According to my phone, it’s 11:30 a.m.

The sun’s shining through the narrow cracks in my window covering. Good lord, it’s already Tuesday morning. The last thing I remember is lying down at eight p.m. on Monday evening. Holy balls. I slept for over fifteen hours, and I feel great. I guess I just found a cure for jet lag.

Katherine told me about a little grocery store around the corner that sells anything I might need from day to day, so when I’ve showered and thrown on some clothes, I pop out to go for a wander. But with my first few steps, I realize that the first thing I need is coffee. Hot, delicious Parisian coffee. If I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to need the stuff to pump through my veins and fuel my brain, after all. It has to be priority number one.

Not far from my place, tucked away on a car-free side street, I find a small café. Complete with yellow and blue striped awning and little bistro tables arranged tidily on a small patio. I wander inside, excited, giddy, and slightly frightened of the place. Everyone here is so stylish, so confident. So French. The woman in front of me moves with snooty motions, like she has disdain for the very air she breathes. At first I want to be annoyed with her, but I remind myself that as a writer, I should remember that everyone has a story. Maybe she just found out that her husband is cheating on her. Maybe her cat ran away. Maybe a man humped her on an airplane without telling her he had some stupid-shoe-wearing floozy back home called Monique.

She orders a café américain and what the French call a pain au chocolat, which is really a fancy word for a croissant stuffed with chocolate. I can’t think of a better damned breakfast, and even if I could, I have no idea how to pronounce anything. So I ask for the same thing. The cashier asks me something in rapid fire French, and I have no clue what she’s saying.

“Pardonnez-moi?” I ask a few times, trying my best to pronounce the words properly before remembering that I really don’t speak the language, and whatever explanation she’s giving me may as well be in Arimathean. I tell her that I’m sorry, I’m an American. That seems enough to persuade her just to throw me a sneering smile and a handful of change.

I take the coffee and the small paper bag that contains the pain au chocolat and head outside to find a seat.

It’s got to be noon by now, and the July sun is already threatening to heat Paris to outlandish temperatures. The patio is mercifully set in the shade between rows of buildings. I sit down and just stare at my surroundings, mesmerized.

Beautiful Paris. Everything is so old, so well-maintained, so loved. Part of me wants to invent my own tales about the inhabitants of this wonderful place, and as I look around, I start to do just that.

Every wall tells me a story about lovers who leaned against it as they made out a hundred years ago. I can hear soft music coming from a window upstairs. Maybe it’s the apartment where the butcher lives.

An old woman lives in apartment C. She fell in love with a boy once, but lost him during the war. Now she has three cats and an old, out of tune piano to keep her company. She’s happy.

Paris is full of wonders, and many of them are invisible. I’m in love with its mysteries already. Even if my life doesn’t become one of its more exciting stories, I’m happy to be an observer.

I sip my coffee, watching people wander up and down the cobblestone street. In the distance funny little cars boot along, horns blaring occasionally as angry drivers make their way to or from work. Cars are different here; European makes and models called things like Skoda and Merde, vehicles that would be laughed off the road in the U.S. for being too dorky. But here, they’re absolutely perfect. Our enormous SUVs would probably seem ridiculous on these narrow streets.

Occasionally, my eyes meet those of a passerby who’s observing me just as I’m observing them. The men smile at me, almost without fail. The women scowl. I think there’s an inherent lack of trust between women in France. I suppose they all think their husband or lover is sleeping around. Any woman they spot is a potential enemy.

After a few minutes, all that’s left of my pain au chocolat is a small pile of flaky crumbs scattered on the table in front of me. It’s all I can do not to lean down and lick the surface clean; it was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. But I resist, rising to my feet in preparation for a walk. This city begs for my legs to move, my feet to guide me.

I head off in a random direction, confident that if I get lost, the GPS on my phone will guide me back. As usual I’m greeted by a row of pretty little shops lining the street that sell anything from comic books to clothing to computers. Everything I could possibly want exists within this one city block. Well, almost everything.

There’s no shop that sells honest men.

I look at my phone. It’s 12:53, but time doesn’t matter. I have no pressing plans. Zero obligations. I am free.

So I keep walking, wondering what I’ll encounter around the next corner, trying to take every inch of Paris in, to absorb this city into my mind and soul.

After a while I spy a fenced off green area, which I assume is a church yard. As I come closer, though, I realize that it’s a large, amazingly well-hidden park, surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence. A large double-sided gate is wide open, welcoming visitors. Naturally, I wander inside to take a look around. It seems like the sort of place where Parisians might hang out to enjoy their lunch, and my brain tells me that observing the French in their natural habitat might be an excellent use of my time.

People are sitting here and there on the grass, on benches, reading, leaning against one another. Everyone’s having a pleasant time from the looks of it, and a feeling of peace washes over me. The place oozes relaxation and bliss. I have yet to see a stressed-out person. After New York, this place is like a blood pressure drug.

I keep wandering until I spot a bunch of men in the distance, kicking a ball around like kids. Everyone in this town knows how to enjoy themselves. Curious, I move towards the soccer players, my eyes trained on the ball as it passes between this foot and that, shooting back and forth. They’re good, these guys, though they’re not dressed in uniforms; it’s obviously a casual match. Some of the men have taken their shirts off and are enjoying the sun beating down on their flesh. Maybe it’s a shirts vs. skins game. Either way, damn, the view is very nice.

Oh, sweet monkey captain. Correction: The view was very nice. As of one second ago, it’s making me hyperventilate.

Conlon. Freaking. Davies. is striking the ball into the opposing team’s net.

Kill me now.

Frantically, I look around for something—anything—large enough to hide behind. I thrust myself towards the only tree in my immediate vicinity, wondering if there’s any way I can get to it before he sees me.

I make it, pressing my back to its trunk as I try to catch my breath. But it’s not my lungs, it’s my heart that I should worry about. The heart that’s trying to make a quick escape through my throat.

Okay, Adriana. Calm down, assess escape routes, then leave. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

I press my hand to my chest, which is rising up and down like a boat in a hurricane, and close my eyes. Oh, thank God. Conlon hasn’t appeared. He didn’t see me. It’s all going to be fine.

“Excusez-moi,” a nearby male voice says. My eyes pop open.

There’s a light-haired man standing in front of me, smiling. He’s shirtless, shiny with sweat, and wearing white shorts that are so short and tight that I can tell his religion. He’s one of the soccer players, and he’s staring at me with a big, stupid grin on his face.

“Yes?” I say, not wanting to be rude to one of the first Parisians I’ve actually talked to.

“Ah, you’re American?” he asks, pressing a palm to the tree. Right next to my face. I pull as far away from his arm as I can get without revealing myself to the soccer field’s inhabitants.

“Yes?” I say again, my eyes shifting about. How the hell do I get away from this guy without being seen?

“I noticed you standing here,” he says, leaning in. “All alone.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was surprised to see such a beautiful woman without a…how you say…husband?”

Oh, give me all the breaks, you skeezy bastard. Just because I’m not tethered to a man doesn’t mean I’m single.

“I’m sorry, but I…” I begin.

“You must be a modèle,” he adds.

“A what now?”

“A modèle.”

“Oh, a model?” I laugh, more at him than with him. “No. Nothing of the sort.”

“You should be. You are so beautiful.”

“Yes, you said that already,” I tell him, suppressing a snort of derision.

“Do you know how we speak in Paris?” he asks, seeming to ignore anything I say.

“Oh, I don’t know. In French?” I ask.

“No. With kisses,” he replies. I laugh again, thinking someone must be filming me from the bushes for some kind of French Candid Camera show. This guy can’t be for real.

“That’s nice,” I say. Somehow the jerkwad takes this as an invitation. He leans in and kisses my left cheek then my right.

Okay, weird.

But things get even weirder when he goes for my lips. He nearly hits them, too. It’s only with some seriously quick evasive manoeuvring that I manage to slip aside, under his arm, and spin around to confront him.

“Look, buddy,” I hiss. “I’m not here to get groped by horny shirtless sweat-monsters.”

“Come, ma belle,” he protests, “this is how it works in Paris.”

“I don’t care if you tell me that Parisian women strip naked and bend over for your pleasure every five minutes. I’m not going to let you touch me.”

The bastard reaches for me, grabbing the strap of my dress and pulling me towards him. I’m prepared to rip the damned thing off to get away from him when someone grabs him, dragging him away from me in one swift motion. For a second I feel like Superman has just descended from the sky to rescue me.

“Jacques, for fuck’s sake!” another man’s voice bellows. Of course his name is Jacques.

Wait a minute. That was Conlon’s voice.

Shit.

“What the hell are you doing?” The words cut through the air as he shoves handsy Jacques against the tree, one fist gripping his t-shirt, other fist pulled back like he’s going to punch the guy in the face. “The lady told you to stop.”

“She didn’t say stop,” he whines.

“Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t clear,” I blurt out, facing my assailant. “Is fuck off sufficient to get the point across?” I’m so rattled by now by the whole thing that Conlon’s appearance is a relief. But the thing is, he knows I’m here. I’m going to have to talk to him.

Fuck.

What the hell have I done to deserve this?

He lets Jacques go, shoving him towards his friends on the soccer field, and turns to me.

“You all right?” he asks.

I nod. “More or less.”

“Sorry about him. He’s…French.”

I don’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. Conlon’s not supposed to be my knight in shining armour; he’s a lying, cheating jerkass.

“The only man you should be sorry about is yourself,” I shoot him. Okay, so it would seem that I’m more annoyed than grateful.

Katherine would tell me not to be so quick to judge, to listen what he has to say. But my anger’s pretty much conquering any desire to be rational.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“Who was the woman at the airport? Your wife?”

“Wife? I don’t have a wife.”

“Fine. Girlfriend. It’s all semantics, anyhow.” I move to turn away, ready to make my escape. I’m too angry by now to feel embarrassment.

“I don’t have a fucking girlfriend,” he says, reaching for my arm. His touch is electric, and I hate my brain for being so excited by his fingers.

I spin back to him, wrenching myself free. The gorgeous billionaire sex god has lost his status, and I’m ready to clobber him in the teeth. “So the woman who picked you up at the airport was what, your accountant?”

“Not exactly. But you’re not far off. She does work for me.”

My heart skips about fourteen beats. I’m going to need a defibrillator soon. “She what for you?”

“Works. She’s a contractor who occasionally works for me, though I’ve a good mind to fire her for that stunt. I didn’t ask her to pick me up, and I wasn’t remotely happy about her appearance at the airport. I was waiting, hoping to find you and offer you a ride. I wanted to talk more about…”

“Yes?”

A pause. “My memoir.”

Ah. So that was why he hung around. He was trying to figure out how to get a woman he’d just humped to write a pile of flattering things about him.

“I still want you to write it,” he says. “That is, I still want to discuss the option with you.”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea, Conlon…”

“Oh, screw it,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “There’s more, Adriana. You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?” He thrusts a frustrated hand through his thick hair and looks around, flustered. “I didn’t want to leave things as they were. I was looking for you, waiting for you outside of the baggage area because I wanted to see you again. Then fucking Monique came along and spoiled everything. Look—I don’t blame you for being pissed off at me. But I wasn’t cheating on anyone with you. I wanted you, plain and simple. I don’t bloody go around and proposition women daily, whatever you may think. I don’t sleep around on people.”

He takes a step towards me, moving into my space, and I let him. What else am I going to do? I’ve been craving these answers like oxygen.

“You weren’t cheating…” I say. It’s not a question. I think some deep-down part of me knew it already.

“Of course not. I’m a pig and a bastard, but not that sort. I don’t lie to women, at least not deliberately. I’ve been criticized for my bluntness, in fact.”

“Right,” I say, taking a step back to try and clear my mind. His heady scent is killing me, and my loins are on fire again.

“Conlon!” someone shouts in an accent that makes his name sound like “Koh-loh.” “Qu’est ce que tu fais là?”

He turns his head and waves them off. “Il faut que je parte,” he yells in perfect French. At least I think it’s perfect, which makes this the second French thing he’s done immaculately in the last 24 hours.

Oh, great. Now I’m thinking about his tongue.

“Listen, I’m heading back to the office,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “Would you like to come see it?”

I nod like I’ve been drugged and can no longer use my voice.

“Good,” he says. “Wait here a second.” He goes darting off somewhere and comes back a moment later with a small gym bag in hand. “It’s not far. I’ll need a shower when we get there, but if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes I’d love to show you around my place of business. Maybe when you’ve seen it, you’ll be willing to talk about the memoir.”

“Of course,” I say. I’m still in shock, still reeling from the news that the man who took my resurrected virginity isn’t a total shit after all. My brain has no idea what to do with this information. Conlon Davies has gone back to being attractive, sexy, perfect, smooth. And I want him more than ever.

I’m so totally screwed.