Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  Here and there, dozens of candles are set up on sloping pedestals. For a donation, you can light one in memory of someone. Almost all of them burn brightly, and something about the sentiment hurts my heart. I like to think that if I lost someone I love, I’d come to this exquisite place and let a flame burn in their name. It feels like the souls represented by the candles are walking among us, their ghosts lurking in Notre Dame’s dark corners, observing their visitors.

  After a few minutes, a beautiful, haunting music spirals through the air about me, and it takes a moment to realize it’s part of the church service. I wander back to the metal wall to see that a woman—a soprano—is standing, hands clasped, singing along with the organist. I recognize the music from a concert I attended with my parents when I was young. Handel’s Messiah.

  Her voice, this place, everything that surrounds me brings tears to my eyes, and I just stand there and watch her until the aria is complete. I’m not a religious person, but the experience makes me feel closer to some magnificent, mysterious entity. I feel mended, strong, small, big, all at once.

  I’m happy, so happy that I came to Paris.

  But I wish Conlon were here.

  Four o’clock has come and gone before I receive word from Conlon as to where we’re meeting for dinner. He offers to come get me, but I tell him to give me directions and that I’ll meet him at the restaurant. I suppose it’s my way of asserting myself again, declaring my independence. I have to admit, though, that I’m a little afraid that if he came over to get me, we’d never leave. Business associates or not, I want him a little too much to resist the opportunity to get him into my bed.

  He’s chosen a restaurant along the Seine called Deux chatons, part of which actually floats on the river. It’s not far from my place, and when I come upon it, I’m filled with the kind of delight that’s hit me about a million times since my arrival in Paris.

  Conlon’s already seated at a small table, a candle burning at its centre in preparation for the evening’s darkness to fall.

  “How are you, beautiful thing?” he asks as he stands to greet me.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, seating myself on the opposite side of the small table. He’s chosen to dine outside, on the wooden dock overlooking the river. Boats known as Bateaux Mouches cruise along slowly by us, tourists staring up at landmarks as we watch them in turn.

  Multicoloured lanterns hang all around us as the sky begins to turn shades of pink and orange. I feel like I’ve walked into yet another magical place, far from Paris or anywhere else. It’s no longer France, no longer even a city. We’re on our own gently rocking island, far from the madding crowd.

  “I chose this place for the location,” he tells me, “but also because of the music to come. I hope it’s all right.”

  “It’s perfect,” I tell him. “Speaking of music, I stopped in to see the inside of Notre Dame. It got me a little choked up.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” I want to tell him how badly I wished that he was there with me, but I stop myself behind the invisible emotional barrier that keeps springing up between us.

  His sexy lips curve up at the corners. For a second he reaches for me, then he pulls back, no doubt remembering my poorly thought out insistence that we keep things professional. “I have seen something far more beautiful,” he tells me, venturing into intimate territory.

  He’s flattering me again, and it’s going right to that place deep inside that sends bliss raging through my bloodstream.

  “Anyhow, let’s talk about the book,” he adds. I feel like a bucket of ice has just been dumped over my head. Cruel man, changing the subject like that.

  “Yes, fine,” I reply, trying my damnedest not to look forlorn.

  With a quick hand gesture he signals a waiter to come over. In impeccable French he orders a bottle of sparkling water and a carafe of red wine.

  “Okay,” I say, pulling out my notebook and a pen. “Let’s start with your life before you owned the company. Do you want to fill me in?”

  “Not particularly,” he tells me. He’s studying me with those blue eyes of his, his mind working on something. “But I will if I must. First, though, let me order some food. Is fish okay?” I nod as he summons the waiter over.

  We speak about an assortment of topics until our food arrives—salmon and escargot, which I discover tastes quite a lot like soggy cashews soaked in butter. He tells me about his childhood, about where he lived just outside of London. His education at Oxford. Everything, of course, except for his feelings. Everything but the personal bits where he admits how much it broke him up to see Galen hurt. How much it hurt to lose his mother. Or lose his father, for that matter.

  He’s closed himself off again, avoiding those topics like the freaking plague.

  Eventually, as promised, a young woman and a man come along and seat themselves by an old piano a few feet from us. As the man begins to play, the woman starts singing a heartfelt, sad, beautiful French song, and we both stop talking to listen.

  Conlon leans forward, elbows on the table, and closes his eyes. The song is familiar; I’ve heard it before in a Woody Allen movie or somewhere. Even without understanding the lyrics I can tell that it’s bittersweet, and it’s got to be about love.

  “What was that song about?” I ask quietly when it’s over. I’m leaning forward too, and our faces are close. When Conlon opens his eyes I can see every line in his irises, the light blue intensity penetrating the surrounding darkness.

  “It’s called ‘Je ne regrette rien.’ It’s about a young woman who claims she regrets nothing of her past—not the good, not the bad that people have done to her. Not her own mistakes. She’s singing to her lover. She says she has no regrets because now she has him. Nothing else matters to her anymore; she can forget all the ugly memories because she loves him so much.”

  My heart pounds as his lips move. There’s so much meaning behind those words, and I can relate to them so damn well. I came to Paris to leave an old life full of regrets behind me. Now I’m sitting at a table across from a man who’s worked spells on my heart, and I want to be happy about it. I want to tell him that I have no regrets, because my life led me to this place, to him. But I can’t.

  “Do you think she’s right?” I ask. “Do you think it’s possible to leave the past in the past?”

  “I’m not sure, but I envy her,” he replies. “I envy the confidence to be able to say such a thing to someone. To say I love you, and that’s all that matters in this world.”

  “Have you ever told anyone you love her?”

  He shakes his head and looks away. “Never.”

  “Because you were afraid to?”

  “No. It wasn’t cowardice; it was honesty.”

  “You’ve really never been in love?”

  “No. The closest I’ve come…” He stops himself and takes a swig of wine.

  “The closest you’ve come is…?”

  “A woman I met at an airport in New York. I’ve come perilously close to letting myself fall very, very hard for her.”

  “Really?” I ask, my heart’s powerful beats threatening to drown out the music.

  He nods. “Really.” He’s looking at me with that hunger in his eyes again. That sexy, alluring gaze of his is pulling me in, and I find myself leaning forwards, a smile on my face.

  That’s it. No more arms’ length. No more barriers. I should just tell him what I’m feeling, let it out and see where the chips fall.

  “Conlon, I want to tell you…” I begin. I want to tell him I’ve changed my mind. That I’m willing to take the risk and open up my heart. That I’m falling hard for him, too.

  But he interrupts before I can complete the thought.

  “It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “I know what you’re going to say; you want to keep things professional. It’s for the best, of course. You’re leaving soon and I’m…well, I’m useless. I don’t do well with women, Adriana. Ask any
of my exes, if you can even locate one. You’d be better off without me. We’re not meant to be.”

  Not meant to be.

  And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The words every woman dreads hearing from a man she’s grown to care about.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. After convincing myself to open up my heart to him, he’s proven what a bad idea that is. The man has managed both to pull me in close and shoot me down within a matter of seconds. What a concise way to tell me that nothing will ever evolve between us.

  Just in case I was foolish enough to think that maybe, just maybe, I was worthy of a man like Conlon Davies, he’s let me know I’m not, that a relationship between us could never happen. After holding my hand, kissing it last night, after our intimate phone call, he’s let me know that even though he nearly fell for me, he was able to just shut it down because hell, I don’t actually mean anything to him.

  I hesitate for a moment and then push my chair back and rise to my feet. This guy’s a billionaire, right? He can afford to pay for dinner. “I’m suddenly not feeling so great,” I tell him. “I’m going back to my apartment. Tell your assistant or someone to send me information for the book, and I’ll think about it. Good night, Conlon.”

  I stand up and walk away, and I don’t look back.

  Twenty-Three

  Conlon

  Bollocks. Why am I such an unmitigated disaster? Telling her it isn’t meant to be is cruel, narcissistic. It’s a manipulative, bullshit thing to say, and I know perfectly well that I’ve hurt her with it. She’s no fool. And she’s worth so much more than my weak attempts to push her away from my heart.

  I’m a damned coward, despite my claims to the contrary. She was right about that. I’m scared of what love might do to a man like me.

  I drop a hundred euros on the table and dash after her. She’s already made her way up the stairs from river to street level, and is crossing back into the fifth arrondissement. So like an idiot I chase her, darting through oncoming traffic to make my way closer. When I’ve reached her she’s turning onto a narrow street not wide enough for cars. She’s already a Parisian; she already knows the shortcuts and escape routes away from awful, stupid men.

  I grab her arm and twist her around, desperate to explain myself. Tears are rimming her eyes, reminding me of what an utter shite I am.

  “Adriana,” I say. “Forgive me, please.”

  “For what? Being honest? You just said it; it’s not meant to be between us. You know, I was about to say that I’m willing to put myself at risk and see where things went with us, because I like you, Conlon. I like you a lot, even if it’s foolish of me. And I thought, for some stupid reason, that you liked me too. I just wish you’d stop teasing me with whatever this is,” she chokes, flapping her hand between her chest and mine. “Stop acting so attracted to me, telling me you were falling for me, then pushing me away. I’m not your toy. It’s fucking cruel to play with my emotions like that. I didn’t come to Paris to meet someone, you know. I came here to prove to myself that I didn’t need a man in my life. I came here because I wanted to find out that I’m strong. But you make me feel weak. Over and over again, and it’s not fair. I don’t need this act of yours, or whatever it is.”

  “No, you’re right; it’s not. But you should know that there’s no act, Adriana,” I tell her. “I am so attracted to you that it’s not even funny.”

  “No, it’s not funny in the least,” she replies. “It’s also not funny to be told that you felt something for me, but you turned it off like a fucking light switch. Either you feel it or you don’t; the human heart doesn’t work like a lamp.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. It’s just—” I press my shoulder to the wall, crossing my arms, “mine burnt out a long time ago, and I’ve never quite figured out how to get it working again.”

  “Okay, so you admit it.” She’s ready to yell at me now, I can tell. I almost want her to let me have it, to tell me I’m a total arse and to slap some sense into me. But she’s too damned kind. “You admit that you’re cold and withdrawn. That’s fine, Conlon. But you know what? I don’t need or want to waste time on someone who admits that he’s fucked up. Someone who makes me feel like he’s into me, but turns around and lets me know in no uncertain terms that he could never properly give a crap about me or anyone. I don’t want to be hurt by a man who admits his heart may as well not even exist.”

  “You really think that’s how things are?” I ask, pulling myself straight and stepping towards her. I want to grab her, to kiss some sense into her. To show her exactly how intense my feelings are. “You really believe that I don’t feel anything for you?”

  “I believe your dick is excited by me; it’s the only truly honest part of you. The rest of you seems to think I’m nothing more than a toy to taunt with hints that something more could happen, but probably won’t because, you know, commitment and feelings and mature human emotion. Come on, we both know it’s the truth. We both know that anything real between us would be impossible, even if I were staying here more than a couple of weeks.” She presses her back to the stone wall of the building behind her as a couple of tourists make their way past us, raising their eyebrows curiously. A genuine romance gone horribly wrong. They couldn’t ask for a more Parisian drama.

  “Adriana, it’s only impossible because I’m making it impossible,” I tell her. Fuck, Galen’s right about me, about my feelings. “The God’s honest truth is that I’m frightened of what it might mean to grow close to you.” I back off, pulling away to look her straight in the eye. I’m ready to show her my vulnerable side, because this may be the only chance I ever get. After tonight I may not see her again. “I’ve never met a woman like you. I don’t know how to be around you.”

  “I’ve never met a man like you, either. But I was still willing to take a chance on you, despite the risks. I would have done it. I would have tried.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I want you, but I don’t want to mislead you. I like you far too much for that.”

  “Mislead me? Like, by making me think you could give a flying fuck about me? By telling me you could have fallen for me?” She makes a huffing sound like she’s had enough, then turns and starts to walk away. No doubt she’s thinking that I’m the hugest arse who’s ever lived. Well, one thing is certain: I’m terrible at this opening-my-heart thing. I follow her, trying hard to sort through the next words carefully before I unleash them.

  “I could fall in love with you so easily that it terrifies me.”

  I have never said anything like that to a woman. Never. She has no idea how hard it was to admit that she could have my heart. That she could have the power over me, reduce me to a quivering mess. I never knew that love could feel like such a weakness and such a strength, all at once.

  She stops, freezing in place. I watch her hands ball into fists then release at her sides. Slowly she turns and looks at me, her beautiful eyes shimmering under the street lamps.

  “I could fall in love with you, too,” she says. “But I’m not going to let myself, Conlon. Because you’d never let me.”

  Twenty-Four

  Adriana

  After I’ve said what I need to, I turn and keep walking, determined to put distance between Conlon and myself as quickly as possible. It’s for the best. He’s too much of a hot mess—hell, we both are. This thing of ours has gotten way too hard, way too fast.

  I’m a few blocks from my apartment when I turn to look back. No sign of the handsome, aggravating billionaire. He’s gone home, I suppose. My heart sinks, even though I know I should be glad to be rid of him.

  The rest of the walk is a blur of tears and violently shifting emotions. My heart is doing a conga dance in my chest, but not in a good way.

  If I were younger and less experienced I’d probably just be flattered that such a man—a sexy, gorgeous, brilliant billionaire—was paying attention to me. But I’ve already been through love’s wringer. I know how much it hurts to think somethi
ng is right for me and realize how wrong I was; I’m not willing to make the same mistake all over again. I need to find my strength and to prove to myself that I’m not that kid anymore; I’ve learned my lessons the hard way.

  I climb the stairs to the flat, able to at least congratulate myself on sticking to my resolve. I stood up for myself, and escaped a potentially dangerous situation tonight. I walked away from an almost irresistible man. I proved that I can be strong.

  Moving towards one of the tall living room windows, I pry it open and step out onto the narrow balcony, inhaling Paris’s evening air into my deprived lungs. Maybe tomorrow I’ll run away to some other place on a train. Mont St. Michel, or Rouen. Or I could wander about Montmartre, or something. Anything, so long as I do it alone, and on my own terms.

  I shut my eyes and just breathe. This is good. I will be fine. I am strong and resilient, and fuck Conlon Davies.

  “Adriana.”

  Oh, great. Now I’m hearing his voice in my head, like a damned spectre. I thought I said fuck him.

  “Adriana!”

  My eyes pop open with the realization that I’m not imagining the voice. It’s echoing off the building opposite mine and up to my ears.

  Conlon is below me.

  He’s standing under the window, looking up. I’m freaking Juliet on her balcony. I’d be willing to bet that Juliet never said “Fuck Romeo,” though.

  Damn it, Conlon. Why couldn’t you just have been some normal, boring guy who’s fun to fuck but who doesn’t play with every damned one of my heart strings?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, wrapping my fingers hard around the wrought iron railing as I stare down at him. Angry, I tell myself. Be angry.

  “I’d very much like to talk. May I come up, please?”