Page 34 of Sinful Escape

But no. I, Daisy Chayne, had a job to do. My people needed me.

Get your shit together.

I cleared my throat and forced my brain into tour guide mode. “Moulin Rouge began in October 1889, with the intention of allowing very rich patrons to ‘slum it’,”—I used finger quotes for emphasis—“in a highly fashionable district.”

Roman kicked the bus into gear, and I continued my spiel about the classic French show. I was on a roll. History was to me what hitchhiking was to a penniless backpacker . . . free and exciting, and you never knew where history would take you.

“People from all walks of life came to witness the unique Bohemian spectacle. Champagne flowed, dancing costumes became extravagant, the cancan was invented, and the singing cabaret developed into a huge success that still thrives today.”

The monologue rolled off my tongue, no longer requiring any thought as we passed through Paris’s bustling streets. But my gaze kept returning to Mike. His eyes hadn’t shifted from me. When he smiled, butterflies in my stomach became soaring eagles, and I couldn’t help smiling back at him.

My juvenile body was out of control.

I cleared my throat and pointed out one interesting building after another, undertaking my tour-guide job with professionalism that usually rewarded me with excellent reviews.

But then it hit me. All this expertise would be useless once I was booted out of Europe.

The eagles in my stomach thudded back to earth.

What am I going to do?

The change in the timbre of the tires dragged me back to my job and shoving the brutal reality aside, I directed the group’s attention to the Arc de Triomphe. While I gave them my usual description about the French landmark. . . construction statistics. . . its interesting history, my damn eyes were focusing on the naked men carved in great detail into the marble arch.

It was official. . . I’ve lost my fucking mind.

I’d never had an obsession before. So why couldn’t my new fixation be something cute like seashells or fairy floss? Not nudity! In a city like Paris, nudity was as common as fluffy Pomeranian puppies.

Finishing my new raunchy take on the tourist attraction, I fanned my face and flopped into my seat.

Roman’s grin was spectacular and lingered way too long.

“What?” I feigned ignorance.

“Who wants to see tits?”

My shoulders slumped. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“Me neither. But it was funny.”

“Not for me.”

“Oh, lighten up, Red. It’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

I stared at him, grateful that he hadn’t recognized my laugh had been fake.

He turned his attention back to the road, and I shifted my gaze out the window. While Paris whizzed by in a cocktail of colorful lights and lively movement, my brain locked in on the last time I had truly laughed. Other than last night, which had been more crazy hysteria than genuine laughter, it was five months ago. In Germany, I managed to spill a stein full of beer down my front. I’d started my very own wet T-shirt competition. Laughing at myself was the only way to avoid embarrassment.

Roman was right. I did need to lighten up.

I’d been going through the motions of life. Not living it. Just existing.

Not anymore.

From this moment forward, I’m going to let loose.

I’ll prove to Roman that I’m not old. I am young, and fun, and maybe a touch crazy.

I am Daisy Chayne. It’s time for me to live.

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