Page 23 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“I did. And I thought that I’d one day be part of the company’s legal team.”

“What changed your mind?”

“My father died, and I had to step in and learn about all the operations. I discovered I really enjoy the creativity that’s involved with the magazines.”

“Think you’ll go back to legal?”

I shrug. “I’m still involved of course, and there’s plenty of legal issues that come with the magazines. This way I get to play in both worlds. Plus, I get to travel and meet beautiful women.”I wink at her.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the whole reason I’m here.”

“Not only.”Not anymore, anyway.

She blushes. “What does a typical holiday issue require?”

I pause to sip my drink, thinking. “We start planning six months out. The theme, tone, color palette. December is one of our biggest—it has to be both festive and elegant. You want sparkle, but with depth.”

She writes, nodding.

“This year,”I continue, “I wanted to feature something different. Something rooted in place. Quebec in the winter has a magical quality about it with the old-world charm, lights strung across narrow streets, snow that doesn’t feel like a burden. It’s cinematic. Romantic.”

“You sound like a man who’s spent time falling in love with this city,”she says, not looking up from the page.

I never contemplated falling in love. Certainly not with somebody I barely know. But in my gut, I feel different around Shelby. Better. Happier. Content. “Maybe I have.”

Her pen stills, just briefly.

“We shoot in October to hit the December printing deadline. The shoot yesterday was just to narrow it down.”

“And how do you decide on the final cover?”

“That’s the hardest part.”I smile. “We test. Mood boards, mock-ups, reader panels sometimes. But ultimately, it’s a gut call. I look at the photo and ask myself: does this stop someone in their tracks? Does it say something?”

“And do you ever second-guess yourself?”

“All the time,”I admit softly. “My grandfather had a vision. My father did things differently. He made mistakes, personally and professionally. Since the day I took over, I’ve questioned whether I was doing the right thing or not. I’ve had to learn about each aspect of the business, each individual company, and try to figure out what works in their best interest.”

“Do you want to run them like he did?”

“No. I want to make them successful again.”

“Theyaren’t?”

“They are, but not because of him. At least not the last few years. Thankfully his staff kept things together.”

She finally looks up. Her eyes are soft, but there’s something sharp beneath as she sees all of it. The good. The guarded. The man behind the name. “I think there’s more to your story,”she says.

After our brief recess, we wander uphill toward the Château Frontenac, the crown jewel of the skyline. Shelby insists ontaking a photo ofit from every angle, and I don’t stop her. I like watching her eyes light up, her hair catching the sunlight as she spinsin placeto get the perfect shot.

We duck into Le Chic Shack for lunch—a local spot I love for its elevated comfort food. And it also happens to be owned by one of the owners of L’Auberge Saint-Antoine, the hotel where we’re staying. Inside, it’s warm and welcoming, all wood beams and brick walls, with the hum of quiet conversation wrapping around us like a blanket.

We settle into a table by the window. The server brings us menus, but Shelby sets hers down quickly, eyes flicking to mine.

“You’ve been good about answering my questions so far,”she says. “But now I want to ask something that’s… maybe less on the record.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’re not even pretending to be objective anymore?”

“I gave up the illusion somewhere between the first kiss and the last orgasm.”

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