Page 24 of In the Net
Images of the scenario Felix is describing very unwantedly flash into my brain. Harper’s leg hooked around my waist as she sleeps, her loose shorts pushed so far up that if my hand strayed, I’d feel the warm skin over the curve of her bare hip …
My cock twitches and starts to thicken. Along with the swelling in my groin, a pang of concern detonates behind my chest, because no thought about Harper should cause this kind of physical reaction in me.
Must just be the elevated testosterone from the workout on the ice.
I twist the shower knob to make the water colder.
Even though I’ve managed to avoid a full-on stiffy in the locker room showers, I still can’t get the guys to shut up. They’re still coming up with ridiculous scenarios, on fucking cloud nine teasing me just because Harper and I are going to the same city for a week.
They need to get lives.
“None of this is ever going to happen, but you weirdos can keep fantasizing,” I grouse.
“Maybe Seb’s right,” Carter says. “Why would Harper bother with him when she has a buffet of French dudes to choose from? Probably some Italian tourists up there, too.”
“For sure,” Felix answers, his voice cheeky. “Harper’s bed’s gonna have no room for Sebastian’s lame American ass. It’s gonna be filled with Henri and Louis and Charles,” he pronounces the names in a terrible French accent, “with a couple Antonios and Giovannis thrown in.”
I must have turned the water too cold, because right after listening to Felix’s bullshitting, I feel a frosty, slimy chill crawlup my back. I twist the knob back in the other direction, heating up the water again.
I finally manage to tune out the guys as I soap up and wash my hair. By the time we’re drying off and getting changed, they’ve thankfully moved on to a new topic of conversation.
Harper and me taking a trip to Paris together might amuse my teammates to no end, but really, I bet we’ll hardly see each other there.
10
HARPER
My flight to Paris hasn’t even boarded yet, but I might have already found my international fling.
Honestly, having a little romance in Paris wasn’t even on my mind. I was too wrapped up in dreaming of the city itself, strolling the streets and seeing all the sights, not to mention worrying about not making a fool of myself at the conference.
But one night while talking with my roommates about how excited I was for the trip, they latched onto the idea of me having a weeklong European tryst, and I have to admit, I didn’t hate the idea.
Now that I’m actually talking with a French guy who struck up a conversation with me here at the airport, who’s going back to Paris on the same flight I am, I really don’t hate the idea.
“On the left bank, where you are staying, there is this amazing café on a side street, miraculously tourists have not yet invaded it,” Clement is telling me, pointing at his phone as he shows me his recommendations for cool places I should visit. His English is good, but it comes out in a heavy yet smooth French accent that has my chest feeling all fluttery.
He’s handsome, suave, confident, and a couple years older than me. While I was sitting at my gate, sipping a cup of coffee I waited fifteen minutes to get at the busy café in the terminal, he just sat near me, asked if this was my first time going to Paris, and then we started talking.
Clement works in marketing for a Paris bio-tech company, and he’s heading back home from a business trip.
Maybe a bio-tech marketer isn’t quite as exciting as some of the ideas for my Parisian fling that my roommates tossed around—French artist who lives in his atelier piled up with his brilliant canvases, or an old-money aristocrat, or a stylish heir to a winemaking fortune—but, hey, I gotta be somewhat realistic, right?
“Oh, and this is my favorite bar, in Le Marais,” he says excitedly, showing me pictures of a cool-looking place that has the vibe of both a classic Parisian café and a dive bar at the same time. “Only, the bartenders can be snobby to people who don’t speak French. Even people who speak it with an American accent. But if you’re with a local, they’re cool,” he adds with a flirty glimmer in his eye.
I haven’t felt excitement talking to a guy in a long time. Who knew that really handsome, cultured, slightly older French men with a local’s knowledge of the city I’ve always dreamed of visiting were what I needed to rekindle my interest in the male species?
Is itthatcrazy to think that maybe, if we meet up in Paris and hang out for the week I’m there, our chemistry will be so good that Clement will be willing to fly to America to be my wedding date?
Yeah, probably.
While Clement tells me about how he went to school at the Sorbonne in Paris—where my conference is being held—myeyes glide to the side, something across from us drawing my attention.
My vision finds Sebastian sitting a couple rows away from us at the gate, glowering in our direction.
I suppress an eyeroll, not wanting Clement to think I’m reacting to something he’s saying.
I’m sure the aggravation radiating from Sebastian is because he just can’t get over the fact that he wasn’t the sole winner of the contest. With an ego his size, it’s not surprising that he’s having a hard time sharing the spotlight. Especially when he has to share that spotlight with me.
