It's gorgeous and magical and full of inspiration, from the people to the room itself. “You know who’d hang out here?” I ask Molly, who lifts an eyebrow. “Bellatrix Lestrange.”

  “You’re into Harry Potter?” Yori asks. “I went to the Harry Potter part of Universal Studios Osaka. It was amazing.”

  We’re seated at a booth about halfway down the one wall, and Beatrice looks over the menu. “Like the driver said, this is a tourist place so the offerings are bilingual,” she says, passing the leather-bound page around. “I recommend a cocktail. Something light. Keep your wits in this den of vipers,” she says before grinning knowingly. “Like your Slytherin?”

  “Hell yeah! We totally need to do a movie marathon this month.” The suggestion falls on deaf ears because a waitress in all black comes up, asking for our orders. I order a Cosmo and sit back, people watching.

  Molly slams her palm on the table with a wide grin. “Alright, people, it’s probably not the best idea for us to talk about fashion on day zero of a competition, so I propose something much more exciting.”

  “More exciting than design?” Yori asks with a furrowed brow.

  I groan quietly, sure Molly will have come up with something outlandish.

  “Let’s play Top That, men edition! Or women, I’m not judging.” She looks around the table questioningly. “We each talk about the dating scene at home, we’ll vote on them, and whoever has the worst story drinks free all night. Game?”

  We excitedly chat, laughing about how atrocious the dating pool can be, until Katarina raises a point.

  “And you and Autumn?”

  “We won’t vote for each other, either,” I promise. “Besides, I can stick to a whole story just on New Yorkers. And I would really like to know about your home countries, to be honest.”

  It’s a fair deal, and when our drinks arrive, Yori lifts her drink, a cocktail called Re:Birth, and toasts us. “To new friends, new adventure. Kampai!”

  “Kampai!” we echo back, although I have no idea what it means. We clink glasses all around, and it’s time to talk.

  “I’ll go first,” Yori declares, her voice going hard and steely. “Ugh! Okay, I’m from Osaka,” she says. “So many juvenile young men who don’t know how to take care of themselves where I’m from. Mama does everything for them, and then they want a wife to take over the same role. Some even still think kancho is funny when they’re in high school.”

  “Honey, I don’t think that’s just in Japan that men need a woman to take care of them. What’s kancho?” Molly asks.

  Yori sets her drink down, clasping her hands together, two fingers out like they’re a play gun, and jabs them up and forward. “Pow! Right in the butthole! Very funny, huh?”

  “Ah . . . no,” Katarina says. “If they did that where I’m from, I think there would be death and dismemberment,” she declares. I can’t tell whether she’s joking or not.

  Yori seems concerned, but when Katarina smiles, we all laugh along, praying she’s kidding.

  Yori continues, “The last three men I dated were useless losers who believe women can be fit into a single cubbyhole.”

  I think she means pigeonhole, but the message comes through.

  Sensing Yori is done, Katarina sets her drink down hard. “Me next. Where I’m from, men are macho to the extreme. Posturing like tough guys all the time.” She puffs up her chest, beating on it with her fists. “No one fucks with me,” she growls in a voice deeper than it could seem a woman her size could produce. Rolling her eyes, she adds wistfully, “But they chase and woo too. And are fierce lovers, or at least that’s my experience.”

  I wonder if she’s thinking of someone in particular and ask, “Did you leave someone back home? Are they waiting for you to get back?”

  She nods her head. “But it is not serious, only a . . . what do you call it?” She taps her chin with a blood-red nail as she thinks and then says, “Fuck friend?”

  Molly hoots out a big laugh. “Fuck buddy.”

  “Or friend with benefits,” I add with a smile.

  “Da. That,” Katarina agrees with us both. She takes a sip of her drink, her eyes troubled, which makes me wonder if maybe she wishes her ‘friend’ back home was more than a buddy.

  Beatrice sighs and confesses, “My experience hasn’t been too bad. Chivalrous, romantic, passionate . . . but total chauvinists.”

  Three to one great, but for all the excitement she’s giving, she might as well be listing off the days of the week . . . Monday, Tuesday, down to fuck all the time, Thursday, will pull out your chair, Saturday, Sunday.

  “Yeah, but is it true? Are they really the best kissers?” Molly asks. “The Italian guy I dated was actually half French, and he was like kissing a limp noodle!”

  “Are you sure that wasn’t . . .” Katarina makes a fist, moving it up and down as she sticks her tongue in her cheek.

  We all laugh at her deadpan delivery of a blowjob.

  Beatrice answers Molly’s question. “Of course, French men are the best kissers. You should see what they can do with their tongues.”

  She smiles a secret smile, and I consider getting a little sample of an actual French, French kiss while I’m in Paris. Solely for comparative purposes, of course.

  Unbidden, an image pops into my head . . . of Simon Corbin tilting my jaw up before slowly and purposefully lowering his full, sexy lips to mine.

  No . . . stop that, Autumn.

  Admittedly, Simon is sexy as hell, and the way he looked at me was insanely hot, but there’s off limits and then there’s blow up your life stupidity. He definitely falls into the latter.

  “But they kiss everyone, not only you. That’s what you must remember. In my experience, French men are notorious philanderers, usually with a wife and a mistress at least,” Beatrice adds, dashing cold water on my momentary hot fantasy.

  “That’s fucked up,” I growl.

  Beatrice shrugs. “There are good men out there. I just haven’t had the best of luck. Tell us about American men. Are they all like we see on television?”

  Molly answers first. “Depends on what shows you’re watching. Definitely not like The Bachelor, where they’re being romantic and shit, or Grey’s Anatomy, where everyone’s slept with everyone. It’s like a red flag test when you meet a guy on Tinder . . . What do you think of Joe Rogan? If he says anything positive, thank you, but next.”

  She waves a hand as though shooing a guy away.

  “I don’t date much now, but back home, there were nice guys. They wanted to treat you well, be faithful, and make sure you had a good time in bed,” I explain, trying to get to the positives.

  “What’s the catch?” Katarina asks with narrowed eyes.

  I frown sadly. “They wanted me to stay there, get married, keep the kitchen clean, and raise babies. Maybe someday, I’ll want that, but right now, I have other dreams.” I look around at the club I’m in, the people I’m with, the opportunity I’m on the cusp of. “Like this.”

  “Barefoot and pregnant,” Molly summarizes. “Fuck that!”

  She raises her glass, which is already more than half-empty and we all lift ours as well. Yori toasts, “Fuck men!”

  It sounds surprising coming from her, for some reason, and we all laugh as we clink our glasses together. Still sipping my drink, I jolt when Beatrice slams her wine glass to the table.

  “I love this song! Let’s dance!” she orders, grabbing one of Katarina’s hands and one of Molly’s, who needs no encouragement to dance. Ever.

  I don’t know the song, as it’s a DJ remix, but I swear I hear some Toni Braxton and a French guy with some serious bass beats. I’m not the best dancer by far, especially given my non-stellar attempt at twerking today, but I can sway right and left with the best of them, so I follow Beatrice’s lead.

  Somehow, the five of us end up not only on the dance floor, but in the center of it. We still have room, though. No one’s grinding up on us or being weird, which is a welcome reprieve from the occasional club outing I’ve had in New York.

  We move through that song plus two more, smiling and cheering each other on as we make our own little circle of fun. Molly acts like she’s smacking my ass—thankfully sticking to air-smacks because though we’re friendly, we’re not that friendly—and Yori laughs, waving Molly’s silliness off. I think it’s Molly’s way of encouraging us because Yori and I are definitely the weak links of the group. Well, if you consider Molly’s demonstration of every TikTok dance move to be acceptable dance skills. But Katarina and Beatrice can move. They sway, circle their hips, and somehow get their shoulders to roll in the opposite direction of their hips. I try it, but like patting your head and rubbing your belly, I can’t do it.

  I get the feeling that these girls and I could be real, true friends. I know we’re competing against each other, and I was worried about mean girls, but it doesn’t seem like that’s going to be an issue. They’re all so kind and funny, which makes me happy.

  Still, my inner voice tells me, just because they’re friendly now doesn’t mean they won’t cut a bitch if things get dicey. Keep your guard up, just in case.

  Almost as if she heard my worries, a waitress appears beside me and taps me on the shoulder. “Pardon, Mademoiselle. There’s a gentleman at a VIP table who would like to speak with you.”

  She says it in English, as if she can tell that I’m a tourist, but even so, I have to process what she’s said.

  When I realize, I look around, remembering the roped off doorway I saw, and then look back to my new friends. “No, thank you. We’re celebrating tonight,” I tell the waitress.

  “Hell no,” Molly snaps, pushing me toward the waitress. “Go. Have fun. Live a little, girl. You’re in Paris. At least see what it’s all about.”

  “What?” I shout in surprise. I’m here for one thing only—the competition. If I get friendships out of the deal, I will be thrilled. But I don’t need a man like Beatrice talked about who’s all sweet to you while he’s being sweet to everyone else. That’s not my style.

  “Go,” Beatrice advises. “Get your French kiss tonight before the competition begins tomorrow.” I’m a little surprised at her encouragement until she adds, “Unless he is rude, then tell him to fuck off.”

  Yori leans toward me. “He could be your magical Harry Potter. You should go.” I love that she was listening to me enough to know that this would sway my decision.

  “Or he could have a hairy pooper,” Molly suggests, which warrants a look of disgust from all of us. Molly throws her hands wide. “What? Some guys do, and smart guys do a little manscaping when needed.

  “Mademoiselle?” the waitress repeats, looking worried about how long I’m taking to make my decision. “Trust me, you want to come with me.”

  Well if I wasn’t already intrigued, I am now.

  With all four of my new friends nodding their heads and the waitress’s approving judgment, I nod. “Fine, but I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  I start to follow the waitress, only to hear Molly call out, “If he can get you off that fast, make him do it twice.”

  I look back, horrified. There’s music playing, but if I heard her, so did the entire room. I suddenly feel like a lamb being led to slaughter, but I continue putting one foot in front of the other, curious to see this man who’s requested my presence.

  CHAPTER 6

  SIMON

  I’ve been watching, waiting, biding my time.

  After Tobias spilled about the ladies going out tonight, I told myself to go home, work out, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. I got home and ran on the treadmill until I was panting and drenched with sweat. A cold shower should’ve sent me straight to sleep, but I couldn’t relax. Not when all I was thinking about was Autumn at a club.

  So I redressed in a fresh suit and hit the town as well. Slipping into the VIP section was easy as a Corbin, as was claiming a prime space where I can see the main area’s dance floor. Sitting and watching Autumn have fun, laughing and talking with the other finalists, let me watch every expression flitter across her face without filter, and as they took the dance floor, she sways and turns. She’s not graceful or smooth like a ballerina, but there’s something about the way she moves, her curves pushing one way and then the other that fascinates me.

  Everything about her intrigues me. Who is the real Autumn? I pulled her application file again and pored over every detail and description, from her style influences to her actual designs, and she has a strongly classic bend, but the wild hellion that burst into my meeting today and began twerking and singing seems like a significantly different person.

  And her eyes dropped demurely before she challenged me boldly. I even went online to her social media pages, which were handily included in her application, to get a feel for her.

  And to see if there was anyone special in her life. Thankfully, I found no evidence of that.

  Still, my intention had been to simply watch tonight. I’d wanted to see that she was safe, or at least that’s what I convinced myself. But five beautiful women on the dance floor together draw a lot of attention, not all of it mine. Seeing the third man make a pass and fail, I couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Anonymously, of course. I don’t know that she’d come otherwise.

  Although I wonder if she’ll come for a nameless host, either. I briefly consider the punishment for that . . . bending her over my knee and smacking that curvy ass seems appropriate.

  But then she appears in the doorway beside the waitress. I shift on the loveseat, my knees spreading to give my growing cock room. Autumn’s intelligent eyes scan the dimly lit space and my breath hitches, impatient for the moment she sees me and hungry for her reaction.

  Her eyes widen when they land on me, and her lips part in surprise. Almost as quickly, they continue around the room.

  Who the fuck is she looking for?

  As the waitress leads her my way, realization dawns and a gamut of emotions washes across her face . . . confusion, excitement, fear, hunger. “Monsieur Corbin? You asked to see me?”

  “Welcome, Autumn. Please sit.” I extend the invitation and lay my arm along the back of the loveseat. Suspicious, she perches primly on the edge of the leather cushion, leaving as many centimeters between us as possible.

  I appraise the beautiful creature beside me. I’ve seen countless women walk the runway and pose for photos, met those who are considered stunning and strikingly unique, boys’ masturbation fantasies.

  All of them pale in comparison to Autumn. She’s wearing the scarf from her crazy outfit from today, but it’s now wrapped around her hips like a skirt, allowing a peek of pale thigh as she crosses her legs, along with a slim-strapped black top that highlights the fullness of her breasts, and her red hair flows over her shoulders. There’s a flush to her cheeks, and I wonder if it’s because of my presence or from dancing.

  “I’m sorry again for the interruption this afternoon,” she says softly. Though I hear her well enough in the quieter VIP space, I lean in as though I didn’t, wanting to be closer to her. She repeats louder, “I apologize for this afternoon. Maybe we can pretend like that never happened?” Her brows lift hopefully.

  I chuckle. “No, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

  “Oh.” Concern and disappointment war in the single syllable.

  “I won’t forget your barging in, your fieriness turning the dreariest meeting into something special. I won’t forget the curve of your ass, the cream of your skin, and the filthy words on your lips. It was—” I swallow thickly, correcting myself. “You were magnifique.”

  “Oh,” she repeats. Her smile is uncertain, as though she hasn’t decided whether to be appreciative of the compliment or slap me for it. The indecision is exciting. Finally, she bites her lip, and I can feel that she’s made her decision. “Mr. Corbin—”

  “Simon.”

  Her eyes narrow, and she says harder, “Mr. Corbin, this competition is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me. I’m here for professional growth.”

  I don’t like it, but I’m not a monster. If she wants to keep things professional, I will. I’m not sure that’s what she actually wants, though, given that she’s moved closer to me on the loveseat, her hand flat on the leather mere centimeters away from my thigh, and her eyes have dropped to my crotch more than once.

  Maybe she simply needs time to decipher what she wants. I can be patient.

  I hold my hand up, gesturing to the waitress who’s been waiting nearby. She instantly comes over with a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne flutes. She pours the bubbly efficiently and hands them off. I lift mine into the air. “To professional growth, then.”

  Autumn holds her glass tightly. “I don’t trust you.”

  The bluntness is refreshing, nothing like I’m used to. In fact, in my experience, women are typically coy and sly with their words. Autumn is honest and forthcoming, and I find myself doing the same. “American women are so astute. Truth be told, you shouldn’t trust me. You’ve bewitched me, and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop.” I lift my glass once again. “To distrust and honesty, then.”

  Autumn laughs and raises her glass to clink against mine. “That’s an awful toast, but the truth, at least.”

  She sips her champagne, and I do the same.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I demand gently. “Not what was on your application. I don’t care about something you wrote when you were trying to get into a contest. I would like to know the real Autumn Fisher.”

  She relaxes, just a little bit. Still defensive, as prickly as a porcupine, but maybe not one ready to shoot her quills at me. “What would you like to know?”