I head past the Eiffel Tower, then over the bridge that arches across the Seine, slowing to admire the view of the river that cuts through the city.
The river has secrets. Listen to it.
That’s what my father used to say when he brought me here after his meetings.
The river always knows.
Like the river was a wise old woman at the end of a winding path in the woods, perched outside her home on a bench, dispensing sage advice.
Yes, that’s the Seine.
Always telling you what to do if you’re willing to listen.
Tonight, I stop on the middle of the bridge and gaze over the sunset-soaked water, glittering with the fading rays of the day. Enjoying the view, the pause, the way stopping to listen feeds my soul.
“Tell me, river. What should I do about this blooming attraction to my business partner?” I whisper.
I strain my ears, listening as the river murmurs, “You know what to do.”
If only it were that simple.
But other things are simple—like taking out my phone, snapping a shot of the ribbon of water, then sending it to my parents, along with a short note in the family chat.
* * *
Scarlett: The river is chatty tonight.
* * *
My father replies instantly.
* * *
Dad: Ask the river if your mother and I should order Thai or Indian for dinner. We can’t seem to decide.
* * *
Mom: The river clearly is saying Tom Kha Gai, darling.
* * *
Dad: Funny, I hear it whispering about naan and tandoori chicken.
* * *
Mom: Wishful whispering, my love. Listen more closely. The river always favors your wife’s choices.
* * *
I flash back to the hotel manager with his adage about stories making for a good marriage. With my parents, listening to the wife is the rule my dad adheres to. With a smile, I tap back a reminder.
* * *
Scarlett: Dad, don’t forget what you used to say when I was growing up – my wife is always right.
* * *
Dad: Except when it comes to dinner choices.
* * *
Scarlett: Good luck winning that battle. Personally, I vote for avocado sushi.
* * *
Dad: Shocking. Terribly shocking.
* * *
Mom: That’s my second choice now, darling.
* * *
Dad: I never win the dinner debate. Sigh. Ah well, it’s only dinner. Thai it is.
* * *
Mom: Yes!
* * *
Loving their interactions, I reply with mom wins again, then turn away from the river, put the phone in my purse, and cut through the Louvre—because I can, because why live in this city if not to have the freedom to walk past the Louvre Pyramid whenever I wish?—then head to a brasserie to meet Cole and Daniel for dinner.
Business dinner with my two business partners.
Daniel is only a business partner.
No matter how delicious those fleeting moments in the hotel were, they are behind us, where they belong. The way his lips grazed my skin, scorched it with a fire hotter than any injury to my wrist . . . I shiver. We’ve always been flirtatious, but that was crossing a line, even for us.
Lucky we could segue so easily back into being friends, flirtatious business partners, at the drop of a hat.
Cole waits outside, having snagged a table on the sidewalk.
I click-clack toward him from one side of the street, Daniel coming from the other, looking sharp in jeans and a button-down that hugs his pecs, his biceps, his forearms.
Damn him for being such good eye candy.
His full, sensual lips curve into a grin, and his blue eyes twinkle as he whips off his shades.
My belly dares to swoop.
Stupid stomach.
We reach Cole at the same time.
“Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it the great Cole Donovan in repose?” The cheeky remark comes from Daniel.
Of course.
Cole is indeed leaned back, almost horizontal in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“Please rib me. I’ve missed that,” Cole says, as dry and deadpan as he’s always been.
Cole looks the part of a classy tourist in the early evening, decked out in slacks and a sharp polo, enjoying his glass of red wine in the City of Lights. He rises and drops air kisses on my cheeks.
“So good to see you,” I say.
He smiles. “It’s always good to see you, Scarlett. You’re our better third. But I wish I could say the same thing about this cad.”
Cole claps Daniel on the back, and the Englishman laughs, flashing that fantastic smile. It makes him seem like the most lighthearted man in the world—wearing a permanent vacation grin.
I’ve learned, though, that smile is his mask. The free-and-easy way he has isn’t the whole truth.
While I don’t know the details of his family—he doesn’t share that with me—I do know he’s lost both his parents. I know, too, that the scar on his hand has taken something away as well.
But he keeps that to himself as well.
And I don’t pry. It’s not in my nature.
Secrets have a way of coming to light on their own, I’ve learned. Sooner or later, you open a drawer, unlock a cupboard, and they tumble free.
I take a seat, and Daniel and Cole follow, the three of us settling in at the small round table as Parisians scurry by on the sidewalk, muttering into their cell phones, the smattering of plans for dates, for rendezvous, for affairs, even, floating past my ears.
“You always love seeing me,” Daniel says to Cole. “You can’t stay away. Why else would you come all the way from Las Vegas to Paris?”
Cole taps his chin. “Let’s see. I believe I’m here with my fiancée for a crazy little thing called a vacation.”
Daniel adopts a shocked expression, complete with the head jerk and jaw drop. “I didn’t know you knew how to take a holiday.”
Cole stares daggers at Daniel. “I know how to vacation just fine. Sage and I even went on a bike tour through Tuscany, visiting wineries, before we came here.”
“Bikes and vino. Sign me up,” Daniel says as the waiter swings by and asks if we’d like a drink.
Daniel orders a red, then asks if I want my usual chardonnay. He winks like he did earlier in the day when we pretended to be married.
Cole chuckles, almost to himself. “You two are like a married couple.”
“Funny you should say that,” Daniel begins, then meets my gaze. “Want to tell him?”
Our American partner sits up straighter. “You went to the South of France and got hitched?”
I scoff. “No, we simply pretended to be husband and wife this morning when we checked out another property. Which is one of the things we wanted to chat with you about. So, thank you, Cole, for taking an evening out of your vacation to meet with us.”
“Business doesn’t wait,” he says. “Besides, Sage is meeting with a friend who started a business running off-the-beaten-path tours of Paris. They’re roaming F. Scott Fitzgerald’s old haunts as we speak.” He lowers his voice. “If she likes it, we might partner with the tour company, add it to our exclusive tours at our Rue de Rivoli property.”