24 Hours in Paris

Chapter One

She was Mira Attwal.

He was Jake Lewis.

And while they worked for the same company, the similarities ended there.

"I know liquor isn't wine," Jake finally said. "And so does he." He gestured to his colleague. "And everyone." He gestured to the air. "Which is why when you say it, it's kind of interchangeable." He nodded as if to convince himself that his word salad was legit.

"Thanks for the clarification."

Mira's eyes bore deep into Jake's forehead, as she wondered about the size of the brain knocking around in that oversize skull.

Mira worked in branding.

Jake worked in sales.

And aside from this five-day business trip, they'd never interacted as coworkers even once.

Of course, that didn't mean she'd never noticed him before at the office. It also didn't mean she'd never thought of him, sometimes even for an hour or two, after those rare occasions when they'd shared
an elevator and she'd found herself ogling his jawline, or, depending on where he'd been standing, the outline of his ass. But did she have to admit either of those things when he was acting in such a drunken, slovenly fashion? Certainly not.

She studied his face. "Is that oyster juice on your chin?"

Looking slightly embarrassed, Jake grabbed a napkin and wiped it off.

Apart from some time spent studying his physical attributes, Mira only knew Jake from the grandiose persona he'd projected in their meetings during the past few days. She hadn't been impressed by all the showmanship, which made it satisfying to embarrass him during this dinner. Did that make her a bad person? Maybe. Or maybe it was just that his big, greasy dome of hair needed to be brought down a peg (or two).

To Mira's disappointment, his embarrassment was all too brief, his confidence now restored at the sight of the pretty waitress he'd been scoping out all night. By Mira's estimation, the waitress had been doing a very good job; clearing the plates in a timely manner and replacing each carafe before the water got too low—she was a winner. Still, Mira had a feeling that Jake wasn't interested in her customer service.

"You're back," he observed, eyes zeroed in on the kill.

The waitress's only response was a look of coyness.

As Mira wondered which pickup line he'd choose from the greasy-salesman starter pack, she saw him reach into his brown leather workbag and found herself instantly intrigued. She wondered if there was a long-stemmed rose inside that bag. It could've been a napkin and she'd be equally enthralled, as she'd been starved for entertainment since the start of these company dinners.

Night after night, she'd been a bored observer of coworkers gobbling up foie gras this and braised rabbit that, all while getting drunk at these long wooden tables—and always at restaurants that weren't even on her Paris bucket list. She'd tried to stretch their imaginations, but no one had seemed on board with her idea for a picnic at Luxembourg Gardens, or a stroll along the riverbank with handheld crêpes and the sparkling Eiffel Tower as the backdrop.

So here she was, on their final night, with the saga of Jake and the waitress as her only form of entertainment.

Jake's hand emerged from the bag, his fingers clutching a
lavender-colored can of flavored sparkling water called Bloom. Jake was the top salesman at Bloom, but for the moment he was more like Vanna White as he proudly showcased the newest flavor in the company's line of botanical-based, calorie-free fizz. "Now, Chloe . . ." he started.