Chapter 4
Lauren
Thank GodI’ve got a niceass.
Sweetie, make sure you always wear clean panties in case of an emergency,is what Mama used tosay.
Honestly, that’s probably the last thing I should be thinking about rightnow.
Only I can’t helpit.
Clearly, her advice should have been,Don’t wear an ass-baring thong, in case of anemergency.
“Are you okay,LB?”
Not really,I determine internally, but instead manage to mumble a swift “Mmmhmm” reply to Jules, who is, incidentally, pulling down the back half of my round skirt—an effort to cover my exposedtush.
Wobbling with my hands and knees on the cobblestone sidewalk, in front of my apartment building, my eyes survey the pathetic scene beforeme.
Sketches are strewn about. Feminine products, that were once inside the confines of my purse, are now displayed on the cement. And it looks as though my phone, that slid onto the street, may be wedged underneath the tire of the waiting towncar.
How I managed to tumble, is beyond me. One minute I was trekking, making my way to the curb so I could just hop in the town car when it pulled up. The next minute, I was down on all fours—and my skirt? Up. Bringing forth, a mighty exposé of my nicederrière.
I could literally feel the breeze skid across mybutt.
How many passersby or—even worse—how many of my nosy, cell-phone-photo-taking, neighbors got an unrestricted view of myass?
Dang.
Jules grabs hold of my arm to help me stand. “LB, you tripped on your high-heeled shoe; are you sure you’realright?”
I plaster on a wide smile, trying to downplay the pain of embarrassment. “I’m fine, Jules. I just need my sketches, my phone, and my tampons,” I whisper.Along with a moment of silence…for my freakin’ pride.“But, I doubt my phone survived being run over. Honestly, who runs over poor innocent cell phones?” I look down, brushing the scant amount of dirt off myknees.
“I, uh, think this belongs to you,” the announcement flows out of an unfamiliar-soundingvoice.
Not British. Not at all French. But definitely not something I hear much of here inParis.
Instinctively, I spin around, eager to discover who’s behind the sultry New York accent. Could it belong to the hot new neighbor who moved in across from me a few weeks ago? I’ve been dying to see him because all of the women in the building are gushing over him, sayin’ he’s some sort ofhottie.
Shucks.What if he saw myass?
Yet, apparently the voice only belongs to my newdriver.
The one who ran over myphone.
Great. Well, at least he’s easy on the eyes. Think Channing Tatum, only taller and embellished with a dimple-enhanced smile. At least from what I can tell. His brimmed hat and dark aviators shield most of his features. But he does have decadent-lookinglips.
Not that I’minterested.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my cracked phone from his hand. “Although it won’t do me any good now,broken.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about your phone. I didn’t exactly see it in the street,” he says, his tone tinged withsarcasm.
I shrug, then serve up a congenial nod as I shove my broken phone into my purse. “Isuppose.”
“My name is Jax—uh I mean Jack…Jack Moloney, by the way.” He extends his hand out to shake mine and I notice a glimpse of a tattoo on his wrist. It makes me immediately thinkbad boy. “I’m your new driver.”His dark eyebrows are raised high enough to display what seems to be a brazendisposition.
Wonderful. A tattoo-laced bad-boy driver.I need that just as much as I need that box of flowers I tossed into the waste bucket. Arabella would no doubt get a whopping kick out ofthis.
