The next three days flew by in a dizzying blur. Belle picked out a gazillion outfits for me—Leo told me she squealed when she heard I was going to Paris. She carefully packed them in several suitcases, also carefully avoiding me. It looked like I was leaving for a month-long trip, though Leo said we'd be gone for about a week. I wouldn't complain.

I was going to Paris.

I prepped some questions to ask Leo for his interview, emailed SHOW SoHo with the good news, and texted Daphne that all my dreams were coming true. She'd been to Paris before, so she sent me links to her favorite restaurants and sights to see. I saved them all to read on the plane.

We used Leo's other private jet—of course, he had several, based on his needs—to travel across the Atlantic. We landed in a secluded area of the Charles de Gaulle Airport, outside of Paris. The trip was long, exhausting. Leo spent most of it drinking and laughing with his staff, while I snuggled up on the cozy seats and napped.

I was glad I had a passport—a part of me always knew one day I'd get to leave the country—because the customs process was ridiculous and exaggerated. But once cleared, we were in a dark sedan with tinted windows, zooming over the French highways, headed towards Paris. My nose was glued to the window, drinking in all the sights. The flashy signs in French, the tiny tiny cars, the buildings, the lengthy meadows of green and yellow and brown.

When we swerved towards Paris proper, I didn't know if I was breathing anymore. It wasn't one cluster of structures and a few wide avenues—it was an enormous stretch of structures of all shapes and sizes and colors. Roads crowded with cars, with a backdrop of the gleaming, gorgeous Eiffel Tower. We arrived at night, so I got to see it twinkling in all its golden glory. To my pleasure, our hotel wasn't far from it.

"We'll go, don't worry," said Leo, watching me as I drooled at the marvelous structure of iron. "But we're saving it—the best for last."

The hotel we rolled into had its own courtyard, fenced in to protect it from curious onlookers and reporters. Inside the building, the floor-tiles were shiny marble, the walls like dripping gold, the check-in counter so polished it hurt my eyes to look at. Leo was a regular here—he checked us in in perfect fluent French, surprising me. The clerk seemed to know him well, receiving a warm hug from him.

Our room wasn't so much a room as it was a mini-penthouse. It had three bedrooms (one for us, the others for his staff), two bathrooms, a large living space, a kitchenette, and a narrow balcony overlooking the street below. And the Eiffel Tower.

As we entered the room, our belongings wheeled in on silver carts pushed by bell-boys, I ran to the window. I struggled with the latch to open it, to peer outside and take a whiff of the fresh French air. Well, not fresh, per se; it had the same sewer-fried food-pollution odor as New York City, but I loved it all the same.

"Fuck," I said, as I sensed Leo coming up behind me. "This place is just...wow."

He wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned down to set his chin on my shoulder. "I'm glad you like it, because this is nothing. Wait until we're actually on the street and exploring."

I passed out quickly, thanks to jet lag, but woke to a delicious breakfast of croissants, orange juice, and some of the best coffee I'd ever tasted. Everything I ate, saw, smelled was exquisite; all the way down to the fancy soaps and shampoos in the decadent white marble bathroom. Even the narrow but functioning shower.

And everything, I noticed, was so small. Not only the cars, but the portions, the rooms, the streets. Everyone was so friendly, which went against all the rumors I'd heard about the French. It could have been because Leo was a world-renowned and beloved celebrity, but being with him opened all sorts of doors and allowed us access to things I probably wouldn't have seen had I traveled without him.

Like when we walked to the Champs de Mars, a large expanse of grass before the Eiffel Tower, where many go to picnic or jog or walk through on their way to their destination. It was a rite of passage, he told me, to stop here, to sit on the pelouse (grass, in French) and gaze up at the tower.

But we got to sit up close, in an area most tourists or even locals didn't know about, and likely didn't have access to. Leo being Leo, he got us in. And he then staged a photoshoot there, thanks to his connections and his ability to speak French.

An hour passed, and I had dozens of pictures that would work wonderfully for my article about him. We'd gotten dressed up, wanting to look chic and Parisian. So he posed with the Eiffel Tower in the background, showing off his sleek suit, flashing his fancy footwear and expensive watch.

Later, we sat at a café, right out front on the sidewalk, where we'd normally be hounded by paparazzi. But here, Leo was left alone. Harassing people—celebrities or not—wasn't part of this particular Parisian lifestyle, so we went unnoticed. We sipped on red wine, enjoying a platter of charcuterie et fromage, watching citizens and tourists walk by. It was loud, but blissful; busy, yet so tranquil.

As we enjoyed an after-lunch coffee, I got out some of my questions to ask Leo for the interview. He answered lazily, between sips, more relaxed than he was in New York City. Paris was homey, and while I had no idea what anyone was saying most of the time, it felt so good here. So nice. A bustling town with so much less tension, a more routine lifestyle that I could see myself getting used to.

Next up—shopping on the Champs Elysées, as he'd promised. We started at the very beginning of the avenue, and far ahead of us, at the conclusion of one of the busiest streets in Paris, was the Arc de Triomphe, almost a blur against the Parisian canvassed sky.

I grew dizzy at all the steps we'd need to take, adding to those we'd already taken that day. The French walked a lot, didn't they?

Leo squeezed my hand. "It's much closer than it looks. It'll only take a few hours to reach the end, I promise."

I trusted him, so we set off, passing gardens and ancient buildings, first, before arriving at the more crowded part of the avenue, where the luxury boutiques, big brand-name stores, and famous restaurants overlooked the honking cars.

Here, we weren't as tranquil as we'd been at the café. The rules that had applied in that quartier weren't the same as here, on this enormous block of shops and places to eat. I heard the shutter of cameras, winced at the flashes. We ducked into stores quite often to avoid an onrush of reporters.

But every store we entered was more exclusive and expensive than the last.

We shopped—or more like Leo shopped, posing for me in the fitting rooms, or holding up wild shirts with colors he'd never wear, or staring at mannequins before exploding into laughter. We looked like two kids filming a silly documentary, not a celebrity rockstar and his fashion writer girlfriend working on a serious article.

Though I took a lot of staged pictures, Leo did buy a plethora of things. Several new suits, a few pairs of shoes, a hat, a wallet, a bag, too many watches to count. And he didn't leave me out—I received an almost brand-new wardrobe that I was sure Belle would have a fit over, because none of the items were red. But every piece of clothing was in good taste, and so expensive I feared ever wearing them.

As the sun set, we reached the end of the avenue, which happened to be not far from our hotel.

"Well," said Leo, checking his watch. "We could stroll to the hotel room and nap and have dinner brought to us...or we could go out."

I yawned, my legs in agony from all the walking...but I didn't want to call it a night yet. "Let's go out."

After making sure our bags of purchases were settled in the back of the car that had been following us around all day, Leo and I changed into one of the outfits we'd bought. While I fixed my makeup and hair, half crouched in the backseat, Leo smiled at me.

"You're having a good time?" He paused from fastening his tie around his neck. God, he looked so handsome in a suit, like a sexy businessman about to conclude some earth-shattering deal to save the world.

"I am." I'd forgiven him ten times over for what he'd done to me in NYC—abandoning me from seeing a photo of Cameron and I together. "This trip...I know it's only been a day, but it's everything I've ever dreamed of."

He blushed as he resumed his tie-tying. "And there's so much more to come. So many things to see in this city of love."

I threw my compact into my purse and stretched out my sore legs. "I can't wait."

The car drove us to a different side of town. A more quaint, older area with old-fashioned tables and chairs out front, gentle lighting along the buildings, pebbled sidewalks through crooked alleyways filled with life and music.

"The Marais," Leo said, as the car dropped us off before a tight passage loaded with people marching through. "One of my favorite places in town."

I could see why—it was lively without being overwhelming. Bright without blinding, a tight fit without squeezing. Folk we passed said "pardon" and "bonsoir!" without knowing who we were, without caring. Chalkboard menus drew our attention, and party music filtered out of the bars we swayed by, intriguing us.

We wound up at the end of the street, in a cozy, romantic restaurant that Leo said he'd heard great things about. The owners and wait-staff didn't speak a lick of English, so he translated everything for me. The specialty here were crepes, and not the tiny, over-sugared doughy stuff sold by street merchants back in NYC. This was a legitimate creperie. The scents wafting about the small dining area as we sat down absorbed me, whisked me off to another world.

Despite the busy sidewalk outside, this restaurant was empty. Not because of bad reviews or reputation, but because we were eating much earlier than the French usually did. They were still going from bar to bar for their aperitif, a common practice among Parisians that involved having a few drinks and appetizers before the main event.

"We'll do that tomorrow, if we have time," Leo said, as I watched a group of guys parade past the window next to which we sat. "I'm a bit too tired to give you the full evening experience."

I patted his hand. "Don't worry—after this, I'm going to pass the fuck out."

He stared at me, half his face covered by his menu. "Completely pass out? Not even time for..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

I squeezed his hand. "Maybe. We'll see what time we—"

My phone nearly buzzing off the table caught me off guard. I grabbed it, checking the screen to see what it was.

A text...from Cameron.

I hurried to hide the phone from Leo as he ordered us two crepes with ham, cheese, egg, and spinach.

Cameron: Hope you're having fun in Paris ♥

I almost forgot that we'd been posting to our socials throughout the day. I'd snapped a few selfies of us at the Champs de Mars, some pictures of our lunch, our coffees, and of the boisterous Champs Elysées. But why would that concern Cameron? And why would he text me something so short, so cryptic, yet so heavy with meaning?

He's watching us. Watching me.

What more could he want from me? He'd nearly broken Leo and I up with one tiny kiss on my cheek. If he planned to ruin our relationship, he had the tools to do so—his body—but why would he? If he cared an ounce about us, he'd quit his games now, before we all got hurt.

"All good?" When I lowered my phone to my lap, Leo was studying me. He jutted his chin at my phone. "What was that about?"

"Oh," I fumbled to erase the text and lock my cell back up, "Daphne. She's mad because I haven't gone up to the Eiffel Tower yet." I rolled my eyes with a bit more exaggeration than necessary.

Leo snorted, shaking his head. "Best for last, babe. Trust me."

"I trust you."

The wine he selected was smooth, silky, and while I enjoyed its deliciousness, I wriggled about with worry, with guilt. I didn't want to hide this from Leo, but what if he saw the text and made assumptions, and then ditched me in Paris? There'd be worse places to be stuck, for sure. And I had no doubt I could get help from Daphne or even Sapphire to get home safely if that were the case.

Deleting the text was the best idea.

We were having such a nice day, a lovely evening, with a promise of hot love-making once we returned to the hotel. Showing Cameron's text to Leo would destroy all that, and I didn't want to. I wanted to selfishly indulge in every aspect of this trip. Cameron could go fuck himself.

The crepes were every bit as delightful as I thought they'd be, and with full bellies, we strolled back up the street to find the car waiting for us.

Leo had one stop to make first—an isolated bakery at the edge of the Marais—and returned to the car with a sealed box wrapped in blue ribbon. When I tried to open it, he smacked my hands.

"Wait until we're in our room," he said, squeezing my thigh.

At the hotel, we fell into our suite with yawns and stretches, but Leo scooped me up and carried me to the bed as I giggled. He let me open the box at last, and I gasped—macarons.

"Authentic French macarons?" I squealed. "This is...Leo, this is perfect." I cupped his chin and pulled him close to kiss him.

To my surprise, he didn't let it be just a simple peck—he pressed hard into me, sneaking his tongue in to sample me. "Hmm," he found a macaron and brought it to my lips, "which do you prefer? Me, or the pastry?"

I meant to bite into the pastry as a response, but he moved the box to the nightstand and pushed me down, hovering over me.

"Wrong answer, my lady." His lips trailed along my neck, sending shivers to cascade down my spine. "I eat you first, then you can have the macarons as dessert."

♪♪♪