Page 4 of Boarding Pass
“Oh, it’s something.” He sets his glass down, grabs a handful of napkins from the bar and kneels down to wipe up the floor. “But hey, I shouldn’t judge. Last week, I dropped an entire iced coffee in the middle of Starbucks.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
His grin widens, boyish and charming, and for the first time tonight, I feel my shoulders relax.
“Thanks.” I allow myself to look at him directly.
He tosses the soaked napkins into a trash can at the end of bar and takes the seat next to me. “You’rewelcome. Do you spill drinks often or am I just the lucky guy who gets to use it as an excuse to meet you?”
“You caught me. It was a tactical spill,” I deadpan. The corners of my mouth twitch despite my best effort to stay composed. “I figured causing a scene might summon a hero—looks like it worked.”
“Well, here I am.” He laughs, light and teasing. There’s something genuine in his eyes. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
For a second, I take him in. He’s so sweet. Earnest. Hot as fuck.
This isn’t part of the plan.
But here we are.
Something tells me I’m not walking out of this bar as the same person who walked in.
Chapter three
Jetlagisnojoke.
It’s day two—well, night two. My body’s screaming for sleep, but my brain won’t stop buzzing.
After I checked in, I dined alone at a little bistro where I enjoyed a stellar meal of steak frites. I even drank an entire bottle of wine, figuring it wouldhelp me sleep. But, no. I lay awake all fucking night long staring at the ceiling, finally passing out around breakfast time after I rubbed one out.
When I woke up it was midafternoon. Now I’m in the twilight zone of being exhausted but also wired. For the past several hours, I’ve walked half the Marais trying to shake off this annoying restless energy.
It’s not working.
God, I’m finding it impossible to relax. It feels like I’m forgetting to do something. Years of deadlines, product launches, and running a business has messed me up. I have no idea how to chill anymore.
Which fucking sucks.
Plus, I’ve come to the realization my spur-of-the-moment decision to hop on a plane might not have been the most-well-thought-out plan. I don’t speak French. I know exactly zero people here. I’m too old for nightclubs, too restless to sit alone in a café, and bars aren’t my thing.
I’m standing there, debating whether to wander aimlessly or admit defeat and go back to the hotel when I spot it—a wine bar tucked into a quiet corner, glowing with warm, golden light.
Magnum. The name’s printed on the awning in clean, sharp lettering. Tables spill out onto the street, livelybut not chaotic. Inside, it looks…perfect. Busy, but not overly crowded. Doesn’t seem pretentious.
Stepping inside, I immediately love the vibe—the perfect mix of cozy and cool. Soft chatter hums under the faint clink of glasses. The décor is quirky and eclectic—photos of Tom Selleck in fullMagnum PIglory line the walls, for God’s sake. How could you go wrong?
This’ll work. At least for tonight.
I scan the room and seeher.
The woman seems to be alone, elbow resting on the bar as she swirls the final bit of red wine in her glass. She’s stunning in a undeniably effortless way. Dark, chestnut hair is swept back in a large clip. Loose strands brush her cheekbones. Her skin glows under the warm light, and her eyes—green, intense—flick around the room like she’s studying it. She wears a simple black dress with a colorful scarf draped around her shoulders.
I don’t know what it is about her. It takes every ounce of self-control not to stare.
Crossing the room toward the bar, I order a glass of red wine, leaving it up to the bartender to choose for me. I lean against the counter as I wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dig for something in a bag slung across the back of her stool. She fumblesslightly, her hand brushing the stem—and suddenly, the wine tips.
It’s like slow motion. The red liquid spills across the table, dripping over the edge and pooling on the floor. She mutters something under her breath and grabs one of those tiny bar napkins, blotting furiously at the mess.
Before I can stop myself, I grab a fistful of bar napkins and step forward. “Need a hand?”
