An annoyed huff escapes my lips.
He pushes a wave of dark brown hair off his forehead.“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“You think?”
“Maybe we should start over.I’m Luca Dubois—and you are?”He gestures theatrically.
What is with this guy?First, I thought he was rude and hated me, and now he’s being polite.He’s giving me whiplash with his mood roller-coaster.I’m having a hard time reading him, but it looks like I’m stuck here for a bit, and I suppose I started this whole charade by running into him.Plus, he’s drop-dead gorgeous.It’s not like I can embarrass myself any more than I already have.
“Ugh.Fine.I’m Jemma Jones.That’s Jemma with a J,” I play along, remembering how he said my name earlier when he passed me my ticket.
“That’s a strange way to spell Jemma.Shouldn’t it be Gemma with a G?”He raises an eyebrow, still grinning.A single dimple appears when he smiles.
“I thought you were going to be nice now.”I purse my lips.
He puts his hands up in surrender.“Sorry, you’re right, Jemma with a J.It’s a pleasure to meet you.”His dark, long eyelashes flutter, making his blue eyes sparkle even under the awful lighting.
I nod, shifting anxiously on my feet as the line inches forward, making me next.
“So, Paris for Christmas?”He tilts his head.
“Yes,” I respond.
He rocks on his heels.“Ah, going to have yourEmily in Parismoment, are we?”
“Awhoin Paris moment?”
“You know—the American show,Emily in Paris.”
My nose crinkles as the sting of being a workaholic for the past eight years squeezes in my chest.“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Everybody knows that show,” he insists.
“Well, I don’t,” I snap, my words coming out harsher than I intended.
My annoyance isn’t directed at Luca; it’s aimed at myself.I’ve missed out on so much—the dinners with friends and the celebrations I didn’t attend.It all stings deeply.I put work before everything else because I wanted to be perfect at my job—diligent, professional, and an overachiever.I wanted to be the person whom people would admire for her dedication to the company.But at what cost?In the end, it didn’t matter.My hard work went unacknowledged, and I ended up getting canned.Plus, my plan backfired on me in other ways I’m not ready to admit yet.
Luca frowns.“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.It’s just that a lot of Americans seem to really love that show.My city tends to draw a lot of dreamers, you know?”
I nod, keeping my head down, feeling foolish for my overreaction.He has no idea what’s going on inside my tightly wound brain.
A wave of relief washes over me when I finally hear the soft click of the bathroom lock.A tall, slender woman wearing a tiny yellow scarf around her neck and a fresh layer of bold red lipstick emerges.She holds the door open for me.I expect Luca to direct his attention toward the beautiful lady, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me, making me a bit flustered.
Luca steps forward with a playful glint in his eye.“Well, if you’re not going to—” he says as he grabs the door.
A small giggle escapes my lips.“First, my seat, and now my bathroom?I don’t think so.”I take the door from his grasp and glide underneath his arm, pulling it away from him.
“Alright, alright.You win,” he concedes, stepping back.“Have a fabulous time in Paris, Jemma Jones.”He flashes me a wink as I close the door.
What the hell is with this guy?
I hurriedly finish my business and find myself lingering in front of the mirror.I feel self-conscious about the way I look and give myself a pinch in the cheeks to bring some color back.I run my fingers through my hair as I cringe, thinking back to every interaction I’ve had with the handsome but very frustrating Frenchman.He’s cold, then he’s hot.But there’s something about him that draws me in but also drives me crazy.
Are all French men like this?
Taking a deep breath, I brace myself to see Luca again, but when I step out, he’s nowhere to be found.I let out a deep sigh that’s surprisingly tinged with disappointment.
Maybe, just maybe, Luca is starting to grow on me.
