At home, I get ready to go out quickly, though I force myself to slow down as I apply mascara. The truth is I’m a hell of a lot better with clothes than I am with makeup, so I have to take my time to ensure that I don’t end up looking like an escaped rabid raccoon from the zoo or something.

  Part of it is my nervousness. I still don’t understand what this is that’s developing between Simon and me. I feel like the sexual tension between us is off the charts, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure whether that’s real or just my horniness. All I know for sure is that every time he’s near, it puts me on edge. I don’t know if I want to slap him, kiss him, or throw him to the ground to mount him like a cowboy gets on top of a bucking bronco.

  After talking yesterday, I did gain a greater respect for him. I know now that he’s not just a pretty face. His educational path has been a bit irregular, and there are things about him that I don’t understand yet, but I can see a story behind his eyes, something he’s not saying. Hopefully, I’ll find out more tonight.

  He’s also a bit older than me, so there’s that power dynamic. It’s not like he’s so old we’d turn heads walking down the street together, but the gap in life experience between us is definitely there.

  But truth be told, I like it.

  I like it a lot. He knows who he is and doesn’t stammer around, unsure how to tell me what he wants. He’s been bluntly flirtatious since our first real conversation at the club, telling me upfront that he wants me and wants to get to know me. I just don’t know why.

  The biggest problem I have with Simon is that as much as I want to know more about him, it feels like I’m breaking some sort of rule by having private interactions with him. I feel like I’m doing something to violate, if not the rules of the competition, then at least the spirit of it.

  Maybe he’s testing me so he can kick me out? I mean, I’ve spent my entire life watching fucked up reality television. And if there’s one thing these competitions like more than over the top elimination ceremonies and backstabbing crazy bitches, it’s folks getting smacked out of left field by some twist they weren’t expecting.

  Am I the dupe of this whole shebang?

  That possibility and Nora’s warning echo in my head. I need to go into tonight carefully. Yes, look at the photos from the shoot. Yes, get to know Simon. No, don’t jump him like a horny girl on the first gym bro in sight on Spring Break. No, don’t fuck up the competition.

  Those rules in my mind, I go downstairs to wait for Simon. In the courtyard, it occurs to me . . . how does he know where my apartment is? But House Corbin is providing the space, so of course he could find out. Checking my details from their files is a little sketchy, though. Back home, that’d be worthy of an HR grievance for sure.

  The gate opens, and my heart, gut, and ovaries all do simultaneous triple backflips worthy of an Olympic medal as he steps through, looking like a movie star knockout. The breeze carries to me a soft scent of cologne and manliness, a heady, almost feral waft that has my mouth watering even as my eyes feast on his simple attire of a white dress shirt and black slacks. His hair is brushed to the side and he looks freshly shaven.

  Elegant is not usually a word associated with men, but I can’t think of a better way to describe Simon right now. He stalks toward me gracefully, like a panther who knows that the entirety of the urban jungle of Paris is his. He looks like a very naughty dream become flesh.

  He takes my hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Bonsoir. Vous etes ravissante. You look lovely.”

  For some crazy reason, I have the urge to curtsy. “Thank you. You too.”

  His lips twitch at my compliment. Admittedly, his melodic French is much more charming than my American version of ‘ditto’.

  “Merci. Shall we?”

  He leads me outside, where on the curb is a beautiful car, a candy red Bugatti that would make most of the car guys I know in New York piss their pants in envy. “Wow.”

  “Again, merci,” Simon says, holding the door for me.

  He gets in and starts the car, the mechanical roar exciting. But not nearly as exciting as the man beside me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask the question though I’m not sure I care. I would go anywhere right now.

  Keep your wits about you, Autumn.

  “It’s a surprise.” He shoots me a sly look, and I consider whether he’s taking me straight back to his place to have his way with me.

  I wouldn’t object . . . too much.

  CHAPTER 11

  SIMON

  “Are you taking all the designers out?” Autumn asks abruptly.

  Shocked, I slam on the brakes and pull over to the side of the road. “What?” I say, laying my arm across the top of the steering wheel to turn in my seat and staring at her angrily.

  She glares back unflinchingly. “Well?”

  “Non! Bien sûr que non! Pourquoi tu me demanderais de telles bêtises?” When she blinks, not understanding, I grit my teeth and repeat myself, trying to maintain some sense of calm. “No, of course not. Why would you ask me such nonsense?”

  She frowns, not backing down. “It’s not nonsense. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here and not get the wrong idea. Business? Pleasure? You invite me into VIP and flirt, but when I say to keep things professional, you agree. Then you ask all sorts of personal questions and kiss me. You ask me out but then say we can go over the photos. For all I know, you’re doing this with all the designers. Some sort of test or something. I don’t know. Are you looking for PR issues with us, or seeing who’ll fit in with House Corbin, or screening for your next conquest?”

  Her hands flail about as she tries to explain whatever is going on in her brilliant mind, but she’s apparently misread my intentions. I’m not sure how, considering I’ve been quite forward. But perhaps American men are even more so?

  I huff out a pained laugh. “I don’t know how to be any clearer. If you want to only work together, I will welcome the chance. If you want to lie back and let me worship you, I would be the luckiest man on the face of Mother Earth tonight. If you would like to do both, I am honored to do so. You are in control, and I, your mere admirer.”

  Her jaw drops, her eyes wide in surprise.

  “Is that clear now?” I ask, smirking a little. “No confusion?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of that,” she mutters under her breath. To me, she says, “What if I don’t know? This is the biggest thing to happen to me—the competition, I mean, though you’re pretty big yourself.” She slaps her hands over her mouth in horror. “Big deal, I mean. You’re a big deal! I wasn’t talking about your dick.”

  I grin, charmed by her adorableness. “You can speak about my cock anytime you’d like.”

  She giggles a bit hysterically, looking up at the roof of the car. I suspect it’s so she doesn’t have to look at me. I push a button on the console, and the hardtop convertible lowers. As the stars come into view, she mutters disbelievingly, “How is this my life?”

  I give her a moment and then offer, “How about if we go to dinner? Perhaps we can lessen your confusion by getting to know one another more. I truly would appreciate your input on the photos, but make no mistake of my desires.”

  “And what are those?” Autumn ventures, her eyes falling from the beauty of the heavens to meet mine in the dim light from the dashboard lights.

  “You. Any way I can have you,” I say bluntly.

  “Well . . .” She drags it out, leaving me hanging on a hook. “I could eat.” She grins at me like the fox she is. Cunning creature. “And I haven’t seen much of Paris yet, so I’m thrilled to see anything beyond my block.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  More seriously, she answers, “And I’d like to get to know you too.”

  We drive through the nighttime Paris streets, and true to her word, Autumn oohs and ahhs over nearly everything she sees, delighted at the architecture and quaint cafés. I know that my city is beautiful, all of her uglier sides hidden by the cloak of darkness and the dazzle of her lights, but seeing it through Autumn’s eyes makes me fall in love with my city all over again.

  I turn on music, finding a song every French person knows, La Vie En Rose.

  “I know this,” Autumn says in delight.

  “It’s the perfect soundtrack for this.” I turn a corner and in front of us stands the Eiffel Tower, lit up in her golden glow.

  Autumn gasps. “Oh, my God. It’s beautiful.”

  “Millions of people come to see her each year because of her beauty, but tonight, her beauty pales to yours.”

  “Wow,” she says breathily, her eyes falling to mine. I can see the reflection of the Tower’s lights in their depths, and the moment feels heavy with possibility.

  A car horn honks behind us, and I have to focus on the roadway once again, but I don’t forget the look in her eyes. As we drive, I tell her little facts about Paris, as though I’m her tour guide. But I don’t mind because she seems thrilled by everything about my city.

  We reach our destination, a favorite restaurant of mine called Chez Madeleine. There are few places left in Paris that are both classically French without being either tourist traps or pretentious garbage dumps. And sadly, there are too many of both. But Chez Madeleine is neither.

  The exterior was once a bit garish, with pink-framed windows and hand-painted golden details, but both have faded with time. It’s not bad, as they are the original designs from when the restaurant opened decades ago. But now the building has a more subtle romantic feeling.

  “Wow . . . this place looks like Madam Puddifoot’s!”

  “Madam huh?” I ask, and Autumn blushes. “What?

  “Uhm, Madam Puddifoot? From Harry Potter? In Hogsmeade Village?”

  “You like Harry Potter?” I reply with a chuckle. “I saw the movies when I was a child, but I haven’t thought of them much since, I suppose.”

  Autumn’s smile is bright as she admits, “I love them. I watch all eight movies at least once a year and lost count of how many times I’ve read the books years ago. But the first time I read them was with my mom, and we both fell in love with the stories.”

  “Who’s your favorite? Harry?”

  She scrunches up her face in slight distaste and shakes her head. “No, my favorite was always Hermione. Smart and beautiful, and that dress! But thank you for not making the Weasley joke.” She takes a lock of her red hair, flipping it around.

  The staff is waiting for us when we go in, and we are quickly and respectfully ushered to the curtained off back section. I slip a tip to the maître’d , reiterating in a quiet, firm voice that we are not to be disturbed.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” the maître’d whispers, but I grip his hand tighter, refusing to let him pull away just yet.

  “Under any circumstances,” I clarify. “I do not care if Macron himself comes in.”

  The maître’d stares into my eyes, fear dawning as he sees I am not fucking around. No matter what, I do not want a repeat of what happened at the club during my first conversation with Autumn. Not only would it upset her, but it would take a giant shit on any progress I am making with her.

  And that will not do.

  While being hounded by females in public comes with the territory of my job and my fame, all of that can be put off for a while as I get to know Autumn. She’s my priority.

  “So did the D get the message?” Autumn asks wryly when we get to the table. I raise my brows in question, and she explains, “I’ve been in New York long enough to see the game.”

  “We’ll hopefully have our privacy,” I reply.

  “That would be so hard for me to get used to,” Autumn says quietly.

  “What would?” I ask. “Being famous?”

  “Yeah. Being recognized anywhere you go, being mobbed unexpectedly . . .” Autumn takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But thank you. I don’t think I could deal with another invasion of the Ho Patrol.”

  I snicker at her terminology. “You don’t have to worry.”

  The maître’d has pulled out Autumn’s chair, but I take his place and he steps away delicately. “Allow me.”

  She smiles at the gesture, blushing a little when I take her napkin and lay it in her lap. Going over to my seat, I sit down, close enough to place my hand over hers on the tabletop. She looks at my hand and then deeply into my eyes.

  “I want to feel your touch,” I say unapologetically.

  In response, she turns her palm up, holding my hand back. For such a small movement, it feels like a big step.

  Our waiter comes over, and I order for both of us in French.

  “Not much on women’s lib?” Autumn questions snidely as he leaves, and I grin. “What?”

  “I told our waiter to put our fate in the hands of the chef and for him to hit us with his best shot,” I reply. “So neither of us is liberated for this dinner.”

  Her laugh is music to my ears, and for the first time, this truly feels like a date.

  Truth be told, I don’t date often despite what any paparazzi or tabloids might say. Yes, I have dinner with models, but more often than not, what is construed as my latest conquest in a line of women is merely a meeting to discuss future work. Or friends catching up over a meal. My work colleagues are simply a bit more attractive than the common office dweller.

  “You said you read the Potter books with your mom. Are you two close?” I venture.

  Her hum is noncommittal. “I love my mom, truly. She’s a great woman. But she wears blinders sometimes, at least when it comes to me.” I rub my thumb along the fleshy part of her thumb, encouraging her to continue, and after a moment, she does. “It was just me and her for a while, us against the world. She wanted . . . wants me to be happy, but she doesn’t understand that the things that make her happy would make me want to rip my hair out and scream like a banshee. So of course, the things that excite me terrify her. You should’ve heard the things she said about my going to New York for school.” She turns her voice harsh and higher pitched, mimicking, “They’re going to eat you alive out there, and you’ll come running home with your tail tucked between your legs. I know you like sewing, but being a designer is more than sewing a straight stitch.”

  “That’s awful,” I tell her honestly. “I thought mothers were to be supportive? Tell you that you can be anything you want.”

  “If you asked her, she was being supportive. She didn’t want me to get hurt. If I stayed home, safe and never pushing my limits, I wouldn’t have to find out that I’m not good enough, not strong enough, not . . . enough.” Autumn frowns, ducking her head sadly.

  “Non. You have your mother whispering in your ear.” I make a talking motion with my free hand. “But her fears do not have to be your tethers. Cut them free, let your inner muse whisper her creativity, and I suspect you’ll be surprised at how far you can go and what you can achieve. You’ve already been to New York, worked with a good designer, and have earned your way here.”

  “Thank you.” She lifts her eyes once more, smiling at my assessment.

  “It’s not flattery. It’s fact,” I say firmly.

  Our waiter returns with the first course, and our conversation pauses as the first white wines are poured. When we’re alone, Autumn seems more in control of herself. “What about you? Is your aunt proud of her internationally famous fashion model nephew?”

  I dodge the question, which hit too close to home. “I wouldn’t say internationally famous. I’m just a minor celebrity within France, especially Paris. Here, I am recognized, but Aunt Jacqueline has done her damnedest to keep me humble because abroad, I’m any other man.”

  Autumn snorts. “I think you actually believe that, but you are nothing like other men.”

  “How so?”

  “We can start with your six-pack and work our way from there if you really need an ego stroking,” she offers.

  “Six. Pack?” I repeat, my brow furrowed as I search my mind for the word.

  Autumn pats her belly, tapping in six places. “Six pack, abs, bump-de-bumps, man muffins.”

  I figured out what she’s referring to, but her slang is quite fun. “Man muffins?”

  She mimes delicately biting into a muffin and chewing.

  “Now that I know what you mean, feel free to eat my muffins whenever you desire,” I offer passionately.

  Ignoring my proposition, she sticks with the safer topic of the miscommunication of her slang. “The language barrier is a bit painful. Jeanette, my model, barely speaks English, and I don’t speak French. We’re making it work, of course, but things like that are a perfect example of the difficulties.”

  “I would be delighted to teach you.” I pick up my knife. “Couteau.”

  “Couteau.”

  “Tres bien. Now . . . agneau,” I say, touching the roasted lamb that makes up the first course. When Autumn lifts an eyebrow, instead of saying it in English, I baaaa to convey the desired meaning. “Agneau.”

  We keep going, me pointing out some of the various foods we’re eating and Autumn repeating. “This isn’t so hard,” Autumn says. “It’s a lot in the pronunciation, isn’t it?”

  “Oui, French and English share many roots. But the accent is quite different.” I remember a story that might make her feel more comfortable about her lack of French and slowly begin to relay it to her.

  “I met an American at one of our shows a few years ago who was annoyed by my accent and French. Kept telling me to check my privilege and told me I must be stupid because I didn’t know some of the American slang.”

  “Really?” Autumn asks, aghast. “How rude!”

  “Agreed. When I asked her out, she said ‘ew.’ At the time, I didn’t know what she meant and thought she’d said oui, so I said, ‘when are you available?’ and she replied, ‘W-T-F.’ Spelled it out, so I didn’t know what she meant. Again, I was thinking perhaps she was offering the option of Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. Naturally, I said Friday would be perfect.”

  “She sounds like a bitch.” Autumn seems genuinely upset over something that happened to me years ago. “And what happened then?”