“I’m dead serious, Gia. This is getting absur—”
“Bonjour, est-ce que tu veux que bois quelque chose?” The French waitress thankfully saves me from the lecture my best friend is about to give. I hate when Sebastian gets on his soapbox or worse, displays his “brotherly” concern.
I have a brother and trust me, he’s enough.
“Bonjour, beaute.” He instantly shifts so that he can give her his full attention, flashing her his beautiful smile and causing the poor girl to blush.
Perfect. I’m never going to get coffee now. Women go crazy for Sebastian when he decides to show interest. The man oozes self-confidence. That, and he’s fucking hot.
“You want your usual?” He speaks without breaking his stare with the waitress.
“Yes, please.” I feel like kicking him with my new heels. He’s being ridiculous.
Sebastian orders in flawless French. He’s from Montreal, so he speaks the language.
I snap my compact shut, tossing it back into my bag and forcing them both to look at me.
“Coffee, s’il-vous-plait.” My accent is horrendous, which is why I always let Sebastian order, but I have zero patience this morning. If he wants to flirt, he can do it after I get a cup of coffee. I recross my legs and sit up straighter.
“We just got off a plane and I’m in desperate need…” I trail off as Sebastian leans forward and takes my hand, smiling at me as if I’m not quite right.
The waitress looks at me blankly as if she doesn’t speak a word of English, which is a lie. Everyone speaks enough to understand coffee. I’m sure she’s wondering what’s the deal between Sebastian and me.
If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to smile at her so she could be reassured that I have no interest in Sebastian sexually. We’re strictly friends.
Best friends.
Well, best friends who used to have sex. I met him my freshman year at UC Berkeley. I was nursing a broken heart, and he was drop-dead gorgeous and willing to fuck without asking questions. Thankfully we’re two peas in a pod. Within months, we both knew that we’re definitely better as friends than lovers.
I’m not the type of girl who’s ever going to be in a serious relationship, and Sebastian is a playboy. He’s also my partner, my rock, my voice of reason. I’d do anything for him, which is why I’m in Paris. He’s broke again.
Sebastian likes to live way above his means. His theory is that if you live like you’re the best, you will, in fact, become the best.
As absurd as that thinking is, it works for him most of the time. I’m the opposite. It makes me nervous if I have to dip into my savings account. Sebastian doesn’t even have a savings account, another reason why we’re better as friends.
Crossing my legs, I glance down at my new heels. They’re soft black Italian leather and crisscross up my ankles. I admit it—I have a weakness for shoes, and even though I pride myself on not being impressed by wealth, I was excited to see the shiny black box waiting for me on my bed when I checked in. The shoes were a welcome gift from Alberto, the designer we’re shooting. Timing is everything.
Alberto exploded this year in the fashion world. I met him backstage at the Emmys. Some of the actresses were wearing his dresses and I was there to shoot the cast of Schitt’s Creek.
We hit it off, drank way too much champagne, and ended up at the Abbey doing shots. He passed out that night at my cute Venice bungalow and we’ve stayed close. He’s young, talented, and has a fresh take—not the same crap we’ve seen over and over.
When he called me two weeks ago and begged me to come to Paris to shoot his upcoming collection, I turned him down.
Fashion Week is a lot: the crowds, parties, celebrities, egos. I’ve done it twice and vowed never to do it again.
Unfortunately, he had already gotten ahold of Sebastian who was over the moon about being able to make rent and spend a week in Paris first class.
So… here I sit, dead tired, no coffee, and all-around feeling off. I keep thinking it’s exhaustion, but it’s more like an anxiety or nagging feeling. As if I forgot to lock my door or left my flat iron on.
Yawning, I try to ignore the laughter from my best friend and the waitress. Coffee and breakfast seem forgotten. Might as well check my phone for messages.
Quickly I scan all the missed calls to make sure none are from my mom or brother. Zero from them. Unfortunately, I have ten, no, twelve from my ex and soon-to-be-former agent.
Perfect. I glance up at the gorgeous hotel. Its stunning, giant floral displays are tastefully arranged all over the hotel filling the space with a soft but fresh smell. Whites, creams, and golds grace the lobby and restaurant we’re sitting in. I lean my head back to admire the ornate turquoise beams that house the glass ceilings.
My phone vibrates again. I don’t need to look down to know it’s my ex. I can sense his craziness across the ocean.
I try hard not to regret things, but Jeff is one big fat mistake. This is absolutely the last time I get into a relationship with my agent.
Why? Why do I do these things?
Maybe I was feeling pressured to find someone or I was sick of sex without some sort of connection. Whatever it was, in a moment of weakness I said yes to Jeff. He’s older, powerful, and rich, not to mention one of the best agents on both coasts. All signs pointed to him being stable and secure.
God, was I wrong. I’ve never been with a more paranoid, borderline narcissistic man. Not to mention the sex was beyond bad. Cringeworthy, really.
I close my eyes and try not to let my mind remember his body. Great, now I see him naked.
Jesus.
Clearly I have shit judgment when it comes to men. It has to be hereditary, maybe even a Fontaine curse. After all, I do come from a long line of bad decision-makers.
My mom. Worst taste in men.
My Grandmother Fontaine. Miserable for thirty years, and now that my grandfather is dead, she’s speeding around Pasadena in a red Corvette. And don’t get me started on my dad and his numerous failed marriages.
I reach for my glass of ice water and almost laugh. There’s only one Fontaine who is happy and in love.
My brother.
It’s unfathomable.
Axel never even wanted to fall in love. He hated it. Made fun of it, yet somehow he’s happy.
With kids. I’m an aunt to twin girls. Surreal if I take the time to think about it. Axel is actually living my childhood fantasy. The house, kids, maybe throw in a dog. He even has a white picket fence around his yard.
It’s kind of a drag. He doesn’t even care when I tease him, just laughs and agrees, then grabs Antoinette and kisses her as if there is no one else in the world. Which makes me feel like shit. I’ll never have what they have. Then that causes me guilt because I do love my brother and I’m happy for him.
Back and forth I ping-pong. It’s why I’ve kept myself busy working and avoiding Antoinette’s calls. She’s knee-deep in planning their wedding, and she wants me around for it. But she has a whole crowd of women who love her, most in happy relationships. I’m like the third wheel.
My phone vibrates again, bringing me back to the now and the waitress’s over-the-top laughter. Can she be any more obvious? Sebastian isn’t going to be into her as soon as we pay the check. That’s mean but true.
“Rock God,” a girl screams as she runs past our table.