Page 5 of One Time in Paris
“Of course you are. You wouldn’t know the meaning of fun if she sat on your face.” Lola grabbed her purse. “Which she has. Several times, I might add. I can’t believe I lost nearly a year of my life on this back-and-forth, wishy-washynonsensefrom you.” With a glare, she turned and stalked away.
Aiden stared into the void she’d left, unsure if he should feel relieved, offended, or both.
Was that it?
Had getting rid of her been that easy?
Of course, he did have a few onlookers staring at him as though he’d just struck the woman—Lola had never known volume control. He gave them a stiff nod, then lifted his mobile to avoid any eye contact.
His mobile buzzed, and Aiden glanced down at an email.
Sender:Jorge Salas
Subject:The meeting is off.
He exhaled sharply, fingers curling tight around the table’s edge, the cheap laminate pressing against his palm.
Fucking fantastic.
He pushed his chair back, wanting to storm out of the café. Instead, he gathered his paper cup, and the plate and cup Lola had left behind, and carried them over to the bin.
Ridiculous.This was how Jorge Salas did business?
But, deep down, he knew it wasn’tjustabout Lola. Salas was guiding Ipolymer on the acquisition. He knew how much Camden Enterprises wanted it, and he was driving a hard bargain because they could afford to.
The board had sent him to Vegas with one order—make that acquisition happen.
And now everything was bleeding at the seams.
Fuck.
3
ISLA
“You’re here!”Megan squealed as Isla rolled her suitcase through the door of the Paris Las Vegas suite.
The blast of cool, air-conditioned luxury barely eased the travel fatigue pressing behind her eyes.The suite was bright, polished, too perfect—much like the five smiling faces waiting to pounce.The replica Eiffel Tower loomed beyond the window, a gaudy reminder of exactly where she was.
Subtlety, thy name is Vegas.
Isla sucked in a deep breath and surveyed the smiling faces of “the Squad”—her five closest friends from her years at Trinity All-Girls Preparatory, the exclusive boarding school her father had shipped her off to in Connecticut during high school, when Mum had finally relented to his pestering to put her in a “place that will expand her possibilities.”
“There they are,” Isla said as brightly as possible, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stopped in the foyer.
Megan—the bride-to-be and the only reason the Squad had gotten her to agree to come to Vegas in the first place—came at Isla with arms outstretched and wrapped her in a bear hug. “I’m so happy you made it. I kept telling the girls I really, really wanted you here!”
Isla returned the hug and then looked beyond her toward the other women gathered on the couch. Somehow, if it was possible, none of them appeared to have changed. Like, at all.
They probably haven’t.
A voice from an adjoining room filled her with relief. “Is she here?” Her best friend and former roommate, Davy, hurried out, jet-black hair streaming behind her.
Even in high school, Isla and Davy had bonded over being the outsiders among their blue-eyed, blond classmates. Both of their fathers were English, but unlike Isla’s Costa Rican mother, Davy’s mother was Indian. They’d clung to their shared love of film and acting, a friendship that had followed them well past graduation—Isla to London’s theater and film scene and Davy to the BBC.
Isla grinned at Davy. “How’s the jet lag?”
“Oh, I have theworstjet lag,” Piper said from the couch. Out of their group of six, Piper was always the most likely to insert herself into a conversation, though it was always harmless. “I spent last week on the coast of Croatia, and I swear, it was exhausting coming back to Greenwich, let alone here.”
