Your French Kisses

A Boyfriend Material novella

Lauren Blakely

Little Dog Press

Contents

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

Your French Kisses

1. Reid

2. Marley

3. Reid

4. Marley

5. Reid

6. Marley

7. Reid

8. Marley

9. Reid

10. Marley

11. Reid

12. Marley

13. Reid

14. Marley

15. Reid

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Also by Lauren Blakely

Big Rock Series

Big Rock

Mister O

Well Hung

Full Package

Joy Ride

Hard Wood

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift

The Virgin Gift

The Decadent Gift

The Heartbreakers Series

Once Upon a Real Good Time

Once Upon a Sure Thing

Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material

Asking For a Friend

Sex and Other Shiny Objects

One Night Stand-In

Your French Kisses

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans

The Feel Good Factor

Nobody Does It Better

Unzipped

Always Satisfied Series

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Instant Gratification

Overnight Service

Never Have I Ever

Special Delivery

The Sexy Suit Series

Lucky Suit

Birthday Suit

From Paris With Love

Wanderlust

Part-Time Lover

One Love Series

The Sexy One

The Only One

The Hot One

The Knocked Up Plan

Come As You Are

Sports Romance

Most Valuable Playboy

Most Likely to Score

Standalones

Stud Finder 

The V Card

The Real Deal

Unbreak My Heart 

The Break-Up Album

21 Stolen Kisses

Out of Bounds 

The Caught Up in Love Series

The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)

The Dating Proposal

The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)

The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)

Stars In Their Eyes Duet

My Charming Rival

My Sexy Rival

The No Regrets Series

The Thrill of It

The Start of Us

Every Second With You

The Seductive Nights Series

First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

The Joy Delivered Duet

Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

The Sinful Nights Series

Sweet Sinful Nights

Sinful Desire

Sinful Longing

Sinful Love

The Fighting Fire Series

Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

The Jewel Series

A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

The Sapphire Affair

The Sapphire Heist

About

To do list for my last day of my Paris vacation...

1. Walk along the river

2. Visit all the chocolate shops in the city

3. Wander along the cobblestoned streets. 

Things I don't expect to happen...

1. Meet a charming Englishman while strolling along the Seine 

2. Spend the afternoon with him exploring Paris, and kissing. So many French kisses... 

3. Board a plane that night wishing I'd gotten his last name.

Besides, you can't fall for someone in one day, especially when you live a world apart...

Your French Kisses

A Boyfriend Material short story

By Lauren Blakely

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1

Reid

New York

You know that saying about kids in candy shops?

They’ve got nothing on a fella in a lingerie shop.

Forget lollipops and chocolate bars. I’ll take teddies and corsets. Not for me though.

For . . .

Who do I want it for?

Who am I kidding? I know how to finish that sentence.

I’ve known it for three years.

But what are the chances I’ll see her again? I’ve nearly given up. I’ve been searching, stupidly searching this city for a woman I met once upon a time.

I wander into shops, look in windows, imagining I might see her again.

Someday I’ll shuck off that wish for good.

But today?

Today, I still have a smidgeon of hope. After all, I can recall with crystal clarity the way she curled a hand over my shoulder, showed me a display of pink and white lace, and said it was her favorite.

I sigh, wishing I’d done something different that day.

One thing different.

Regret is an awful taste.

To counter it, I’ve given myself three months to entertain a quest.

To pop into shops.

Jewelry stores. Clothing boutiques. Lingerie shops.

What are the chances I’ll see my five-hours-in-Paris woman?

I don’t let myself answer that question.

Because the three months are nearly over.

But today I’m still looking. Today, I still have a chance, one offered to me by the store owner who I met thirty minutes ago.

Peyton extends a hand, gesturing to the shop she’s lured me into.

“And this is my little slice of New York. Welcome to You Look Pretty Today,” she says. I made her acquaintance in a coffee shop with my good friend Lucas, and she encouraged me to stop in here, luring me with promises of a single woman who likes water parks.

What can I say?

I’m easy. I like water parks.

But does the woman I met in Paris like them?

I have no idea.

See, I don’t even know her last name.

Another regret.

This woman can’t possibly be the one I’ve been looking for. But my time is running out, so why not turn over this stone? You never know.

I walk inside and gesture to the shelves of underthings. “I see you have some wonderful items for my nan,” I joke.

“I can definitely find something for her,” Peyton says. “I have customers of all ages. But right now, I want you to meet my store manager.” She guides me through a display of bustiers.

“Got a little matchmaker in you?”

Her eyes twinkle. “I might. She says she has a thing for British accents.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Yes, it’s totally her weakness.”

For a dangerous second, my heart beats faster.

But I tell it to settle down.

It won’t be her.

Instead, I scan the lingerie on the shelves, my mind ever so helpfully assembling an image of a svelte blonde in one. A lithe brunette. A pretty redhead.

Nameless women. Faceless women. Never her.

As I wander past a shelf of satin shorts, the scent of lavender drifts into my nose, reminding me of gardens in Paris.

Another memory best forgotten.

After today, I will banish all of them and kick this pointless quest to the curb.

I snap my gaze away from the pretty items, my eyes returning to Peyton, who has her hand on the arm of her store manager.

I can’t see the other woman’s face.

But then she rounds the corner as Peyton says to her, “I have someone I want you to meet.”

The store manager steps forward, and I am swept back in time.

Brown hair, brown eyes, a smile for days, and dimples. Those dimples. I swear I’m seeing things. Seeing her.

Someone I never thought I’d see again.

Someone I’ve desperately wanted to see again.

And I made a promise that if I ever did, I’d do everything different.

Her eyes lock with mine, and I see that day flash across her irises too.

“It’s you?” I ask. Then it’s no longer a question. It’s a statement. “It’s really you.”

2

Marley

Paris

Nearly three years ago

I’m not afraid of many things.

Spicy food? Bring it on.

Horror movies? I can handle them.

Camping, hiking, biking, and pitching a tent? Not a problem.

But heights?

Who invented heights?

Clearly someone who hates me.

Heights are officially the worst.

When my girlfriends declare at Café Roussillon over eggs, potatoes, and croissants that today is the day, I shake my head. “Au revoir.”

“Marley,” Bethany says, with a squeeze of my arm and a peppy grin, “You can do it.”

She’s Rosie the Riveter, tough and badass, but I’m undeterred.

Heights and I don’t get along. “I know I can. I don’t want to,” I say to my college roomie, who wants nothing more than to shoot up to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

“Are you truly saying you don’t want to view all of Paris, drink in the vistas, see the Seine cutting across the city like a ribbon?” Emery asks with a sweep of her arm.

I laugh at the image she paints. “You sound like a travel brochure.”

“And travel brochures should be followed,” she declares as she takes her last bite of egg.

Bethany sips her café noisette—she’s gotten me addicted to them—then says, “Paris is for shedding fears.”

“And we did that by ordering escargot the other night,” I point out as I set down my fork.

Bethany shrugs. “Fine. That was a little terrifying.”

“And seriously, thank you for encouraging me, and you are the best, but I swear I have enjoyed seeing the Eiffel Tower from the ground,” I say as we pay the check, then leave some euros on the table for the waiter.

“Merci,” I call out as we exit and I walk with my friends to the most famous landmark.

This is our last hurrah trip before the three of us scatter across the United States—Bethany to law school in Texas, Emery to a job in San Francisco, and me to business school, starting next week.

Emery pouts. “They say the line will take about two hours, and then we thought we’d do the Montparnasse Tower too. Knock out all the heights today without you.”

I nod approvingly. “I like that idea.”

“What will you do?” Emery asks.

“Something on the ground,” I say playfully as we walk past a gorgeous stone building with curling ironwork framing the tall windows.

What will I do?

I will wander.

It’s the thing I like most.

Walking.

Seeing.

Looking.

“I’m going to meet some fabulous Frenchman,” I muse as we enter Champ de Mars, the park at the base of the tower. “Have a tryst in a secret passage somewhere in the city, tucked off on a quiet cobblestoned street; kiss a handsome stranger as Édith Piaf plays; and then have a glass of wine and tell my secrets to the river.”

Bethany gives me the evil eye, then looks at Emery. “And why are we going to the top of the Eiffel Tower? I want to go with her and have a secret tryst with a gorgeous Frenchman.”

Emery purses her lips, her eyes twinkling. “Dinner’s on us tonight if you do have that rendezvous. Because you will be entertaining your besties with details.”

I stare at the tower, as if deeply considering the offer. “Let me get this straight. If I have a secret tryst, I get one, a tryst; two, a free meal; and three, the memory of the tryst? Sounds like I’ll win.”

Emery narrows her eyes and stomps her foot. “She bamboozled us. I want what she’s having.”

“Maybe you’ll have a secret love affair at the top of the tower,” I say, then hug my best friends goodbye, telling them I’ll meet them later, since we need to get ready to leave for an insanely early flight.

I stroll along Rue Saint-Dominique, stopping along the way to check out displays in jewelry stores and clothing boutiques, before I pop into a chocolatier.

A red-haired man behind the counter nods, smiles, and says, “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” I reply, then I ogle the displays of mouthwatering sweets, choose a few, and leave with chocolate in hand.

I cross the boulevard and find a bench by the river. “It’s just you and me, river,” I say to the water.

I grab a truffle and bite into it. As decadent caramel spreads on my tongue, a man I didn’t notice at the end of the bench turns and smiles.

“Good morning.”

3

Reid

My team came in third, but I can’t complain because we didn’t even think we’d place.

Tenth was more like our goal.

Hell, not finishing in last place would have been an achievement for the Road Flyers, my amateur bike team that competed in a four-day race ending in the City of Lights. It surprised the hell out of the four of us when we landed a spot on the podium.

Tour de France contenders we are not, but it was a right adrenaline rush. Now I’m enjoying a few hours in Paris before I catch a flight back to London, my teammates having taken off already. I’m booked on a different flight.

I pop a chocolate square in my mouth, savoring the orange zest flavor in the dark chocolate, when a brunette with a spray of freckles across her cheeks takes the spot at the end of the bench.

She gazes at the river with a happy sigh, then says, “It’s just you and me, river.”

My brain is a pinball machine, lighting up, buzzers whirring.

I barely speak a word of French, and she has an American accent. Perhaps it’s my lucky day.

“Good morning,” I say.

She jerks her gaze to me, then smiles. “Good morning to you too.” Her eyes drift to the bag from the shop. “A kindred spirit, I see.”

“Well, you know what they say.” I gesture to the chocolate like there’s some well-known saying about it.

She arches one brow, and it’s wildly adorable the way it rises, matching the corner of her lips quirking up. “I don’t know what they say. What do they say?”

I lower my voice, cup my mouth, and stage-whisper, “They say it’s never too early to eat chocolate.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard that,” she says with a nod, dipping her hand into the bag. “I believe it’s called chocolate o’clock.”

“That’s the time my watch is set to as well.”

“I have truffles. Want one?” She waggles the bag, and I adopt a new truism immediately. When a pretty woman offers you chocolate, you say yes.

“I would love one. As long as you promise they aren’t poisoned.”

Her expression is intense, overly serious. “As an avid and well-known poisoner, you have my solemn vow,” she says, then offers one.

“Well, since it’s a solemn vow . . .” I slide closer to her on the bench just as she slides closer to me. I snag a chocolate. “I’m going to trust it’s not laced with arsenic.”

She scoffs. “Please. I’m all about cyanide. It’s stronger and faster.”

I stop, chocolate midair. “How do you know that?”

She laughs, a bright, cheery sound. “I read a lot of mysteries. I can tell you the ten deadliest poisons, and the ones most likely to go undetected. But the look on your face is priceless, like you really thought I was going to off you.”

I take the chocolate, pop it in, and bite. “I’m living life on the edge. Taking my chances.”

“Go you.”

When I finish, I hold up my bag of treats. “Want one of my deadly sweets? I made sure to pick up the botulinum-laced variety,” I say in a macabre voice.

Her eyes twinkle. “Best morning ever. This is like Russian roulette with chocolate.” She chooses a square, then moans around the chocolate. “Oh, that is divine.”

So are your lips.

So are your sounds.

“Glad you like it,” I say, as a horn honks. I glance at the river where a boat bleats as it winds its way along the Seine. One of those three-hour cruises perhaps, and something I’d considered for my last day in Paris.

But as much as I enjoy the view of the river and the idea of a day on the water, I like the view on the bench so much more.

And the chance that may be next to me.

I didn’t think I’d place in the bike race.

But I went all out.

No reason to do anything differently with the chocolate poisoner. The gorgeous brunette looks to be in her early twenties, only a few years younger than I am. Maybe she’s as single as I am too. “I’m Reid. I’m from London. I was in Paris for a bike race with my team. We placed third. I’m heading home tonight.”

Her smile is magnetic. “I’m Marley. I’m here with friends before I return to New York to start business school.”

I extend a hand and shake hers. “Pleasure to meet you, Marley.”

“And you too, Reid,” she says, holding my hand longer than I expect as she studies my face. Then she takes a breath, like she’s preparing to say something.

And I hope it’s not that she needs to leave.

But I don’t want to miss a chance to enjoy my last few hours here to the fullest, so I speak first. “There’s a new shop a mile away. Fancy a chocolate tour?”

4

Marley

It’s like he can read my mind. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

One eyebrow quirks. “If I wanted to go on a chocolate tour?”

I wave my hand in the direction of a bookstore I’ve heard about. “Well, actually to a bookstore. But chocolate works too.”

He strokes his chin, like a detective noodling on a case. “Were you going to share all your favorite mysteries featuring death by poisoning?”

I grin mischievously. “I was indeed.”

His expression shifts as a delighted grin lights up his handsome face, highlighting his square jaw and his soulful brown eyes. “Chocolate always works, but so do books.”

He rises.

I dust off my hands, grab my bag, and tuck the chocolate into my purse. I eye his chocolate bag. “Want me to carry your chocolate?”

He clutches it, pretending to squire it away from me. “A poisoner and a chocolate thief? I’ve been warned about your type.” He wags a finger at me.

“And yet you’re walking along the Seine with me,” I tease as we stroll.

“True. Apparently, I am easily enchanted by American accents,” he says with a wry smile as we wind past a street lamp, and he hands me his bag of chocolate. I tuck it into my purse.

“Your British one isn’t too shabby,” I say, and then I dive right into questions. Because I can. Because clearly this is a day that is bursting with possibilities and none of those options require holding back. I can’t help but think Bethany and Emery will be so jealous, but I’m not doing this to make them jealous. I’m doing this because it feels like what a last day in Paris should be like—a walk beside a river with a handsome stranger, full of potential and flirtation. “You’re from London and heading home tonight?”

He nods as we reach the corner of the street, and I let my eyes roam over him. Jeans and a gray T-shirt. He looks about twenty-four or twenty-five. “My bags are packed, and I’m ready to go,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of sadness in his voice.

Funny, I feel a touch of it too already. A touch of missing. That’s so odd because I’ve spent only a few minutes with him.

But already we click.

Instantly. Incredibly.

And that’s why not spending another hour with him in this city would be a missed opportunity.

“Mine too,” I say, choosing to enjoy this time fully.

“Are you headed home today?”

“Tomorrow morning. At the crack of dawn,” I say with a frown. “Why do six a.m. flights even exist? We have to be at Charles de Gaulle at four thirty.”

He shakes his head. “They should be abolished. When I’m in charge of all things, I will outlaw flights at ungodly hours.”

“Thank you,” I say, like I’m imploring his graciousness. “You have my vote for prime minister.”

His brown eyes seem to twinkle. “I thank you for your support.” He takes a beat as we cross the avenue. “Have you enjoyed your trip so far, Marley? Summer in Paris can be lovely or vicious.”

“It’s been lovely. We went to Italy and to Spain and to Paris.”

“Quite the jaunt.”

“I know, and I’m so lucky we were able to pull this off. My friends are at the top of the Eiffel Tower now, but I didn’t want to do that. I happen to detest heights.”

“You do?”

I nod, like I’m confessing. “They make me nervous. Like, I can see all the ways they can go wrong. I picture flinging myself down from the top story, and well, that kind of ruins them.”

“That would definitely do it.”

“Are you afraid of anything? Like, anything totally irrational?”

“Just your standard fear of poisoning by chocolate. But that’s hardly irrational,” he says with a wink. “Tell me more about your trip.”

I picture the last few weeks, recalling our adventures in Rome, our meanderings across the city of Barcelona, and our time in Paris these last few days. “We did it on a shoestring budget,” I explain. “We’d made a vow to take a European trip when we graduated, especially since we’re all heading in different directions. One of my friends is going to law school. The other starts her first job.”

“And you’re going to business school?”

“Yes. And while I’m there, I hope to figure out what exactly I want to do in business someday.”

“Ah, work. Yes, I’ve heard of that. It’s so dreadful when it gets in the way of bike races and chocolate shops. Shall I ask if you’ve given any thought yet to what you want to do, or is that a topic best avoided?”

I shrug, but it’s the happy kind, because it doesn’t entirely bother me that I don’t know. “Is it crazy to say I’m not sure? I do want to run my own business. But I’m torn. Sometimes I think I might want to work in public relations and open my own firm. And other times I think I want to market new fashion lines. But I also really like just talking to people, so maybe I should open a cute little boutique, and then it’ll turn into a whole line of cute little boutiques. Or I could start a coffee and chocolate shop,” I say, tossing out that last option.

“Do you like coffee?”

I adopt a serious stare. “Like it’s a religion.”

“I pray at that altar too. So, I say you should open a café that sells clothes and then do your own PR for it.”

I snap my fingers like I have all the answers now. “There you go. Now I know what I want to do.”

“See? It was serendipity that we met,” he says playfully as we weave past a Frenchwoman pushing a trolley full of groceries, a baguette poking out the top of one bag.

“But I’ll miss Paris,” I say, glancing at the bread, then at this man by my side who doesn’t feel like a stranger at all. Nor does he feel like the handsome guy I just happened to bump into. He feels like a guy whose path I was meant to cross.

We slow our pace at a light. “I’ll miss Paris too,” he says as he holds my gaze longer than I expect.

I should look away. I should break the moment. But I don’t. Because my stomach flips. And tingles spread down my arms. Then I whisper, “I’m glad I’m afraid of heights.”

The light changes, and we cross.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then smiles. His smile is fantastic. So warm and inviting. “I’m glad you’re afraid of heights too.”

5

Reid

I wouldn’t say we gorge ourselves on chocolate, but we come damn close.

Marley is a fiend when it comes to sweets, with a sweet tooth that matches mine. I tell her as much as we regard the carnage of our chocolate fiesta on the table—those little wrapper things that hold the chocolates are completely empty. “We have officially made this morning chocolate o’clock every damn second.”

“We have,” she says, straightening her shoulders like she’s issuing a declaration. “And I regret nothing.”

“I regret nothing either.”

She sets her chin in her hand and meets my eyes. “So, Reid. What do you do in London when you aren’t devouring chocolate?”

I lean back in the chair, diving into the quick details. “I’m a designer. I studied graphic design at university. I’m working my way up now, but someday I’d like to have my own company.”

She smiles. “I love that. Love that you know what you want to do. What is that like—to know?”

I ponder her question for a few seconds, maybe more. “It’s like . . . normal. If that makes sense? I think I’ve always known. I’ve loved drawing and designing, and it was always my path. I like this path. I’m glad I’m on it.”

“What can you draw?” There’s a curious glint in her eyes.

“I happen to be a fantastic doodler. But I’m also tops at drawing caricatures of American girls in chocolate shops.”

A laugh seems to burst from her. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as a heart attack.” I head to the counter, ask the shopkeeper for a pen and napkin, and return to her, doing a quick rudimentary sketch of her face. It’s great fun, because it gives me free rein to stare at her the whole time, to study the shape of her cheekbones, her big brown eyes, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.

She sports a grin the entire time, like she’s delighting in this moment. I certainly am—it’s an unexpected morning in this city with her, and I don’t want it to end.

When I’m finished, I show her the napkin.

She chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

I preen in an over-the-top fashion. “I am known in many parts of the world as an adorable doodler.” Then a spate of nerves crawls up my spine. Do I ask her if she wants to keep this? Is that too much for whatever this brief encounter is? This random date that’s careening toward its inevitable end in hours?

She speaks first. “I’d like to keep it. May I?”

My chest warms. “It’s all yours, Marley.”

Neither one of us says anything for a moment. We simply look at each other. Sparks race over my skin, across my chest. This thing, this chemistry, it can’t go anywhere. But right now, it feels like we’re somewhere special.

And I don’t want today to end until it must. I only have a few hours, but I want to spend them with her. “Do you believe in happiness?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you believe it’s possible though? Is it worth chasing?”

“Often I think it’s the only thing worth chasing,” she says, then adds with a sigh, “but sometimes responsibilities get in the way.”

“They do. So you seize your chances for happiness.”

“Are you happy?”

I smile. “I’m pretty sure the way I feel right now is the very definition of the word.”

The look on her face is magical, like I’ve said the one perfect thing, so I do my best to keep up my winning streak. “Do you want to go to a bookstore?”

I’m rewarded with another smile. “I would love to. That’s the other definition of happiness.”

6

Marley

The bookstore is quiet, and the delicious smell of pages drifts through the shelves. Patrons lounge in well-worn leather chairs, reading books of poetry or tales of love gone awry.

Truth be told, I have no idea what they’re reading, but it feels like that’s what they must be inhaling. Or maybe they’re devouring stories of strangers who meet for a moment in time, who connect in an instant electric burst, then the firecracker fizzles out, leaving the night pitch-black.

For a second, a storm cloud descends on me.

That’s what today is with Reid. I knew that when we first rose from the bench and wandered along the river.

We’re a moment in time. A starburst. A spark against the sky that burns bright and fast.

But I’m embracing it.

Even though there’s a part of me that’s wishing, wanting for today to last beyond this date on the calendar.

Only that’s silly.

Today is what it is.

A day.

Heck, it’s a few hours. A moment in time.

And time should be cherished.

We walk past a table that holds gift books, including a coffee table one with photos of Paris. I run my thumb across the cover then open it, flipping through the images. I point to the ones I like best. Paris in the rain. Paris in the snow. Paris in the sun. “This makes me happy too. These pictures.”

He flips to an image of a café. “And that does the trick for me.”

I set down the book, and we wander through the mysteries, whispering about poisons and butlers and deadly nights. The steps creak as we head up the staircase to the second floor. It all feels so European. On the second floor, we wander through the stacks of English-language titles.

He picks up a book with a sad-looking man on the cover, staring forlornly into the distance. “He’s having a bad day, isn’t he?” Reid whispers.

“A terrible one, but if you get that book, yours will become worse.”

“I’ll return it straight away,” he says, tucking it back on the shelf, then stepping closer to me. “Perhaps I should find a book that will only make the day better.” He takes a beat. “But that would seem impossible.”

I look down, then at him, and smile. My stomach flips when he holds my gaze. “I agree.” I lick my lips, then continue along the aisle, where I grab a book with an image of a skillet on the front. “Top Skillet Recipes to Change Your Life.” I tap it. “This will make your day amazing.”

He nods seriously. “That’s true. That does look like a day-brightening book.”

“It’s your typical airplane read,” I tease as we walk past an alcove with an old typewriter perched on a tiny oval table. A handwritten note on the typewriter’s keys says Drink each day.

I stare at it for a long time. Reid does the same. “Is that a directive to grab a pint?”

“I don’t think so,” I say pensively.

He gives me an inquisitive look. “What do you think it means, Marley?”

“I think it means drink each day down like it’s delicious.”

His brow furrows like he’s considering this. “That’s what you take away from it?”

“I do,” I say, feeling certain. “Drink, savor, indulge.”

His brown eyes darken as I say those words. “Those are some delicious verbs.”

“See? That’s what I mean. When you read it that way, it changes the meaning. It’s not the best recipes for skillets that will change your life. It’s savoring. Like the day is a glass of your favorite wine,” I say, lifting an imaginary glass. “And you enjoy every last sip.”

He’s quiet as he seems to study my face, then he sets a hand on my back as we make our way to an open window, stopping to stare at the cobblestoned streets below.

I’m keenly aware that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. Just the slightest touch without being too much, too presumptuous.

But I wouldn’t mind a little presumption.

“Do you enjoy your days like that? Like the note urges?” he asks.

“It’s hard to say. I’ve just finished college, and that’s not entirely the place where you can or should drink each day. But I think that’s why I’ve enjoyed this trip so much. I’ve tried to set aside all the unknowns of what will happen in business school. What I’ll decide to do. I’m trying to just enjoy every moment, then learn what I love so I can decide what type of business I do want to run someday. What about you? Do you savor the days?” I ask.

“I don’t know if I always do. Sometimes I worry too much about work. The future. What I’m going to do next. The next step. The next job.”

“I worry about that too. But I try to tell myself there will be time for that.”

“I should take a page from your book and do that too,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Like what I did there?”

I groan, smiling though, because I like contact with him. “I like it a lot.”

As he stares out the window, his gaze seems to land on a lanky Frenchman trundling by on a bike. The cyclist holds a bouquet of red balloons.

I laugh, tickled by the image. “He’s enjoying his day.”

“He’s drinking it down.” Reid takes his hand from me, and I instantly miss it, wanting it back.

But instead, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His touch lights me up like sparklers on New Year’s Eve. “That’s better.”

Tingles spread across my body. “Are you drinking the day?”

He smiles, and it’s both naughty and happy. “This is a day I want to enjoy every last drop of.”

“Me too.”

We head downstairs, and he grabs a book. The photos of Paris. He buys it, then gives it to me. “This makes me happy. Keep it.”

I know I will keep it always. Someday when I’m seventy, I’ll look at it and remember the afternoon I spent in Paris with the man from London who made my heart beat faster and harder than it had before.

7

Reid

The clock is ticking.

That can’t be avoided, but I can’t let it dictate my every thought.

This is exactly what it is.

A dessert, a drink, a treat.

You don’t get to have chocolate for every meal. But you damn well better delight in it when you do.

With her hand in mine, we cross the bridge over the river, passing tourists snapping selfies. We could take a picture. We could exchange numbers. Share the image. But then what?

Trade little texts while she’s in New York going to school and I’m an ocean away?

Instead, I squeeze her hand and I focus on the here and now. Only that. Taking mental snapshots. Making memories I can call up. Something I do little of in my digital life. But I want to live fully in this incredible, real moment. “This is the most perfect day. I just want you to know that.”

She smiles at me, and it makes my heart flip.

That’s unexpected.

Frankly, a little inconvenient too.

Because that’ll make it harder to get on the plane. And I have to get on the plane.

“I know that,” she says in a bit of a whisper.

“And do you know what would make it even better?” I ask, continuing down this carpe diem path because it’s all I can do here.

“Is there anything that could truly make it better?” she asks, a little tease in her tone.

The sound of her voice, a little naughty, a little flirty, winds through me. “Well, there are a few things.”

Her eyes dance with dirty thoughts. “I can think of a few things too.”

“More than a few,” I add.

“Lots. So many things.’’

I groan. “You’re going to make this day quite hard. But truth be told, I was thinking we should walk around the Luxembourg Gardens.”

She lifts her chin, licks her lips, and says, “Take me there.”

How can a woman sound innocent and naughty at the same time? But she does. She absolutely does, and I love it madly.

* * *

We wander through all sorts of flowers. I don’t know the names. Or the kinds. Maybe they are irises or lilies. Possibly tulips.

Marley seems to know them all, as we walk through rows of flowers, bursting with color, ruby red and bright pink and sun-drenched yellow.

She rattles off the names, but not like we’re in botany class. More like “I’ve always loved irises” or “Tulips are nature’s flirts.”

“Are you a tulip?” I ask.

She spins around, wiggles her eyebrows. “What do you think?”

It’s a loaded question, and I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

I step closer, inches away. The air is charged, buzzing with possibilities. Somewhere beyond the walls of the garden, the city rolls by.

But here, the garden is an escape with a woman I didn’t know mere hours ago. A woman I will say goodbye to in another few hours.

A woman who has lips that look so damn kissable.

“Right now,” I say, holding her gaze, “I’m not thinking.”

I lift my hand and stroke a thumb along her jaw. She gasps, then whispers, “Don’t think.”

“I’m definitely not thinking one bit,” I say as I move closer, my lips so tantalizingly near hers.

“I’m only feeling,” she whispers.

I thread my fingers in her hair, press my lips to hers, and drink in a kiss.

I savor every last drop.

I indulge.

And I memorize.

Because I don’t want to forget this kiss.

This day. This moment.

It feels different from other moments.

She’s different from other women.

Soon we’ll go our separate ways, but I always want to remember the American woman I met one afternoon in Paris before I had to catch a flight.

That’s how I kiss her.

Like I’ll never forget the taste of her sweet lips, the softness of her breath, the way she melts into me.

Or maybe I melt into her. Because this kiss goes to my head. My mind is a blur, and my body is humming sweet yet dirty music as I kiss her softly, tenderly.

Then a little bit harder.

She feels so right in my arms that I have to wonder if I believe in love at first sight.

But that’s rubbish.

That’s not the way of the world.

That’s not the way of my world.

Only, for a few stolen moments, it feels like it could be.

Like with a handful of afternoons that spill into the next and the next, we could become that.

She slinks her arms around my neck, bringing me closer, her body pressed to mine.

Yes, a few more days of this, and I’d be in love with her for the rest of my life.

That’s the problem.

8

Marley

I’m not going to claim to be an expert on kissing.

Sure, I’ve had my fair share of locking lips. But it’s not as if I keep a list of kisses, and if I did, the ratings would be “good, but not great.”

When Reid kisses me, I know this is great.

I know this is some kind of kiss.

His lips are soft and confident. His touch is both tender and electric. And he smells so damn good. Like soap and pine and man. My senses are throwing a party as this stranger in a strange land lights me up with his lips, his touch, and something else too.

Something intangible. Something wonderful.

Something that I know will be over far too soon.

Is that why this kiss is so incredible?

Because it exists in its own parallel universe, one where I’m staying in Paris, and he’s living here, and we’re spending the evenings together wandering the passages and cobblestoned streets as rain falls? Of course, it’ll rain in Paris in our universe as we kiss at cafés and shops and under street lamps.

And we make plans to meet again tomorrow.

That’s what this kiss is.

A kiss for tomorrow.

A kiss that is tinged with wistfulness, with longing, and with a wish for it to be more than one kiss.

A wish for it to last.

But it can’t. Because we’re both leaving.

I break the kiss, and he looks lust-drunk.

It’s so sexy, and I want to put that look on his face again and again.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his jaw.

“That was . . .”

“Incredible?”

I give him a flirty grin, shaking my head. “Nope.”

His brow creases. “No? Am I going to need to try harder?”

“I won’t object to that, but I was simply going to say I’m pretty sure it was the best kiss in the history of first kisses.”

He leans in close again, dusting those lips over my cheek to my ear, then whispering, “I want to keep writing in that history book.”

This man.

This man and his funny, clever, vulnerable ways.

“I want that too,” I say, but because we can’t have what we want, he takes my hand and we walk through the gardens toward the exit.

“I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’d like to spend the rest of the day with you until I leave.”

I lean my shoulder against his. “You can presume away.”

As we exit the gardens, he says, “So, Marley. What would you do if you lived here in Paris?”

“Like, for a job?” I ask as we turn onto a block teeming with pretty boutiques.

“Actually, I wanted to know what you’d do with me, but sure, we can start with work.”

“Reid,” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly.”

“Why is that silly?”

I tap my chest. “I’d do you,” I say, bold and direct.

He stops in his tracks, blinking, then drags a hand through his hair. His gaze turns hot, and he reaches for me once more, bringing me close. “You are magnificent.”

“So are you.”

Then he shows me what a second kiss for the record books is. My knees go weak, my skin sizzles, and I record this moment too.

But, like all of today has so far, it ends too soon. We resume our pace. “So, to answer your question, I’d probably do something where I could talk to people. Maybe work in a shop.”

“I’d come to your shop every day.”

“Stalker much?” I tease.

He scoffs. “Please. You’d be mine if we lived here. I’d come to your shop at the end of the day, and we’d walk to a brasserie, sit down, order a glass of wine, and watch the city go by. All while we were in our own world.”

I swoon, my heart shimmying for him. “Are you the most romantic man I’ve ever met?”

His grin is so delicious. “I better be.”

I run my fingers down his shirt. “You are. It’s official.”

We walk past a stationery shop selling pens and gorgeous writing paper. The thought briefly occurs to me that we could keep in touch, send letters, little notes.

But keeping in touch seems far too dangerous.

Like leaving out a tempting treat you couldn’t actually have.

“Anyway, so what would we do after dinner?” I ask playfully as we pass a jewelry store peddling lockets.

“I’d find all the most romantic places in the city to kiss you again. Since you need to fill in a whole history book of entries.”

“So I would record those kisses?”

He nods exaggeratedly. “I would fully expect you to. Record, tabulate, rate.”

“You want me to rate your kisses? Maybe I already am.”

He tugs me into a quiet alley framed by an arch and curling ivy, and seals his mouth to mine, dropping a hot, tempting kiss on my lips before giving me a hot, naughty stare.

“Are you trying to set a record?” I ask, my skin heating up.

“What would the record be exactly? What’s the category?”

“The category is winding me up.”

“And I trust it’s working?” he asks, a devilish quirk on his lips.

“Everything you do is working.”

He smiles, but it fades into a sigh as he presses his forehead to mine. “I wish . . .”

A lump rises in my throat. “I wish too.”

“I wish I had another night here. I wish my plane wasn’t leaving this evening.”

“I wish we could slow down time.”

“I wish I met you yesterday.” He stops. “Is that crazy?”

I shake my head. “No. But I’m glad I met you today. And I’ll miss you tonight.”

He swallows, exhales. “It would be crazy, right?”

We both know what the other isn’t saying, but I say it anyway. “To see each other again?”

“Yes, I want to. But how can we?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how we could without upending everything.”

“I know.” He sounds as sad as I feel. “I want to see you again, Marley. You have to know if things were different, I’d take you out tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. I wouldn’t think twice about calling you. Or texting you. I wouldn’t take days. Or hours. I’d ask you now and I’d see you tomorrow.”

My heart thumps harder for him. “I’d say yes, Reid. I’d definitely say yes.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But I live in London.”

“And I live in New York.”

“And we just met,” he adds.

“And I don’t know what I’m doing with my life when I finish school.”

“You might wind up in Alaska.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Doubtful, but you never know. I do have to focus though. Use the opportunity to figure out what I want to do. I have a scholarship. To keep qualifying for it, I need to hit a minimum GPA. That has to be my priority.”

“As it should be.”

I draw a deep breath, prepping myself to say something hard. “We need to just enjoy this for what it is.”

He smiles, one corner of his lips curving up. “One perfect afternoon in Paris?”

“The most perfect one ever recorded.”

“Let’s keep making it better,” he says, and that seems like a fair enough deal to me.

9

Reid

There is no doubt.

I can’t imagine looking back on my life and ever having had a better day.

In fact, it’s so damn good that I’m tempted, more than I’ve been tempted before, to do something wildly ridiculous.

Like try to stay in touch.

As we walk by the Tuileries, I want to say, Screw this long-distance issue. Give me your number and let’s talk.

But what would that look like? Late-night phone chats? All-day-long texts that would distract me as I tried to work my way up at the firm and as she went to school?

That’s mad.

So we talk now instead. I ask her about her favorite things.

She tells me about her friends, how Bethany is a hugger and Emery is a giggler, and how the three of them were like sisters in school, depending on each other, helping each other through painful breakups and even more painful exams.

When it’s my turn, I tell her about my sister and how we’ve always been close friends. I talk about the books I love, the articles that capture my interest, and my allergy to early mornings. I also confess that pop music is brilliant.

“Pop like Taylor Swift or Katy Perry?” she asks.

“Or P!nk or Lady Gaga.”

“Whoa. I like you.” She squeezes my arm.

“Thank you. I was hoping I’d pass the pop music test. And that you’d have the same taste in music.”

She arches a dubious brow. “Did I say I had the same taste? I’m a Bruce Springsteen gal. Bryan Adams. And the Eagles.”

“What generation are you, woman? Lost in time?”

“I like Jackson Browne too.”

“Are you secretly fifty? Were you born in the seventies?”

“I’m retro.”

“You can call it that, but I’ve never met anyone with a seventies retro kink.”

She wiggles her brows. “Maybe that’s not my only kink.”

I groan. “That’s a door I’m going to kick wide open. What are the others? I require details. Each chapter, and every sordid verse,” I say as we pass a boutique with a pink window display showing off teddies and bras, panties and stockings.

“I have a wicked fetish for lingerie,” she says, pointing at all the lacy numbers.

“You do?” I ask, my voice gravelly, thick with a new bout of lust.

She stares longingly at a white-and-pink bra with some sort of crisscross straps. “That’s my favorite. I never bought a lot of lingerie in college since it’s expensive, but I have always loved the prettiest things. I love looking and touching, and I love the way wearing them makes me feel.”

I loop an arm around her waist. “How does it make you feel?”

She turns to me and whispers, “Beautiful.”

My body longs for her. My mind aches for her. I bring her closer, unable to resist kissing this woman. “You are beautiful,” I say, as I kiss her one more time.

A slow and lingering kiss.

If I’m not careful, I’ll ditch my flight simply to spend one more night with her.

The thought is tempting. So damn tempting.

And once it lands in my head, the idea that I could do that? It’s too powerful to ignore. “I could stay another night,” I blurt out.

Her eyes flutter open. “Tonight?”

“Yes. I know it sounds crazy. Insane, even.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she says. “But . . .”

I swallow roughly. “But what?”

“But what if I don’t want to get on my plane in the morning?”

“Then you’d stay here with me,” I say, even though we both know that’s a foolish dream. I won’t be here either.

She ropes her arms around my neck. “Fine. I’ll stay here with you, and we’ll dance on a rooftop garden, and we’ll watch the stars. We’ll go to The Marais and duck in and out of antique shops, and pop into the Musée Rodin whenever the mood strikes.”

I pick up the thread easily. “There are Monets to be seen. Don’t forget the Musée d’Orsay.”

“We’ll kiss in front of a Van Gogh that’s rumored to be magical. And then there will be more magic when we go clubbing in Oberkampf.”

I groan appreciatively. “I like your story of our romance. Clubbing in Oberkampf sounds dirty and delicious.”

“That’s how we’ll dance, Reid. Our bodies will be tangled together.”

“Inseparable,” I add, my voice going low, smoky.

“People will watch us,” she says. “They’ll pretend not to, but they won’t be able to take their eyes off us.”

“They’ll be jealous of the young lovers,” I add, stroking her hair, running a thumb across her jaw, picturing our sultry nights.

“They’ll be jealous because they’ll know that when we leave, we’ll be that couple.”

“The couple who can’t take their hands off each other.”

“Or their eyes,” she adds.

I can’t stand this. I can’t take the tension. Or the reality that I’m leaving and so is she. I press a kiss to her lips, then ask the inevitable. “What would happen if we stayed in touch?”

She looks up at me, and her voice comes out trembling. “What do you think would happen?”

The look in her eyes. The tremor in her voice. I have to stop pushing and pressing. She’s going to graduate school. She has no room for a long-distance lover.

But this stupid organ in my chest is galloping out of control. I try to talk back to it. For fuck’s sake, it’s been four hours.

But what if four hours is enough?

Enough to know?

Enough to feel?

Enough to try to stay in touch with a woman going to business school halfway around the world?

Exactly.

I must focus on goals. Hers, and mine. She doesn’t need a man distracting her from her studies and scholarships with nightly texts. And I don’t have the wherewithal or the means to travel to New York to see her regularly.

I dig down deep, then answer with my brain. “We’d fall for each other and it would mess up our lives. That’s why we’re going to do something else.”

Her brow knits. “What would that be?”

I grab her hand, lead her into a café, order two espressos, and ask her for the book from the store. The Paris photo one.

“You’re taking it back,” she says with a pout, clutching it.

“I would never do such a horrid thing. I have other plans for it.”

She proffers it from her bag and slides it across the table to me.

I ask for a pen, and she hands me that too.

I write inside.

Someday when I run into you again, because I know I will, we’ll have more than one perfect afternoon. We’ll have endless time.

I turn it around and show her.

Her expression shifts. A lone tear streaks down one cheek, then another.

But she seems to collect herself, because she straightens her shoulders and says ever so softly, “I believe in that someday.”

10

Marley

I look at my watch.

He looks at his.

There is no more time.

But I want to squeeze every last second out of this fantastic afternoon. I walk with him to his hotel, where he hands the porter a few euros and the man brings him his bag from bell check.

Reid turns to me. We stand in the tiny lobby with music playing softly in a romantic language. I can’t make out a word, but I know it’s a sad song, a story of lovers torn apart.

“Come here,” he whispers.

“I’m already here.”

“I want to give you my last name. I want to know yours too. But if I do, I worry I’ll spend all my time googling you.”

“I know that’s all I’d do, so we probably shouldn’t.” I swallow down the stone in my throat. “This is crazy. How is this possible?”

With a smile, he shrugs, then says wistfully, “French kisses?”

I smile back, full of melancholy too. “Your French kisses.”

“Our French kisses.” He cups the back of my head, then lowers his voice. “You have to know I want to say screw responsibilities. I want to say I’ll see you tomorrow. But I’m not going to say that.”

I shake my head, my throat tight. “You can’t say that. I can’t either.”

“And you shouldn’t. But today is making me believe in something else.”

My heart speeds up. “What’s that?”

“That if we both believe in happiness, we’ll find it. We’ll remember this day fondly. And if it’s meant to be, we’ll find each other again.”

I love the thought, but how can that happen? “How? If I try to find you, I won’t be able to do the things I need to do.”

“Don’t try now. Go to grad school. Somehow we’ll meet again.” He whispers in my ear, “And when I see you again, I won’t get on a plane. I’ll take you home with me.”

I bury my face in the crook of his neck, wondering how I went from being afraid of heights to being afraid of falling in an entirely different way.

I let another tear fall, then I pull back, fasten on a smile, and tell him the full truth. “And when you ask, I’ll say yes.”

We leave the hotel. He hails a taxi, and it’s here far too soon.

Everything is ending far too soon.

But somewhere deep inside, I keep hoping it’s only the beginning.

Especially when he gives me one last kiss.

Then we say goodbye.

11

Reid

London

A month later

I don’t think about Marley.

I don’t let my mind wander to the lovely American woman with the freckles.

I refuse to let my thoughts stray to her soulful eyes, her lush hair, her winning smile.

And I do not under any circumstances consider her warm sense of humor, her wryness, the way she teased me coupled with the ways she didn’t tease me. My God, the woman was so open, so heartfelt.

I’ll never meet someone like her again.

But I don’t think about that whatsoever.

If I did, I’d be a sad sack.

And I’m not. At all.

I have work to do, a business to build, and contacts to develop.

And that’s why when I go to New York for a project, I don’t look her up.

How could I?

I don’t know her last name.

Sure, I could search all the Marleys in New York in business school. But there are many business schools in New York, and surely many Marleys. So if I did that, I’d have to punish myself with no more football, no more books, no more chocolate.

I’d have to ask my best mates to take away my man card.

She was a moment in time.

And only that.

And as I once read on the back of a book jacket I designed, “Some relationships were meant to last for a lifetime. Some for a day.”

My chest punches.

What a stupid saying.

I should have asked for her name, her number.

I should have done any or all of the above.

Except I won’t and I can’t.

After a meeting, I walk through the Village, past the NYU business school.

Is that where she went?

No idea.

But just in case, I give myself an hour.

One hour to sit.

To think.

To hope.

It’s insane in many ways.

Not to mention completely pathetic.

But I can’t seem to stop.

I don’t want to stop.

I want to see her. And walk up to her and say, Let’s do that over.

But when sixty minutes pass and there is no Marley, of course I resign myself to the cold realization that what happened in Paris was meant to be one perfect afternoon.

Nothing more.

And over the next two years as I travel back and forth to New York and make contacts and network with American designers on shared projects, including a fella named Lucas, I force myself to move on from Marley.

I even date.

It’s horrid, but so it goes.

12

Marley

New York

Two years later

I survive.

I survive two years of business school.

I make it through the toughest classes of my life.

And I survive missing the man I spent the most magical afternoon with.

For a while, I didn’t think I would.

I was certain I’d break down, fly to London, and knock on all the doors of all the design firms.

But I didn’t.

We made an agreement.

That we’d rely on fate.

That serendipity would have to bring us back together.

So I didn’t look for him, and while I wasn’t searching, I found something else in two years of classwork.

Myself.

My goals.

My dreams.

And I might even know what I want to do.

Someday I want a shop that becomes one of many. I plan to open a boutique that women flock to and love, and then I’ll open more.

But first I need to start with a basic J-O-B.

I’m offered jobs at banks and accounting firms.

But I turn them down.

Because I can’t stop thinking about something I said in Paris.

I’d probably do something where I could talk to people. Maybe work in a shop.

I’m still drawn to that.

When I’m offered an entry-level job at a lingerie shop with the potential to move up, I jump on it.

It might not sound like a sexy offer for a business school grad, but it works for me. It’s a chance to learn the ropes.

And I’m determined to find my way.

I do that every day for the next year, figuring out how to run a business, understanding what it entails, and helping customers every day.

A woman named Olivia comes to the shop once a month or more, and we chat about travel, life, and lingerie.

“My fiancée has a thing for lingerie,” she tells me in a whisper on one of her visits. “But then, so do I.”

“Sounds perfect that you both love it,” I say, then I show her some of our new styles, and she oohs and ahhs.

As I ring her up, we chat more, and she asks me if I plan on going back to Paris anytime. I sigh, a little wistfully. “I hope so. I’d love too. I spent the most wonderful day there.”

She studies my face for a few seconds. “Did you fall for someone in Paris once upon a time?”

I startle, surprised. Am I that easy to read? Maybe I am. “Something like that.”

“Then I hope you find your something like that again,” she says, and as she turns to leave, she offers a smile and says, “Maybe you’ll find him again.”

“Maybe I will,” I say but I’m not sure I believe that.

So I focus on other matters.

The store, my skills, my work.

I become friendly with my boss, even more so when she falls in love with her best friend, and it’s reminiscent of how I felt in Paris. Fine, she’s known this guy for ten years and I knew Reid for five hours, but those five hours marked me.

They marked my heart, and I kept them close.

The memories are as sharp as they’ve ever been.

I’m not a nun. I haven’t held out for him, because that would make me foolish. But I haven’t met anyone who makes my heart trip like that man did.

Which feels infinitely silly when I let myself break it down like it’s a business problem. It seems like math ought to defy the probability of that happening.

But nothing about that day seemed like math.

And it has stayed with me.

Maybe it always will.

* * *

One day as I’m helping Peyton plan the next season’s looks, a British man walks into the store. He’s older, in his fifties, and he’s charming as he buys a nightie for his wife.

“Thank you two lovely ladies so very much,” he says when he leaves.

I sigh. “I love British accents,” I admit to Peyton.

“You do?”

“I do. I met this guy once in Paris for a day. He was British, and ever since then, I swear I perk up when I hear an Englishman. Like I’m hoping it might be him.”

She smiles. “Maybe someday it will be.”

I shake my head. “That won’t happen.”

“You never know . . .” she says, letting her voice trail off. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know his last name. I only know where he lives and his profession.”

“You could try googling him.”

I have tried. I’ve punched in every permutation of “Reid” and “London” and “design firm.” But I’ve found nothing. I wish I had one more detail. One more clue. Something else to add to the search string. Something that would lead me to him.

But there are none.

That night when I’m home alone, I open the book and read his inscription.

Someday when I run into you again, because I know I will, we’ll have more than one perfect afternoon. We’ll have endless time.

I trace the words.

Then I close the book and send a thank you to the universe that I had that moment.

That’s all it’ll ever be.

I look at the napkin drawing one more time, hoping I’ll find his name. His number. A secret message. But I’ve turned it over a thousand times, and it’s only a drawing.

And a memory of a moment, a small slice of time.

The most wonderful moment I’ve ever had.

One I miss terribly.

* * *

In the morning I wake up with a start, a tingling sensation in the back of my mind. Déjà vu. Like when you see an actor and can’t place him until you remember he was the third guy on the left in episode seventeen.

It’s there.

One more detail.

I was in Paris for a bike race with my team. We placed third.

Reid said that to me.

Will it be enough?

I swallow nervously, grab my computer, and send a wish out to fate.

Anticipation builds in me as I google “bike races in Paris” during the time I was there.

And I find one.

My heart speeds up. It races like a locomotive along the tracks as I scan the names of the teams, then the members.

And I gasp.

Because there it is.

Reid Martin.

My whole body is tense, alive with possibilities.

I drop the name into google, and I gasp in a whole new way.

He’s a designer.

And he lives in New York.

* * *

I spend the morning trying to figure out what I’ll say when I email him at work. But I don’t plan what to say if he walks into the shop that afternoon.

I am speechless.

13

Reid

I check out a florist on the Upper East Side.

I pop into a jewelry store in Murray Hill.

I stop by a lingerie shop in the Village.

It’s getting to be a habit with me.

But it’s one I can’t break.

I haven’t broken it since Lucas asked me to set up shop with him in New York a few months ago. We’d already been working together on a number of projects, and most of our clients were in the city. It only made sense to pack up my bags and follow the business.

That’s what I’d been building toward for the last few years in London.

I didn’t move here to find her.

I moved here for business.

Yet looking for her has become a hobby.

Perhaps I am a stalker.

Or maybe I’m just a guy who can’t quite give up.

I give myself a deadline.

I tell myself that I’ll allow myself three months of checking out shops, of looking for her in person, since I’ve had no luck finding her through online searches. I simply don’t have enough details.

Instead, I check out places she might work.

I’m like a detective chasing down clues.

But I’m reaching the end of the line.

Until the day some of my business partner’s old friends show up at a coffee shop and tell me I must come along to a lingerie store.

What are the chances it’ll be hers?

But it’s my last chance, so I take it.

And then I see the face I’ve been dreaming of.

14

Marley

I’m seeing things.

There is no other explanation.

There is no other reason.

I can’t possibly be looking at Reid.

Reid Martin, who I’ve been composing an email to in my head all morning.

He looks just as handsome as he did that day, if not more so.

“It’s you,” he says in a whisper laced with disbelief.

“It’s you,” I say, trembling, unsure too.

Because when your wildest dreams come true, you still don’t believe them.

After all, he could be married. He could be involved. He could have thought we were foolish.

“How are you?” he asks, the most pedestrian of questions, as he walks over to me, wonder in his eyes.

“I’m great,” I say in a voice that hardly feels like my own. It’s like I’m talking from within a dream. “And you?”

“I’ve never been better. Literally.”

“You look . . .” My voice trails off. It’s choked with emotion. I don’t want to let on that I’ve dreamed of this magical moment. But I can’t fake it.

“You look real. You look like all I’ve wanted,” he says, taking the leap first.

It unlocks my heart. It unlocks everything I’ve stored up since I met him and we spent the most magical day together. “I missed you.”

“And I made a promise in Paris.”

“What was that?” I ask, my voice pitching up.

“That if I found you again, I’d make sure we spent a lot more than five hours together.”

I beam. Like the sun is shining inside me. I look at my watch. “What do you know? I have no place to be and nothing but time.”

His smile matches mine as he takes my hands. “Have dinner with me tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day.”

15

Reid

That night

That part about feeling like a kid in a sweet shop?

That’s nothing compared to a man waiting for a date with the woman he can’t get out of his head.

I never believed in the one who got away till I met her.

Till I let her get away.

I had my reasons at the time.

They made sense in my head.

And I knew, too, in my heart that we weren’t a possibility. There was too much between us then.

Now?

I’m determined to make sure the woman I’ve been searching for doesn’t slip through my fingers.

As I wait at the restaurant, I adjust my tie, then smooth my hands down the front of my trousers. I grab my whiskey and knock back a thirsty gulp, then I look at the time again.

Time.

The thing that mocked me three years ago.

Now, my life is different.

The question is . . . will hers be?

The door opens.

I turn around. My heart skips all its beats.

She walks in, looking as innocent and as seductive as she did three years ago along the River Seine.

Those freckles.

Her eyes.

Her curves.

And what’s that?

A hint of a pink bra strap.

I groan.

She walks over to me. “Good evening.”

I say nothing.

I made a promise to myself that if I had the good fortune to see her again, I’d do something else first.

Something that made me lose my mind for her.

I stand, sweep a hand through her hair, and tug her close for a kiss.

It’s like going back in time.

It’s as fantastic as I remembered.

She’s soft and warm, and she kisses back with a hunger I didn’t forget. I didn’t inflate. I didn’t exaggerate.

This woman kisses me like we’re kismet.

Like we’re serendipity.

Like we simply met at the wrong moment in time, but fate was on our side, guiding us back to the right moment.

Because now is right.

When we break the kiss, she smiles like she has a naughty secret. “It’s a fact— best first kiss ever.”

“Was that our first?” I ask with a grin that I can’t erase.

“It’s the first of many more to come,” she declares.

This woman.

I’m not letting her go.

I take her hand, guide her to the table I reserved, then tell her, “Just so you know, I’m not letting you get away this time.”

She squeezes back. “Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I have one question though,” I say.

“Go for it.”

“Do you like water parks?”

“I love them.”

“Excellent.”

We have dinner and we catch up, and it’s as magical as it was that day nearly three years ago.

But more so.

Because it’s not winding up.

It’s unfurling into the future.

That’s where I go with her that night when she invites me to her place. Well, I go other places too. I take her to the heavens and back, and she calls out my name countless times, and I say hers too as she digs her nails into my back.

But it’s all the future.

She’s my future.

In the morning we exchange numbers, and I send her the first text from beside her in bed.

Reid: Just so you know, I’m falling in love with you.

Marley: Just so you know, I’ve been falling in love with you for three years.

The time is finally right. It’s finally ours. And with a little bit of searching, and a whole lot of fate, we have what I wrote in the book that day in Paris.

Endless time.

THE END

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