Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

Helen on the street that morning and told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met—the muse he’d been searching for his entire life. His soul would be tormented until she allowed him to paint her.

I think he was drunk.

Everyone was talking all at once, mostly speaking English, much to my great relief. Even though I could only catch snippets of conversation, the familiar hum was soothing. The thought of being able to sit here and just listen was a respite. Until Pablo pointed out a smart-looking woman across the table, hanging on every word of the handsome man who sat next to her. Her name was Pauline. Pablo said she was a correspondent for Vogue, and she had even discovered new fashion talent and had given them their big break by featuring them in the magazine.

She was someone I needed to know.

Her black bob fell just above her chin. Her bangs cut a sharp line across her forehead, showcasing wide-set eyes. Everything about her—from her flawless makeup to her expensive suit to the emerald earrings swinging from her earlobes—seemed effortlessly stylish.

After I made it down to Pauline’s end of the table, her handsome man found a chair for me. He placed it between them.

Pauline introduced him as Ernest, but she called him Hem. She started talking about me as if I weren’t there, saying I was pretty—just Hem’s type.

It made me uncomfortable, but not as much as when he agreed.

I was relieved when Pauline told him to fetch us a bottle of champagne and he complied.

Then Pauline began asking about my work. I almost couldn’t contain myself when she said she’d look at my sketches.

I asked her when she was available, but before she could respond, Hem returned with the champagne. He popped the cork, spewing the liquid at me. People cheered, except for Pauline, who rolled her eyes and handed me a napkin. She told me to ignore Hem, that he was celebrating a newly published book. It had been well received and he was quite full of himself.

As she berated him for making a spectacle of himself and wasting good champagne, it only seemed to egg him on.

He grabbed my hand, pulled me into his arms, and began tangoing with me, weaving us through the tables, pressing his body to mine. I wanted to disappear. I couldn’t look at Pauline, but I could feel her eyes burning a hole in my back.

I knew I had to gracefully dance away from Hem or risk losing my connection to Vogue, but just when I thought I was free, Hem reeled me in and dipped me back. I turned my head to the side just in time for his sloppy, openmouthed kiss to land between my neck and collarbone.

When he righted me, the world was spinning.

Six

January 1, 2019—11:00 a.m.

London, England

The next morning, the sun smiles at me through the window of my upstairs bedroom, bestowing the promise of a brand-new year. A brand-new decade.

And the promise of Aiden.

Cressida could totally redeem herself with him. He doesn’t seem to bear any resemblance to The Stiffer, The Sniffer, or The Quitter. Then again, technically, I found him first. Maybe she shouldn’t get credit.

A quick glance at the alarm clock informs me that it’s a few minutes past 11:00. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shove my feet into fleece-lined slippers before pulling on my robe.

The rest of the house is quiet and probably will be until well into the afternoon, given how much fun Cressida and T seemed to be having when I left the party.

I make my way downstairs thinking Marla might have slept on the couch since she got in late, but there’s no sign of her or any indication she’s been home. My pulse thuds as at least a dozen grim possibilities of where she ended up pop into my mind. Jail? Dumpster? Jesse’s bed?

But she does have her cell phone. She could’ve called.

Did she call? Did I sleep through it?

I speed walk up the stairs to my bedroom and fish my phone out of my purse. There are two texts: one from Marla and one from Aiden.

I look at Aiden’s message first.

Happy New Year. Text me when you get back from Paris. I want to see you.

My stomach flips. Before I can overthink it, I text back.

Happy New Year to you. Still firming up Paris plans. More soon.

I type an xo, but I delete it before sending and move on to Marla’s message, which completely deflates my good mood.

Happy New Year, Hannah. Just wanted you to know that I won’t be home tonight. It’s not what you think. M.

It’s not what you think.

Okay.

What am I supposed to think when Jesse was all over her last night at the party playing grab-a-boob?

On second thought, I don’t want to know.

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

At least she’s okay. She let me know she wouldn’t be home. She stepped out of her own little world long enough to consider that I might worry if she didn’t show up. Part of me is happy I didn’t have to share a bed with her after all.

She’s a grown woman who can do what she wants.

A grown woman who has slept with a lot of men.

But until now, none of them were my friends.

It’s embarrassing when your mother’s indiscretions are ripe for post-party gossip.

I should’ve insisted that she and I stay home.

Then again, if I hadn’t gone to the party, I wouldn’t have run into Aiden.

I go downstairs and make a cup of coffee, which I take into the bathroom with me, setting it on the vanity next to my phone while I turn on the shower tap.

Twenty minutes later, I emerge with wet hair wrapped in a towel. I’ve pulled on a cozy exercise outfit, though no exercise is on today’s agenda. I have more important matters to tend to, such as finding Marla a place to stay tonight.

What if