Page 3 of Boarding Pass
Meanwhile, he was offered his dream job—the CFO at an international bank. We’d both made it, so I figured I might as well stay. We’d been togetherso long, why throw it all away? Marriage, the house, the family. It was the next step.
We even picked out a place. A fixer-upper brownstone in Brooklyn, which was a little overpriced but perfect. The wide windows in one of the bedrooms made it a perfect studio. The third bedroom I dreamed of filling with a crib.
Two days before we were supposed to move in, Mark blindsided me.
“I’ve decided not to move in. I’m not happy, Sophie,” he said over gnocchi at our favorite Italian restaurant. “You’re not either. Why are we pretending?”
I remember staring at him, unable to speak. My prime childbearing years were slipping away and I’d been holding out for something he’d given up on. And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
Six months later and the brownstone’s mine. I can afford it—thank God my career is thriving—but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to fill it with love. Babies. A future.
I’m still picking up the pieces.
Taking a sip of wine, I glance at my phone. The email I received an hour ago fills my screen. Confirmation of my first solo exhibit at the Carmichael Gallery. Thirty-five pieces. An exhibit signifying a culminationof years of work and fighting for respect in an industry where photographers are seen as disposable—hell, Mark sure did.
It’s everything I’ve wanted. And yet, I can’t even muster up an ounce of enthusiasm.
The door to the bar swings open and an unexpected gust of cool air makes me glance up.
Holy fuck.
The man who walks in is tall and broad-shouldered with dirty-blond hair falling in loose, messy waves. His leather jacket looks well-loved, like he’s had it since he was a teenager. Underneath the coat he wears a black t-shirt tucked into faded jeans and lopes in with an easy stride. He seems youthful and uncalculated.
He pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room like he’s not certain where to go. His gaze brushes over me briefly before moving on, but there’s something in the way he carries himself. I want to keep watching him.
He’s magnetic. Not in a polished, cocky way. There’s a softness to him. Something accessible and curious, like he hasn’t figured out how the world works but isn’t too worried about it.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
Ilook down at my near-empty glass, embarrassed at my reaction to a stranger. I didn’t come here to pick up some random guy. I’m in Paris because I just finished shooting Fashion Week. I’m staying for a few weeks to figure out my life. The last thing I need is to ogle some random guy.
I’m here for the kind of introspection that’ll only happen when I’m shopping on ancient cobblestone streets, indulging in spa days and drinking overpriced wine.
Alone.
Suddenly, he’s at the bar an armlength away. He orders something—I can’t hear what—and shifts just slightly to glance back around the room while he waits. His eyes catch mine again for a moment and holy hell. My heart actually stutters.
I look away, heat rises in my cheeks. I’m positive everyone in this room can see my reaction to him.
Ugh.
Do. Not. Make. Eye. Contact.
Bending over, I adjust my camera bag on the back of my chair and pretend to check my phone. Anything to avoid looking at him again. Out of the corner of my eye, I get a glimpse of him, drink in hand, heading toward the empty seat next to me.
No. Nope. Not tonight.
I reach for my glass, intending to finish it swiftly and leave. In my fumbling rush, I knock it over instead.
“Shit!” The wine splashes everywhere and a streak of dark red spreads across the bar, pooling onto the floor. Mortified, I grab a tiny bar napkin and feverishly blot at the mess.
“Need a hand?” a deep voice drawls.
I freeze.
It’s him. Standing there. Holding a full glass of wine in one hand and perusing the chaos with an amused smile.
“No, it’s fine.” My cheeks burn as I keep blotting with my soaked little square of paper. “Really, it’s nothing.”
