in bed, still very much in my PJs, fast asleep.”

I laugh, “So you’ve played hooky then?”

Without hesitation she replies, “Yup”—our hands collide again—“besides, I’m always game for lunch with a friend.”

Friend. The other F-bomb. Ouch.

We reach Café Bonjour and choose a seat in the back, and after the server takes our orders of sandwiches with fries, Lauren and I sit across from one another as if we’re waiting for the other to speak first.

So I do it.

“Gramps has decided to close down Chic Limos.”

Boom. Cat right out of the bag.

Lauren blinks. “Really? Why?”

“Well, it’s been hard for him to keep it afloat with the competition coming in. There are only a few regular clients, which includes you, but it’s not enough to sustain a profit. And business is business.”

Her shoulders sink. “So what does that mean for you? Does that mean you’re leaving Paris, packing up and heading back to New York?”

And I thought her first concern would be how she’ll get around town now.

“No. I’m staying put. I love Paris.”

A pause momentarily swoops in.

“Okay. So where are you gonna live?”

The server drops off our sodas, and I explain to Lauren about Gramps and Nana moving to the South of France, and how I’ve come to inherit their Paris villa.

Her eyebrows lift up then down. “Wow, Jaxson, that’s pretty wonderful. Congrats. And I think it’s amazingly cool about your nana’s art gallery,” she says with a smile. Then adds, “And don’t worry about me. I can always call an Uber or a taxi to take me to the office. Or get up the nerve to drive.”

She puts her elbows on the table, resting her face on her palm, a pensive glow in her eyes.

“Drive?”

Her eyelashes flutter. “Yep. I do have a car, but I don’t like driving so it just stays parked in the garage.”

The server delivers our meals and both of us readily dive in.

“Mind if I ask why you don’t like driving?”

After cramming a few fries in her mouth, she shakes her head and says, “I really don’t talk about it much. Brings back bad memories of my teens and my ungrateful twin”—she squints her eyes and tilts her head to the side—“but I feel like I can tell you anything, Jaxson.”

With a mouthful of sandwich I say, “You can tell me anything.”

She sucks in a deep breath. “Okay. I was a teen, about sixteen years old. Daddy had just bought me and Becky a car. It was ours to share. I rarely drove the thing because she always seemed to hog it. Cheerleading practice. A nail appointment. Sex in the back seat…whatever.”

Her face gleams of annoyance at the memories of her sister. I listen intently as she goes on.

“One night she went to some lame-ass party. A party Mama and Daddy forbid her to go to, mind you. But her stubborn, selfish butt snuck out, went to that damn party. Then had the nerve to call me—crying and beggin’ me to come get her, that I couldn’t tell our parents because she didn’t want to get in trouble. Apparently, the little tramp she went to the party with, left with some guy and poor little drunk Becky was alone and scared.” She takes a small bite of her sandwich. Then a sip of soda, swallowing before she continues on. “So I grabbed my raincoat and hopped in the Beatle on a mission to not only rescue my dim-witted twin, but to also ring her neck. Only, I never made it.”

I drop the fry I was about to shove in my mouth and lean in, curious to hear more.

“What happened?”

She looks to the ceiling for a few seconds and fans her eyes, then shifts her eyes back to mine. “The roads were slick, from Savannah rainfall. I could barely see, even with the windshield wipers going. Before I knew it, my car was spinnin’ and rollin’. I woke up in the hospital. Luckily I just had a slight concussion and a broken my arm. Daddy said my car hit a slick of oil and when I lost control, my car flipped and I crashed into a ditch.” She scoffs. “Silly me bought a BMW last year. I had it delivered to me and everything, convinced I would drive it some day. But the fact is, I’ve never conjured up the nerve to get behind the wheel of any car since my accident.”

Lauren looks down at her food, swirls a fry she’s holding ‘round and ‘round in a small pool of sauce splattered on the edge of her plate.

God, how I want to hold her. Make her fear go away.

“And Becky? Did she get in trouble for going to that party? For asking you to come rescue her and ultimately be the reason why you were out there in the first place?”

Her lips form into a half-smirk. “She got grounded, but didn’t speak to me for weeks because of it. Said because of me, she missed the homecoming dance.”

“What the fuck?”

“Right? I know.”

She laughs, and honestly if I were her, I guess I too would try to find humor in it all. I mean, between her mom and her sister, no wonder she found the need to flee Savannah.

“What if I’m with you?”

“What? With me where?”

“What if I am with you when you sit behind the wheel of a car?”

She eyes me, arms folded. Speculation evident.

“No one has ever offered that to me before.”

I tilt my head, lick my lips, and say in a low voice, “Maybe that’s because you’ve never known anyone like me.”