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“When would you want the campaign to begin?” I ask.
“We can work on the creative as soon as we sign the contract,” he says.
I shove all thoughts of the kiss I shouldn’t have given Jules far, far away. “Great. But let’s chat about the terms though. I have some concerns,” I say, shifting firmly into negotiation mode, and out of romantic mode.
* * *
A little later, I say goodbye to Henri and to my international colleagues at Streamer, who can handle the rest of the deal.
There. I made it through that meeting without revealing that my head is elsewhere. When I leave, I’m focused on my agenda for the rest of the day, mentally reviewing my meetings and my goals as I stride by elegant artwork, pushing past the double doors out to the street.
But once I’m outside, the distractions hit me in full force.
Paris. Paris is the goddamn distraction. I could wander down a rain-soaked street with Jules, duck into a brasserie with her, kiss her under a streetlamp.
It’s like she’s everywhere in this city.
I check my watch. I’m free for an hour and a half, and that’s annoying. My assistant built time in my schedule to get around the city, but I don’t want it right now. I want something to do. Somewhere to be, so I can stop thinking about where Jules is. What she’s doing. How close she is to me.
I was doing so great for the last few weeks in New York. Resisting her had become easy enough.
But one afternoon with her in Paris, and she owns my thoughts. One kiss, and I’m replaying it on a loop. It was slow and passionate yet fleeting, like it didn’t even happen. That has to be why she’s all I thought of last night in my hotel room. As I got into bed, I imagined spending the hours till dawn making her cry out in bliss, then taking her to breakfast, seeing the wonder in her eyes as she watched the city wake up and come to life.
When I pass the Mandarin Oriental, I tear my gaze away from the sleek hotel so I don’t fixate on what I’d do with Jules in a hotel room.
When I turn toward the Tuileries Gardens, that’s no better. Of course I’ll think of her if I walk past another set of goddamn gardens.
I grit my teeth, trying, valiantly trying, to walk off these thoughts. But the more distance I log, the more persistent my mind becomes. We’re thousands of miles from home. The distance is like a permission slip. I’d wanted to run into her yesterday. I’d known when her plane landed. I’d hoped to see her, engineered that moment.
But I can’t keep seeking out chance encounters. The more time I spend with her, like I did at the diner in New York with Zach, like I did at the café and gardens yesterday, the more time I’llwantto spend with her.
Trouble is, I have to see her this afternoon at the photo shoot and I’m more excited about her than I am about the flagship show of my new acquisition.
* * *
I arrive at the studio in Le Marais that afternoon and remind myself I’m here to make an appearance, meet the executive producer, and say hello to the cast.
That’s all.
I take the stairs to the third floor then turn into a wide, concrete corridor that echoes loudly on the way to the studio. Then, it echoes in chorus as someone else turns the corner.
Two someones. One is a woman in khaki pants and a pink Oxford, clutching a phone and a tablet. I recognize her crisp businesslike appearance from photos and research—she’s the show’s executive producer.
The other someone? My obsession.
The producer stops and offers a closed-mouth smile before she says, “You’re the new boss.”
Jules answers, gesturing to me. “Solange Marina, this is Finn Adams. He runs Streamer now, as you know. And Mr. Adams, this is our EP. Solange is from Montreal and has produced a handful of award-winning shows on Webflix and LGO, includingUnfinished Business.”
I take her hand and we shake. “That show was terrific. I was glued to the ending, and Jamie made the right choice when he moved across the country with Zoe.”
Solange’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t quite smile. Instead, she gives an approving nod. “Ah, well, I might like you now and then.Might.”
“Now and then works just fine for me,” I say. Being well-liked is not my work goal.
“Then you’re welcome here as long as you don’t meddle,” Solange says dryly. The comment is meant to land as a joke, but it’s clear she means it. She doesn’t want me to interfere.
“I only meddle in my brother’s projects.”
