Chapter 15
Lauren
It’s laterin the evening now, and I’m back home. I have barely time left to shower, pick out a cute dress, and do my hair and makeup before I hitch a ride down the elevator to meet Mr. Hottie in the lobby for our coffeedate.
My date with Simon tonight is a fabulous way to end a fabulous day.La Boutiquewas beyond ecstatic aboutCraveMebeing the first advertiser. Even more so when I shared that Antonio will reveal his new brand inHaute Couture Magazine. I’ve said it—Haute Couture Magazine—at least a dozen times today, happy with the way it sounds rolling off my tongue. New.Debonair.
When I step off the elevator, Simon is waiting for me; his steamy blues scan over me—down, then up—cruising my curvy figure. I used to hate that I wasn’t a size zero, one, two, or three, like my evil twin,Becky.
Now I rock my size eight curves. And so do the models I hire, none of them a size below aneight.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, that accent making me forget how tothink.
Heat rushes to my face. I don’t even care if he can tell I’m blushing. “Hi,” is all I can musterup.
Hey, if you saw him, you’d be mush,too.
Trustme.
Jeans. Jacket. Designer shoes. A smile hot enough to melt Elsa and her ice castle. Not Olaf. Way toocute.
“Are you ready?” he says, his voice a lovelyhum.
“Youbet.”
We stroll to the parking garage, and as we approach a Jag, a sportysexytwo-seater, I hear thechirp-chirpsound of the alarm as he points the key remote, unlocking thedoor.
Impeccable taste in cars too. See,man of mydreams.
I slide in, after he opens the car door forme.
All gentleman-y.
We zip out of the parking garage, onto the magical streets of Paris, the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower all aglow. No matter how many times I see it, my heart literally skips abeat.
Simon’s penetrating gaze probes my face. “I, uh, thought we’d have dinner instead of coffee. Especially since that dress of yours is far worthy of more than a simple coffee date. How about we venture out to one of my favoriterestaurants?”
I bob my head. “That sounds,wonderful.”
Truthfully, anything he voices sounds wonderful. Even a simple clearing of histhroat.
He smells like fine European cologne featured in an online article I read onBritish GQ.Prada, Bulgari, orCartier. Heck, for all I know, he can be wearing his own personalized scent ofYummyMan.
“So”—I cross my legs—“where are weheaded?”
“A surprise?” Hewinks.
Oooh, playful. I likethat.
Twenty minutes later, he vrooms into a parking space alongside the curb and cuts the engine, before he gets out and walks around to open my door. We walk, side by side for only about thirty seconds. When we turn the corner, we come face-to-face with the facade of Arpège—a three-Michelin-starredrestaurant.
My mouth slackens. “Thisis your favoriterestaurant?”
“Well, the food here is pristine. Perhaps after tonight it shall beourfavoriterestaurant?”
Simon guides me through the entrance, his hand grazing my back, sending insta-chills all over mybody.
“Bonjour, MonsieurGrant,” says the host, “c’est super de vous revoir. I see you have a reservation for”—his wondering eyes glaze over me—“two?”
