Page 115 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

This felt like more than just a token...and a million bucks proved it.

I ran my finger along one paragraph with his signature and stumbled across the date. That date didn’t match my start date at Baker Street. Dad made the investment in the company over a year after I started working there.

August to be exact. My mouth went dry. I knew that date. I didn’t have to search it. The date lined up with the end of my career at Baker Street. It corresponded with the Australia tour—and the end of my relationship with Conor.

“No.”

I pushed back from the table so quickly, papers spilled to the floor again. This time I didn’t bother to pick them up.

The date. The tour. Conor.

Oh, hell no.

***

Despite the song, I did not love Paris in the summer when it sizzled. For the tenth time in the back of this taxi, I peeled my bare thighs off the vinyl seat by shifting my body. I harbored no expectations of relief. They would soon stick to the new spot.

When the driver joined the traffic on Champs-Élysées and I spotted the Arc de triomphe, I knew we were très proche or proche enough. If I spent another minute in this car, I’d melt.

In my halting French, I asked the driver to pull over, and I handed him a fistful of Euros. When I stepped onto the sidewalk in the sweltering air, I tugged my silk slip dress over my damp thighs.

I glanced at the map on my phone once before tucking it in my crossbody bag. I didn’t want to look like a tourist—I wasn’t a tourist. I had business in Paris. Very important business.

My white sneakers hit the pavement, and I maneuvered around people taking selfies along the boulevard and dashing into the middle of the street to get a shot of the arc. Horns blared and French expletives poured from the windows of taxis and Ubers.

I patted a tissue on the back of my neck, bare beneath my very French up-do, and rounded one très fashionable corner. The hectic vibe of the main boulevard lessened, and the horse chestnut trees provided welcome shade, although my sneakers squelched against the dark pink blossoms on the ground, probably staining them forever.

I approached the gate and held up my passport for the guard to inspect. “Noelle Martine. He’s expecting me.”

“He’s expecting me too.”

I whirled around at the sound of Conor’s Irish accent in the middle of Paris. “What...”

Conor gave a little shake of his head, darting a gaze at the guard, and I recovered.

“Yes, he’s expecting Mr. Conor Flynn, also.”

The guard’s eyes widened for a second in recognition, and his hand shot out for Conor’s passport. “Papiers. Papers, please.”

Conor creased open his passport on the photo page and handed it over.

I held my breath as the guard spent several seconds glancing from Conor’s passport photo to his face. Maybe he already had strict orders to shoot him on sight.

Then he handed the passport back to Conor and opened the gate. “Bon jour.”

As we walked up to the solid green door, I tilted my head toward Conor’s. “What are you doing here?”

“Probably the same thing as you.”

“You couldn’t possibly be here for the same reason.”

“Oh, I think I am.”

“How did you know I was going to be here today? This can’t be a coincidence.”

“Ivy Chase’s brother, Matt, is very talkative when he wants to be—and very resourceful. Told him we had a little Five2Go emergency, and the guy was on it.” Conor shoved his sunglasses into his hair and squinted. “It was kinda scary, actually.”

“Yeah, don’t let the stoner persona and his fondness for Jane fool you. He’s dodgy.”