“Thank you, I’m heading up,” he says before he ends the call.

  We move away from the window and I start moving, picking up around our tiny living room. We’re not total slobs, but there’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table, and some empty soda cans too. I shove it all into Stella’s open arms and she takes everything to the kitchen to throw it away while I’m folding blankets and plumping flat pillows.

  “If he’d come only a few minutes later, we’d have finished this.” Stella gestures at the television screen, the mother of dragons staring down upon us with a haughty look. I love her so much, she is such a badass.

  “We’ll watch it after he leaves.”

  Stella laughs and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. I have a feeling he might not leave.”

  “Seriously? You think I’m going to invite him to stay? I don’t think so. I haven’t even kissed him yet.”

  “Sure you have. When you were twelve.” She grins and I threaten to throw a pillow at her smug face.

  There’s a knock on the door and I give Stella a gentle shove, watching as she walks down the short hall and slinks into her room, shutting the door quietly. Once I know she’s hidden away, I go to the front door, turn the locks and open it to find Alex standing there, looking stressed the hell out yet somehow still completely gorgeous.

  “Can I come in?” His voice is low, his tone terse, and I nod without saying anything, my voice seeming to have left me.

  Once I shut and lock the door, I turn and face him, drinking him in. He’s wearing jeans and a thin black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal sexy forearms (I know, I never really thought of them as sexy before either). His dark hair is a mess, like he’s just run his fingers through it again and again, and his jaw is set in such a firm line, I think it might be able to cut glass.

  That’s a total exaggeration, but still. You get what I’m trying to say.

  “Have you been avoiding me?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.

  “Kind of?” I phrase it as a question, feeling extra bad for doing exactly that and having him now standing in front of me. It’s hard to admit to someone that you’ve been ignoring them.

  He appears surprised, and I guess I can’t blame him. We left things on a positive note Friday night. “Why? I thought we had a good time at dinner.”

  “We did. I swear. It’s just…” I don’t know how to explain this without being blunt. “Tiffany is still bothering me.”

  His expression goes from irritated to full on angry. “What do you mean? How is she still bothering you?”

  “I went to brunch with my friends this morning, and she just so happened to be at the same restaurant. Once I realized she was there, I decided I should leave so she wouldn’t see me. But when I walked outside, it turned out she actually followed me. And she continued to follow me until I hid in a store. Luckily enough, she didn’t see me go in, and kept on walking.”

  “Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters, driving his fingers through his hair. “Did you call the police?”

  “No, of course not. Following me down a city street isn’t a crime,” I say, frustration filling me. This entire situation is so weird. My life was downright boring before Alex walked back into it.

  Sometimes, like earlier this morning when I was hiding in the store, I miss those boring days. They were good times. No real stress beyond the occasional bridezilla at work, and that was it.

  “I don’t understand how Tiffany following you has anything to do with you avoiding me,” he says.

  Is he freaking clueless? “The only reason she’s following me is because of you,” I remind him. “Before you walked into my life, I was fine. Now here you are with your crazy ex, and she’s scaring me, Alex. Creating chaos everywhere she goes, especially for me.” I jab my thumb into my chest to make my point.

  “You’re holding Tiffany’s actions against me.” His mouth thins into a grim line. “I can’t control her, Caroline. I don’t even talk to her anymore.”

  “I know,” I say weakly.

  “I wish I could stop her from following you and harassing you. I’m sorry if she’s making your life miserable. I’d tell her to leave you alone, but she won’t listen to me. I’m pretty certain if I went to talk to her right now, that would only spur her on to chase after you even more. She’s that spiteful of a person, trust me,” he says.

  He’s right. I’m sure he’s right.

  “I wish I could just—escape from here, even for just a few days,” I admit, my tone wistful.

  “I could probably make that happen.” His smile is tight. “I have a problem that I’m hoping you could help me with.”

  Um, somehow those two sentences don’t necessarily belong together?

  “What’s wrong?” Without thought I reach out and touch one of those sexy forearms. His skin is warm, his arm hard. For a guy who’s such a workaholic, I get the sense that he’s pretty muscular underneath that sweater and those jeans.

  Whoops, there go my cheeks. I can feel them catching fire.

  “Promise you won’t freak out when I ask you a question?” He raises his brows as he waits for my answer.

  My heart leaps to my throat and I nod, offering a croaky, “I promise.”

  He exhales loudly. Reaches for my hand still resting on his arm and places his big hand over it, holding me there. His gaze is locked on mine as he says, “Want to go to Paris with me in two days and pretend to be my fiancée?”

  I blink at him once. Twice. Three times, before I manage to say, “Come again?”

  Another ragged exhale leaves him while he squeezes my hand. “We’re trying to acquire an old hotel in Paris, and we’re in the midst of negotiations, though we were confident it was already ours. Now, my father’s not so confident—there’s another company trying to outbid us, and my father asked me to go to Paris to talk to the original owners so we can seal this deal. And he wants my fiancée to go with me.”

  “Um, he knows you and Tiffany broke it off, right?”

  “Yes, he knows. But he’s also disappointed that we broke it off. Not because he loves Tiffany, more so for the image of me being a man who’s about to get married and start a family.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain.”

  We go sit on the couch and he launches into his story. The Descheaux family owns a crumbling old hotel building the Wilder Corporation is desperate to acquire. They were a family-run business nostalgic for the old days, when the father and his sons ran their three hotels in Paris. Times have changed, one of the sons passed unexpectedly, there were some mismanaged funds, and business tanked. All of the hotels were eventually closed. One building has already been sold and one of them is in a highly prized location.

  “It’s right across from the Louvre, down the street from the Ritz and the Place Vendome. High-end shopping, high-end restaurants mixed with touristy spots. It’s in an ideal location, and we want it. It would be the perfect start for the first Wilder Hotel in Europe,” Alex says.

  “That sounds amazing.” I pause. “I still don’t quite understand why you need a fiancée when you meet with these people, though.”

  “My father thinks it’ll be just the advantage we need to lock in this deal. Portraying us as a family-run business ready to create more generations is the message he wants to send,” Alex says, his expression vaguely uncomfortable.

  His words, of course, make me think of us working on creating that next generation. In case you don’t get where I’m coming from, I’m imagining having sex with Alex.

  My cheeks are still hot, no surprise.

  “So he wants the picture-perfect fiancée by your side. The adoring future wife,” I say, hoping I’m on the right track.

  “That’s exactly what he wants.” Alex nods. “I know you have a full-time job at Noteworthy. I’m guessing it’ll probably be difficult for you to get the time off.”

  “The schedule is already out for this week.” I have Friday off—unusual—and back to back to back appointments on Saturday. Wedding fever is kicking in.

  “How easygoing is your boss?”

  “Iris is pretty wonderful.” But is she so wonderful that she’ll give me a week off at the last minute so I can go to freaking Paris?

  Maybe.

  “I guess the question I need to ask is, do you want to come to Paris with me?”

  I stare into his eyes, noting how hopeful his expression is, how much he’s reminding me of early teenage Alex right now. I would’ve done pretty much anything for that boy back then. Those old feelings come rushing back, filling me with longing, and I say without thinking…

  “Yes. I’ll go to Paris with you.”

  Twenty-Two

  It was surprisingly easy to get a week off. I’d gone to work Monday morning terrified Iris would tell me no. She knew something was up when we had our weekly GoT discussion and I didn’t have much to add to the conversation. When she finally asked me what was wrong, I told her I was hoping I could take some vacation time starting Wednesday—then promptly burst into tears.

  After my tears dried up, and I told her I was going to Paris, she reassured me that leaving for a week wouldn’t be a problem. Since starting at Noteworthy, I’ve rarely took a big chunk of vacation time. More like I’ll take a couple days of here and there, and though my request was so last minute, she reassured me she was up to the challenge. She’ll handle my appointments for me, plus she recently hired another part time employee, so she’ll have that new person work more hours while I’m gone.

  I didn’t let her know the entire reason for going to France—pretending to be Alex’s fiancée. I merely told her a last-minute opportunity had come up with a friend, and I’d hoped to go as long as I could get time off. Iris was more than understanding, and actually quite excited for me to travel to Paris.

  Lucky for me, I already have a passport, since I’ve gone on a few girls’ trips over the years to all-inclusive resorts in Mexico. I worked Monday, did my laundry and started packing that night, worked a six-hour shift Tuesday, and by the time I got home, Alex was waiting at my apartment.

  “We’re going to take a charter plane to Los Angeles,” he explains once we’re on the road and headed for the airport. “And from there, we’ll fly private to Paris.”

  My mouth pops open. “We’re flying on a private plane to France?”

  He nods, a little smile curling his mouth. “It was such a last-minute trip, my father felt it would be best. He wants us there as soon as possible.”

  Okay, I feel like a baller. Seriously, a private jet?

  My baller mood slips when we get to the Monterey Regional Airport and I see the little plane we’re supposed to take to Los Angeles.

  “We’re flying on that?” I pause, pointing at the plane we’re walking toward. “How many seats are in there?”

  “It’s just us and the pilot, we’ll be fine.” Alex offers me a reassuring smile, but come on. That plane is tiny.

  My knees knocking, I watch as two men start loading our luggage into the plane while we wait for the pilot to finish flight checks. We’re on the tarmac, the wind whipping around furiously, planes roaring by us, and I’m…

  Freaking the hell out.

  “You okay?” Alex steps closer to me, his voice low.

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “Don’t like to fly?” He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him, giving me a squeeze.

  “Not on planes that small.” I feel a little better with Alex’s arm around me. Okay, I feel a lot better. He’s so solid and warm, and he makes me feel safe.

  Though the safe feeling leaves me when we board the plane. There are only six seats, and I practically fall into one of them, slipping on my seatbelt with shaky fingers. I should’ve brought some Xanax. Stella offered me a few—she’s a nervous flier and she has a prescription—but I told her I would be fine.

  Well, right now, I’m not feeling so fine.

  At all.

  “Want a drink?” Alex asks once he’s seated next to me.

  I shake my head and grip the armrests. The plane engine isn’t even on yet, and I’m already tense.

  “I have booze.”

  I swallow, hating how dry my throat is. “What kind of booze?”

  “Vodka. Ice. Cranberry juice.” He points toward the smallest bar ever, and relief makes me slump in my seat.

  “I’ll take a vodka cranberry, please. Heavy on the vodka and ice.”

  Chuckling, Alex makes me a drink and then hands it over. I take it eagerly, draining most of it in one swallow, and he watches me with amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re kind of a wreck.”

  “Tell me all about it.” I rattle the ice in my plastic cup and drink some more. Listen, I’m not one to drink alcohol on a constant basis. In my early twenties I liked to party, I won’t lie. Now I enjoy a glass of wine in the evening, but not every evening. And mimosas during Sunday brunch make the meal a much better experience.

  Today, though, I’m feeling the need for liquor, and lots of it. I can already feel the vodka working its magic as it slips through my veins. Without having to ask, Alex pours a little more in my cup, along with a splash of cranberry juice to give it some color. The vodka is cold and sharp, and my throat is burning, but I can already tell I’m mellowing out.

  By the time we’re starting down the runway, I’m downright relaxed. No more gripping the armrests for me. My shoulders are loose. I’m sharing my current favorite memes with Alex on my phone—his suggestion, he’s a smart one, looking to distract me—we keep our heads bent together as we both laugh at the silly videos and captions. Once we’re in the air, there are only a few bumps and some very minor turbulence before we get to flying altitude.

  “Not so bad, right?” Alex flashes me a smile, his voice raised so I can hear him over the loud propellers.

  “Not so bad,” I agree, finishing off my second very full glass of vodka. “Hope I don’t have to pee anytime soon.”

  Damn it, I can’t believe I just said that. Stupid vodka.

  He laughs. “We won’t be up in the air for too long. This is a quick flight. Like not even an hour.”

  “What time do we fly out for Paris?”

  “The plane is scheduled to depart at seven, but depending on the pilot’s arrival and how soon the plane is ready, we could possibly leave earlier. I know that would please my father. The quicker we’re in Paris, the happier he’ll be.”

  The grim look on Alex’s handsome face tells me he’s under enormous pressure to finalize this deal. He’s given me a few more details in regards to us meeting with the Descheaux family, but not much. I’m starting to wonder if he’s going into this as blind as I am.

  “How long is the flight to Paris?” I ask.

  “Around eleven hours, give or take.”

  I must make a face of horror or despair, I’m not sure which, but I’m feeling both emotions. That is a long time—the longest flight I’ve ever taken. And Alex immediately tries to reassure me.

  “It won’t be so bad on the private jet,” he says with a slight smile. “It will be a very comfortable flight.”

  “If you say so.” I imagine the plane has to be bigger than this one in order for us to fly international.

  “When I was in high school, we flew private all the time,” Alex says, and I lean in closer, thrilled to be given a glimpse into Alex’s past. “My father was busy growing the business, and a lot of the time, we traveled with him.”

  “That must’ve been fun,” I say.

  “It was, though sometimes it was really stressful. Did you know my younger brother is autistic?” When I nod, he continues. “He didn’t travel well. Still doesn’t. He prefers his routine, the things that are familiar to him. Despite the fact that our family owned a hotel chain, James absolutely hates staying in a hotel room. You think he’d grow used to it after all these years, but he still doesn’t like it. He rarely travels.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-three.” Alex smiles and there’s a fondness, a warmth in his expression I don’t normally see. I can tell he really cares about his brother. “He’s a lot of fun. Very smart. He works for the company too.”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah. He’s in the accounting department. He’s scary good with numbers. Our father didn’t want him to work for the company at all at first. He was afraid James wouldn’t be able to focus for eight hours a day, so he relented and had him work part time hours at first. He wasn’t in the accounting department starting out either, but our sister Meredith caught him in there one day, poring over our quarterly statement and finding mistakes.” Alex chuckles. “He was right about those mistakes too. So Meredith switched James’ position, eventually gave him full time hours, and he’s worked there ever since.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “Did James go to college?”

  “No, but he probably should. He’s freaking brilliant.”

  “So why did you stop flying private?” I ask, curious to get back to the original topic.

  “Oh, my father found out our carbon footprint was terrible, and the biggest contributor was the private jet. So he sometimes leases it out to other companies we work with, but for the most part, it’s rarely in use. The Wilder Corporation does its best to maintain itself as a green company,” Alex explains.

  I’m fascinated by his stories, at the inner workings of his family’s company. What he does, what his entire family does, is such a huge responsibility. One I’m fairly sure I couldn’t maintain, no matter how hard I tried.

  I balk at the idea of Iris wanting me to take over Noteworthy, and that’s just one store. I can’t imagine running such a large corporation. Being responsible for so many employees. It all sounds like…

  A lot.

  Too much, if I’m being honest.

  Yet Alex does it as if it’s his birthright, and I suppose it is. As the oldest son, I’m sure there are expectations thrust upon him that he can’t avoid as the oldest son. The pressure must be enormous. No wonder he doesn’t have much time for a relationship. I can almost forgive him for choosing Tiffany as his future wife.