The television over the bar is broadcasting some news channel that’s obviously all in French. A photo of some random Kardashian pops up that requires no translation. The groan from the Parisian woman a few stools down, the only other patron in the bar, says it all.
“No wonder they all hate us,” she mutters without so much as a hint of a European accent before sipping her wine. The shock must be written all over my face because she casts a quick glance in my direction and apologizes.
“No, it’s cool, it’s just . . . you’re American,” I reply with a little too much awe in my voice. Hell, she even has the nerve to have a little southern twang.
“I am. As are you.” She smiles, shaking her head. “Of course they see just a tiny glimpse into our culture and think we’re all like that. I just wish that glimpse had nothing to do with sex tapes or selfies or publicity stunts.”
I simply smile back and nod, merely grateful for a little taste of home.
“After the year I just had, I’m pretty much done with all things attention-seeking,” she continues. “Again, sorry. I’m just rambling now. Please, let me buy you another beer for disrupting your evening. It’s just nice to be able to speak English without feeling like an ignorant moron.”
“Not necessary,” I assure her. “I know how you feel. It’s been months since I was on U.S. soil.”
“Months? Extended vacation?”
I shrug, not really knowing what to say. Of course, I have an alias with a whole backstory when I want anonymity, but I don’t get the vibe that this girl is a crazy. For one, she’s alone in an empty bar like me, watching news she can’t understand. Plus she’s dressed modestly in something a Sunday school teacher would wear.
“I’m a musician,” I offer. “We’re on tour.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. What do you play?” she asks, seeming genuinely interested without coming off as overly eager. She doesn’t know who I am, which honestly is pretty fucking great. In her eyes, that I now see are a glimmering emerald green, I’m not some self-destructive rocker.
“Just about everything. And I sing lead.”
She nods appreciatively, and smiles, those green eyes sparkling with admiration. “Wow. That’s exciting. Anything I may have heard? You’ll have to forgive me . . . I’m not really up-to-date on current musicians. Honestly, my last rock and roll purchase was Soundgarden in high school, and the reverend, aka my father, was furious about it.”
I stifle a laugh, because she’s sorta fucking adorable. I find her cluelessness endearing . . . refreshing even. I’m surrounded with people that only really put up with my bullshit because they think my name means something or they want to carry out some stupid rock star fantasy. And to be in the presence of someone that could give a fuck less about any of that, yet wants to talk to me anyway, almost makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . normal? Like an actual fucking person for a change, instead of an icon or a conquest to brag to her girlfriends about.
She blushes scarlet and shakes her head before shielding her face with her hands. “Oh God, I must sound pathetic, huh? And I’ve offended you. Forgive me. Please . . . just ignore me. I promise to shut up now.”
I don’t know what prompts me to abandon my bar stool in exchange for one closer to hers, but I do. And soon I’m smiling at her . . . like seriously fucking smiling with teeth and shit.
“You’re not pathetic, and you didn’t offend me. Not at all.”
When she lifts her face from her palms, those bright green eyes widen with shock at my proximity. Shit. I didn’t mean to scare her, but it felt stupid to keep hollering across the bar.
“I didn’t?” she asks, her voice timid.
“No. Not at all. I know what it’s like to grow up in a deeply religious family. Preacher’s kid here too. Baptist.” I nod.
“Yikes.” She grins, loosening up a bit. “So you know all about the evils of secular music. Apparently, the devil was a guitar player.”
“Really? I thought he was a drummer.”
We share an easy laugh. The kinda laugh that you have when you’re genuinely having a good time. When Green-eyes lifts her champagne flute to her rose-painted lips and polishes off the bubbly, I offer to buy her another.
“I shouldn’t. That’s probably enough celebrating for me.”
“Celebrating?” I look around the empty bar, wondering if I missed something.
She nods, mindlessly tracing the lip of the glass with a blush-painted fingertip. “As of this afternoon, my divorce is final. I never thought I’d have the guts to do it. My ex-husband . . . his family . . . they’ve got money and clout and power. And I endured a lot just to live in that shadow. But not anymore. Not ever again. So in the spirit of independence, I decided to hop on a plane to Paris by myself. Which honestly . . . ?”
“Yeah?” I urge, captivated by every word that falls from her lips. They’re fuller than I expected. Shit, her mouth is almost X-rated.
“It really sucks.” She tips her head back and laughs with delight. I study the sound, draw it inside me. It rings of newfound happiness. It sounds like freedom.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she adds, once she’s calmed down, “Paris is a gorgeous city. And while I don’t miss my ex or my old life at all, experiencing all this beauty alone is depressing. I’ve been here half a dozen times, but I never just got to be here . . . no plan, no schedule. Just me. And I’m just not that interesting, if you couldn’t tell from my rambling.”
“No, I feel the same way. About being lonely in the city, not about you.”
My words give her pause, and I mentally kick myself for going too far. Shit, I’m out of practice. I’m rusty as fuck. But am I really even trying to go there with this chick? I don’t want to feed her any bullshit lines or anything like that. I just like talking to her. It’s been so long since anyone’s actually talked to me with the intention of just interacting. Not trying to gauge my mind-set to ensure I’m not spiraling or using. This stranger is the closest I’ve been to anyone since . . .
“Doesn’t feel so lonely right now.” She smiles at me before shaking her head as if she can’t believe she just said that. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . weird. This is the most fun I’ve had since I got here. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
I shrug. “Well, I guess I’ll be ridiculous too. This is the most fun I’ve had . . . in a long time.”
She gives me another sweet smile and extends her hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you kindred, ridiculous stranger in a bar.”
I take her soft hand in mine and fight the urge to bring it to my lips. “You too. I’m Ransom Reed.”
“Ransom.” She grins like the very sound of the syllables on her tongue pleases her. “I like that. I’m Lorinda. Lorinda Cosgrove. Well, formerly Cosgrove. Old habits die hard, eh?”
“Yeah, some of them,” I reply, flashing her a wink. “Usually the ones that are bad for you.”
“Do you have many bad habits, Mr. Reed?” she flirts back, her smile radiating warmth and solitude. I just want to sit here and bask in the feel of it on my skin.
“I used to,” I answer truthfully, still cradling her hand in my grasp. I gently brush the top of her knuckles with my thumb. “Not anymore.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST, I have to thank my family for allowing me the space and time to create my eighth novel. Writing and publishing is a team effort, and if it weren’t for their patience and motivation, I never would have made it through this. There is nothing I could ever write that could fully express how much I love and appreciate you all.
To my readers—Never could I have imagined that there would be people from different parts of the globe, reading something I created. In these words, although fictional, I have shared a piece of myself with you. Thank you for allowing me to do so. Thank you for your undying support and love. The posts, the comments, the emails . . . you all are incredible.