Chapter 2

ALAN

There's an incredible wrongness about waking up feeling like a bag of shit in the most expensive suite in a five-star hotel in one of the most visited places in human history. I'm talking about Paris, of course.

My head pounds like I have a little person caged in there that is tired of being locked behind my skull and wants out. It's a very unpleasant feeling, and I know without a doubt that it's going to be a crappy day.

Still, I pull my body out of the soft bed, fighting the saner part of me that keeps insisting I sleep in. I have a meeting with a business partner in a few hours, and while it's not uncharacteristic for Alan Dirkman to skip his meetings, I don't think it's a good idea for me to stay indoors today.

Grudgingly, I make my way to the bathroom, intent on getting to the end of today as soon as possible.

The man sitting across from me has eyes the color of dark chocolate, and his wild bush of a mustache twitches nervously with each word he forces out of his mouth. We've been talking for over an hour, and during that time, he's avoided eye contact with me entirely.

It's all very boring, and it's obvious it's not going to get better, so I look out through the window and take in Paris.

I'm not one for needless dramatics, and I like to say things as they are, but damn, it's like I just stepped into a fairyland. Paris stretches around me in every direction like an unrolled map, and despite myself, I take in a deep breath, savoring the site.

Then, predictably, almost like I'm in a play with a preordained script, my mind drifts back to her, and I can't help the way my heart begins to hammer in my chest. It's like Paris has suddenly lost its grandeur, impossible as that is, and every sight that had once seemed marvelous now looks empty and dejected, just like me.

The craziest thing about time is that it doesn't really exist. Not the way space and matter do. We define time to make our lives less complicated than it already is, a sorry quest if there ever was one.

Time is before and after, a reference point, that tiny footnote at the bottom of a page that explains something that's hard to understand. And as I sit here and philosophize about time, or try to, I realize that my world stopped moving when I left Sera.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. But it's too late, and my morning is already ruined. A ball of rage swells inside of me, and I can't be sure if it's directed at myself or at the man in front of me trying to convince me to invest in his start-up.

I reach inside of myself and try to force it back down, but now I realize that it's no longer the harmless cur it had been eight years ago. During that time, it has grown, feeding on negativity and my restlessness, and now I realize that I can't dismiss it as I could at its early stages. This only serves to aggravate me further.

I raise my hand to stop the man mid-sentence. He looks like he's relieved, but in a fraction of a second, his look changes to that of worry.

"Where do you see ... er ... What's the name of your company again?" I ask, snapping my fingers and trying my best not to sound irritated. It's not working.

He looks affronted, like my not remembering the name of his start-up is a personal insult, which it probably is, and I realize that it's the only reaction I've managed to get out of him since the time we started talking.

"Fluffy Ears," he says, and he seems to be sitting up straighter.

"A fashion brand?" I ask, incredulous. I want to ask if he's soft in the head, but I keep my mouth shut.

"No!" he says indignantly, and seems to realize who he's talking to and adds, maybe a bit too hastily, "Sorry." He's quiet for some time, then he says, "Fluffy Ears is not a fashion brand, but we're going to make clothes.

However, it won't be from leather and skin and all those other things that encourage poaching. It'll be synthetic and biodegradable, which will help the environment a great deal. The major hurdle we're facing now is cost, but in five years, we're hoping we'll be able to make them at a much cheaper rate.

Then in a decade after that, we want to give out the clothes for free, so it acts as an incentive for people to ditch their environment-harming tendencies and reduce the pollution.

When he's done, he draws in a deep breath and blinks rapidly, like he has something in his eyes. He looks stunned like he's surprised he's been able to utter so many words, and I know that the look on my face must probably mirror his.

"It's brilliant," I say, surprised that I mean it. "We should talk about this another time." I push back my chair, stand up and straighten my suit. Then I give him a warm smile and hope that I don't look like the scary Alan Dirkman people are used to. "My assistant will be in touch. I look forward to investing in your start-up. Fluffy Ears is the future."

The man—who I now remember as Mr. Kevin Edmund—doesn't say anything for a while, but his eyes are glistening as if with unshed tears. Finally, in a voice that is trying really hard not to sob, he says, "Thank you."

"It's nothing," I say, extending my hand for him to shake it. When he does, I say, "Your start-up will change the world, Kevin. I'm just glad I'll be able to help. Whatever you need, don't hesitate to call."

He nods, probably because he's too overwhelmed to force out words. I nod in understanding. I don't have to be a soothsayer to know what it's like to be told that your dream is actually feasible and that someone believes in it, too.

There's some small talk, but it isn't forced, and we pass the time pleasantly. After a while, we say goodbyes, and I'm surprised that I feel bad when he stands up to leave.

For months, this is the only conversation I've had without another person that didn't make me feel like clawing out my eyes with my fingers. I have to admit that I like the feeling.

On a whim, I offer to see him out. There's a whole city out there below me, and I've spent my time sequestered in this bubble of my making.

By the time we get to the door, Austin and Jake, my bodyguards, take their place beside me, and we continue the rest of the way in pleasant silence.

It's an hour later and I've spent a good part inhaling lungfuls of the Parisian air. I briefly consider buying a house here; moving to Paris can't be such a bad idea now, can it? After Seattle, I've been finding it hard to settle down. I've been living in hotel suites for as long as I can remember, and it's probably time I move into a new place.

There's a restaurant in front of my hotel, and that's where I head to, Austin and Jake tailing me like overprotective mother hens. I have another meeting in two hours, but I've decided that it can wait, at least until I'm well-rested and fed.

My French is not that good, so I can't read the signs. I don't need to anyway; when Austin pushes open the door, I can tell from the scents that rise to meet my nostrils that I'm in the right place.

Austin goes to find a table for me in a secluded section of the restaurant—while publicity is like a second shadow to me, I'm not in the mood for it at the moment.

The waiter, a rather tall man with pale green eyes and a wry frizz of a mustache, comes to take my order, and feeling famished, I ask for a little bit of everything, duly asking Jake and Austin to join me. And that's when I hear it.

Laughter. Full and lovely, and the sound of it stirs memories in me. I turn around in my seat, my eyes searching for the source of the sound. Out of the corners of my eyes, I can see that Austin and Jake have identical worried looks on their faces, but I pay them no mind.

As I walk through the restaurant, trying to find the source of that sound, the faces of people blur in front of me. The only thing I can focus on is the sound of that laughter.

She is sitting at a table beside one of the windows that look to the streets outside. Her dark hair falls behind her head, a stream of onyx. Everything about her is familiar like I've just stepped into a dream. Funny, I think to myself, amused at the chances. She looks just like ...

Then, as if sensing my gaze, she turns to face me, and suddenly, there's not enough air in the room to breathe. Those green eyes flicker from surprise to shock to anger in the space of a few seconds, and I'm too stunned to move.

It's like my legs are made of clay, and I'm rooted to the spot. Time seems to have frozen or is otherwise moving far too slowly.

She's wearing a black sleeveless dress that hugs her frame like a glove, accentuating her curves. Her lips are scarlet, and they're curved into a smile when she turns to face me, and then those lips curve downward, and her eyes register shock, then outright anger.

"Sera," I say, and it's halfway between a sigh and a whisper. And in the thin bubble of silence that surrounds the two of us, I know that she's heard me.

"Alan," she says after an eternity, and with so much vehemence that I cringe inwardly.

Sera Pierce is in Paris. And she still hates me.