Page 12 of One Night in Paris

Since it was summer, the sun was still up, falling behind the tops of the tall buildings, casting a pinkish golden light across the city. New York had always been a magical place to me. Some people talked about the crime and focused on the filth, but just like Paris, the city was full of architectural wonders. I could stand and stare at the same building for hours, watchingthe light play off the walls and considering the age in which it was built, the materials, and even the construction workers themselves.

My mind elsewhere, I almost ran into a middle-aged woman coming in my direction with a snarl on her face. Quickly, I stepped aside, but I wasn’t fast enough for her. “Watch it, buddy!” she growled, rushing by me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, realizing I needed to change courses again or I was going to run into a couple of young girls standing in front of a magazine stand while a woman I assumed was their mom bought a magazine.

The girls had a copy ofThe New York Timesin their hand, staring at a picture on the front of the business section, which seemed odd for a couple of girls who couldn’t have been out of high school. I only knew it was the business section because I recognized the unique columns for the stock reports.

“He’s unbelievably dreamy,” one of the girls said. “Can you believe they’re saying he’s the most eligible bachelor in the city?”

“Sure,” the other girl said. “He’s smokin’ hot. I don’t care if he’s an architect or a model. I’d do him.”

“Kenna!” the woman said, turning to face what I assumed was her daughter. “Watch your language.”

Biting back a laugh, I leaned in slightly, out of curiosity—and then froze. The picture they were looking at was familiar. Very familiar.

It was me.

My friend Lawrence at theTimeshad done the interview, insisting he have one of their award-winning photographers come along. The shoot had been a few months ago, so I’d forgotten about it altogether until now. I thought the article would have more to do with my rise as a CEO than my bachelor status, but listening to what these girls had to say, that wasn’t the focus at all.

Deciding I’d better investigate, I waited until the woman finished her purchase and then approached the clerk. Picking up a copy of the paper, I pulled my wallet out and slipped him a ten, which was more than it cost. “Keep the change,” I mumbled, walking away with the paper in my hand.

The urge to stop right there in the middle of the walkway and read the entire article was overwhelming. But I wasn’t the kind of asshole who assumed the world could wait for me—or go around. Rather than leaning up against one of the buildings, I glanced around.

Luckily, the neon lights of a diner flickered up ahead of me, just on the other side of the street. Pink and blue lights called to me, as did the faint smell of hamburger grease. Following my stomach, as I’d intended to do anyway, I carried my paper under my arm to Carmine’s Diner.

Stepping through the door reminded me of one of those old movies I’d used to watch with my grandparents. From the black and white checkered floor to the fifties rock music playing on what looked to be an authentic jukebox, complete with records, this place was legit old school.

The bell above the door alerted an older, gray-haired woman with a scowl on her face of my presence. “Sit anywhere you want!” she barked at me, refilling a cup of coffee for a man with a baseball cap on low over his ears who was sitting at the counter.

Nodding in thanks, I looked around, seeing an empty booth not far away. Sliding into it, I took a deep breath and considered the newspaper. Turning to the page where my story was featured, I looked at the picture. Yep, that was me. Except, in a lot of ways, it didn’t really look like me at all.

The man staring up at me had a confident grin on his face, his three-piece suit polished and expensive as hell. His hair was styled perfectly, and his tie was fastened impeccably. Most of the time, I was far from perfect. If it hadn’t been for the teamthat came along with the photographer to make this pic look as impressive as possible, theTimeswould’ve ended up with an awkward guy with a crooked tie and only enough confidence to get by.

Not that I didn’t agree with their assessment of me as one of the most successful architects in the world. That was true. But this guy? He looked like a playboy. A showoff. Some kind of a smarmy bastard who’s constantly told he’s the shit, and he knows it.

That wasn’t me at all. I was confident but not cocky. My faith in myself as a businessman was way different than my view of myself when it came to my bachelorhood. Sure, I could get a lot of gorgeous, sexy ladies when I wanted to, but I wasn’t out there scoring with a different woman every night like this article might have one believe.

Reading through it, I felt my stomach twist into a knot. Did people believe this stuff? I couldn’t believe my friend would write something like this. Was he just trying to get attention on my business? If so, he needed to tone this part down—a lot. It didn’t sit well with me.

With a sigh, I dropped the newspaper on the table and grabbed one of the menus tucked between the napkin holder and the wall. Maybe this would all blow over. After all, most people who read the business section were looking for information to help their companies, not gossip. With any luck, people would glance right past that part and only read the part about how my company had grown so quickly under my leadership, the connections we were making with other global leaders in our industries, and the plans we had to expand in the future.

The old woman from behind the counter stalked over with a coffee pot and mug in her hand. “Dagnabbit. Stupid waitress can’t ever get to her tables in time.” Plopping the mug down infront of me, she filled it up before I could even tell her I didn’t want any coffee.

Looking up at her, I saw the angry look on her face and decided not to mess with her. “Thanks,” I muttered.

The noise that came out from between her hairy upper lip and her lower jowl was something like the grunt a moose might make before it trampled someone invading its territory, I imagined. “Your damn waitress, Princess Juliet, will get her sorry ass over here as soon as she’s done primping or whatever the hell it is she’s doing in the back.”

My mouth dropped open as I stared at this beast of a woman. All I could think was that she must be a pleasure to work for. No words were necessary anyway because she ambled away before I could think of an appropriate response—if one even existed.

“Princess Juliet?” I repeated. What kind of a name was that?

Having no idea, I returned my attention to the menu. The burgers looked great. Several of the customers sitting at the tables around me had cheeseburgers on their plates with various toppings, including bacon and veggies. The French fries also looked good. But I wasn’t quite sure whether to try that or something else.

My nose buried in the menu, I was attempting to choose an entrée when my waitress came up behind me. “Hey, sorry for the wait. Are you ready to order?”

Something about Princess Juliet’s voice sounded familiar in a way that had my entire body lighting on fire. My groin twitched, and my heart began to race.

Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard and set the menu down. Part of me was afraid to turn my head, thinking I was delusional. The rest of me wanted to spin around and see what in bloody hell was happening here.

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