“And I’m on pace. I checked one off yesterday. But I didn’t even know it was on there.”
I’m confused now. “What do you mean?”
Her lips curve up. “Find a hidden gem where you least expect it.” She glances down the hall. “I should go.”
And I should go say hello to the cast. That’s why I’m here. Not to obsess over her Paris list.
But when I return to the hotel that night, I do obsess over it. And over her. I’m wondering what she’s crossing off that list. What room she’s in. What she wears to bed when she’s alone.
And in the morning, I wonder whether I’d find her on the steps of Sacré-Coeur.
“Fucking idiot,” I say, cursing myself as I get ready for the day’s meetings. She’s not going to do the same thing the next day, and I’m not going to stalk her.
Besides, I have back-to-back appointments all day, so once I’m up and out of the hotel, I refuse to look back.
If I can just make it through the next five days without bumping into her—or engineering opportunities for that to happen—that’d be great.
When the first meeting of the day ends, I tell my team I’ll see them later then I take a breather to reset. Exercise has always helped me focus. When I was younger, soccer gave me tunnel vision, along with the hope that the sport would pave my way in life. Later, the triathlons I started running centered me as I grew my business. I can’t go for a run along the river in my tailored slacks and button-down, so instead I drop on aviator shades and get a little lost in the city like I did yesterday, walking past boutiques, souvenir shops, and chichi restaurants, thinking about my meetings for the week—my goals for the year—when a scent stops me in my tracks.
A trace of honeysuckle tickles my nose, and I turn, helplessly, in its direction, the open door to a perfume shop. La Belle Vie is written in rose-gold script on a white sign above the store.
Are you kidding me? Everything in this city is a temptation. I don’t stand a chance.
I stop fighting and go inside, flashing back to the night at my home when Jules asked about the honeysuckle outside my window, a rarity in the city.
What does it remind you of? I’d asked.
Wanting. It reminds me of wanting, she’d said.
I feel the same. This sweet, heady smell reminds me of wanting. It reminds me of her.
Like a man in a trance, I walk to a nearby display of bottles, delicately carved and with old-fashioned spritzers and pumps. There are crystal ones with gold etching, purple leaves, pink and glass. It’s all so feminine, so alluring. I stop at the one that’s been calling to me, then read the display card next to it.
Come What May, made by a perfumer here in Paris. An American named Joy Danvers. There’s a description, too, and it reads: “The smell of the first kiss and a last kiss. It is the promise that somehow, someday, we will meet again.”
All at once, a pang of longing digs into my chest. I lift the bottle, bring it to my nose, and inhale, picturing Jules.
Each time I see her, she shares carefully, ever so carefully, bits and pieces of herself. Every time I talk to her, I learn a little bit more about who she is and the layers she contains, like a trunk you take your time opening so you can savor the letters, the notebooks, the photos you find inside.
She’s so different than Marilyn. So very different that I’m standing in a shop here in the First Arrondissement, inhaling a perfume like a man obsessed.
Like a man wanting.
But I don’t simply want another night in bed with her. I want to explore her. Understand her. Know her.
“Excuse me? Can I help you with something?” A soft, French voice breaks my daydream.
Can you help me get my best friend’s daughter out of my every waking thought?
I don’t say that. Instead, I say to the shopkeeper, “I’ll take this and can you please send it to this hotel?”
Even though there’s no room in my life for an obsession, I begin one anyway.
Or really, I continue one.
The perfume does the trick for a couple hours. That afternoon I’m pure focus as I meet with a European-based mobile company that we’re wooing. My hope is that they’ll carry our service on their phones. We want to give big shots like Webflix a run for their money, so deepening our partnerships will go a long way. I keep my blinders on during those meetings and I don’t let thoughts of honeysuckle or garden kisses win.
When I say goodbye to my colleagues at the end of the day, I feel accomplished, despite my earlier distraction. I check my watch. All I need to do now is stop by the nearby set in Le Marais for a quick meeting with Solange to keep her apprised of the marketing plans. It’s a few blocks away, and I head through the artsy, fashionable arrondissement.
I pass Place des Vosges, the central square filled with trees and ivy-colored buildings. Is visiting that on Jules’s Paris list? No. That’s too pedestrian for her. But maybe spreading out a blanket somewhere nice in the evening, sipping champagne, eating olives and cheese has made the cut.
Or maybe it’s just on a new list I’m writing in my mind.
Get it together, man.
I snap my gaze to the sidewalk in front of me and keep it there till I reach a quieter street with white flats boasting planters in their windows. One of them is the location for the heroine’s flat in The Rendezvous.
Already, there are signs of the show—some permits for shooting are plastered outside the apartment. After I check in with security, I head into the building. The crew in the lobby are finishing up their pre-production work for the day. I look past them, and then my pulse spikes annoyingly.
Jules stands at the other end of the foyer by the elevator, where the opening sequence will shoot tomorrow. Chatting with Solange, Jules looks beautiful, even in a short-sleeve black blouse, jeans, and flats. Or perhaps she’s beautiful because of the simplicity of her outfit. Her chestnut hair is cinched back in a clip, with a few loose tendrils framing her face. She wears her glasses and keeps a serious expression on her face. All-business Jules is in her element. She’s focused and diligent, entering details on a tablet. I feel like a stalker even though I’m supposed to be here.
I watch her closely until she turns around and makes eye contact with me.
Jules doesn’t change her expression—she’s a guarded woman—but a subtle sparkle lights those brown irises. I stride across the foyer, and when I reach them, Solange offers me a cautious smile before she says, “Don’t give me bad news that will make me mad.”
Damn, she’s tough. “I only have good news.”
Jules steps back. “I’ll leave you to it. I need to send out some emails with call times anyway.”
“Thank you,” Solange says, then pats the neck of her shirt. “Merde. I must have left my glasses on the balcony in the flat.”
Before she can even ask, Jules says brightly, “I’ll get them.”
She says it too brightly though. She’d never let on at work that she’s afraid of heights.
“I’d actually love to see the flat for a minute,” I say, stepping in. “Jules, would you show it to me?”
“Of course.”
With Solange quickly busying herself on her phone, we head into the old elevator. As it rises, I’m so close to Jules, I could kiss her neck if I leaned in a few inches. I want to tell her there’s a gift waiting for her at the hotel. Instead, I clench my fists, hold that admission back, and grit out, “How was your second day?”