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

by Carina Wilder

  Her lips arc into a sly smile. “I see,” she says. “And?”

  “And then I unmet him. End of story.”

  “Ah, but somewhere in the middle, magic occurred.”

  “Magic,” I chuckle cynically. I’m finally getting to the point where I can almost laugh at the madness of it. “You could call it that. Or you could call it stupidity. A mistake.”

  “There are no mistakes,” she says like a wise sage. “Only bad choices.”

  The waiter displays a bottle of white wine in front of Katherine, pours a tiny bit into her glass then waits as she tastes it. “This wine, for example, is a good choice,” she says, nodding her head in approval as he pours us each a glass.

  “Well, I made a bad choice then,” I tell her, wondering what sort of magic she’s working on me to get me to open up like this. “At first I resisted, but then…”

  “But then you realized you were on your way to Paris and nothing mattered, so why not indulge in a little fantasy?”

  “Precisely.”

  “This city has that effect on people, even before they arrive. They call it the City of Light, but that doesn’t mean what everyone thinks it does.”

  “No? I’ve always assumed it was something to do with the lights at night.”

  “To some it does. Some say it has to do with the Age of Enlightenment. To me it means that Paris is the city where nothing matters. Anything goes here, Adriana. People come to stay briefly, they have affairs. They make mistakes, try new things, enjoy the pleasure of new sensations. Food, drink, sex. Then one day they return to their old lives. The light leaves them, and the heaviness returns. But for that little while, they were free. They lived without thought of repercussions.”

  “But you live here, don’t you? You don’t have to return to an old life.”

  “I do,” she says, issuing another sly smile. “I moved here a few years ago.” Her eyes hold a multitude of secrets, and I’m guessing that her life is far more interesting than mine will ever be. “My life is this place. Sometimes I leave and come back, and each time I do, I realize that this city is perfection. Paris is my version of heaven on earth, which is why I chose to stay.”

  I turn to watch tourists strolling by. The narrow cobblestone road is car-free, so people can meander at their own pace. No one is hurried; every face looks content, if not happy. Everything here is about pleasure, whether it’s gastronomical or otherwise.

  “I get it,” I say. “I think, anyhow.”

  “So, who was he?”

  “Who was who?” I ask. My eyes are fixed on an orange tabby cat who’s sitting on top of an awning across the way. Even he looks more relaxed than I normally feel, though I’m beginning to loosen up, like Paris is breathing some drug into my system.

  “The mystery man on the plane.”

  “He was no one,” I say, feeling like a shy teenager embarrassed about my first crush. “Well, that’s not true. He was filthy rich and very successful, so I guess he’s someone. He runs a business that manufactures robotic limbs.”

  “Conlon Davies,” she says, sitting back in her chair, her eyebrows raised.

  Shock darts through me like a torpedo. “You know him?”

  Another knowing smile. “I know of him. Everyone here does. He’s quite famous, at least among business people. He’s a handsome man. And a solitary one, as I understand it. I can see the allure. His money and fame aside, did you like him?”

  “I had sex with him, so I suppose I liked him well enough.”

  Katherine’s eyes widen. “Ree-eally?” she says. Wow, I’ve just shocked the cool lady. This is fun.

  “You’re looking at a new member of the mile-high club. You should consider adding that as a testimonial on your website. ‘The Single Ladies’ Travel Agency. Hooking couples up in airplanes since, well, sometime last night.’”

  Katherine laughs. “I’ll consider it.”

  “I suppose I’ve already failed to properly represent your agency,” I say.

  "Oh? Why would you think that?”

  “I’m supposed to be a single woman off on an adventure to celebrate my singleness. Before the adventure even began, I gave in to my desire for a man.”

  “Adriana,” Katherine says, taking an elegant sip of her wine and leaning forward to confide, “silly girl, that is the adventure.”

  “Well, that part is over, anyhow. I won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Why not?”

  I think of the high-heeled woman from the airport and shudder before taking a big swig of wine. “I don’t think he’s single.”

  “Ah,” she says, though I get the impression that she knows something I don’t. “And if you found out that he was single, would you seek him out?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I get the distinct impression that he did something a little special to your heart and mind.”

  “Well, yeah, that was before he shattered the illusion that he was a good guy.”

  “You think that woman was his…”

  “I don’t know. Wife, lover, girlfriend? It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.”

  Katherine lifts her hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is keep an open mind. In Paris, life happens everywhere. But if you’re not careful, it’ll happen without you. Don’t be a passive observer. Don’t make assumptions.”

  “Point taken. I’ll try to enjoy life while I’m here. But I don’t need a man to enjoy it, single or otherwise.”

  “No, of course you don’t. I don’t need a man, either. But I happen to enjoy them very much. They’re useful on cold nights.”

  “So I’m confused—are you single, or…?”

  “I’m open,” she tells me. “I live alone but I have visitors from time to time. One of them picked you up at the airport today.”

  “Claude is your…” I lean in and speak in a hoarse whisper. “Lover?”

  She nods. “One of them.”

  God, I love this woman. She’s living a life I could only ever imagine.

  “How the hell do you deal with having more than one? Don’t they find out?”

  “Oh, I’m honest about my intentions. No man with whom I spend time thinks I’m about to settle down.”

  “So how do you keep yourself from getting hooked? Aren’t you worried about falling in love with one of them?” Serious awe.

  She shrugs and sips her wine. “I was hooked once, long ago. It didn’t sit well with me to put all my eggs in one basket, so I decided that I’d prefer to keep my options open. I get bored, Adriana. Not only that, but I like to be in control. I think all women should; it’s why I started the agency. I want women to take possession of their own destinies. Many of us are afraid to venture off alone, but we shouldn’t be. We should feel empowered. We should make our own decisions.”

  “Such as whether or not to have sex with a virtual stranger on a plane,” I say.

  “Yes, among other things. Tell me, do you regret it?”

  I’m about to blurt out yes, but I think about it for a moment.

  “Not really,” I say. “I mean, the thing is, it was amazing.”

  “So embrace the memory of it. Embrace every opportunity that comes to you over the next few weeks. Don’t be afraid to live.” She’s right, of course. I’m afraid of exactly that.

  “Okay, I don’t get it,” I tell her, “you can’t be a day over…what, thirty?”

  “Thirty-five,” she says, “but close.”

  “So how did you get to be so wise?”

  “I’m not so wise, but I know what I want out of life,” she says, extending her arms like she’s embracing the city. “I’ve experienced the feeling of being tied down to a man. I’ve been confined within the shackles of a relationship and escaped just barely intact. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Freedom is a beautiful thing for a woman.”

  “Freedom, meaning singleness,” I say.

  “Freedom, meaning anything yo
u want. It can be in the form of a man who understands you. A woman who understands you. It can mean solitude, if that’s your preference. Freedom is smelling the air, striding through a Parisian street, and remembering who you are.”

  I inhale deep, closing my eyes. I feel like I’m in some freaky outdoor yoga class, being taught how to open my mind. A yoga class with wine. Best ever.

  “Open your eyes and take a good look around you, Adriana.”

  I turn to observe the tourists again, but this time I see more than I did before. A blackbird perched on a sign. The church, its doors open, welcoming a hunched over old woman who’s probably had her share of lovers in her time. Parisians going about their business with an energy altogether different from that of the tourists. An open window two storeys up, where a shirtless man leans out with a smile on his face.

  In response I let a little smile form on my own lips.

  “Make sure you have an adventure each day that you’re here,” Katherine tells me. “Don’t let twenty-four hours go by when you don’t. Paris was created for pleasure. Don’t deny yourself.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  We chat for another half hour about everything from Paris’s sights to my failed relationship with Roger, which she tells me was basically a “starter marriage.”

  “I wasn’t married,” I insist.

  “You were, just not technically. Now you know what not to do. You understand yourself. You know your needs.”

  “God, you’re so positive,” I tell her, and she laughs.

  “Not always,” she says. “Believe me.”

  Some time later, after she’s caught me yawning for the tenth time, Katherine grabs my hand across the table. “Go home to bed,” she says. “But listen—I have something in mind for tomorrow evening. Will you join me?”

  “Something in mind?” I ask.

  “Nothing nefarious,” she says. “I’ll text you the location and time. No men involved.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Fifteen

  Adriana

  According to my phone, it’s 11:30 a.m.

  The sun’s shining through the narrow cracks in my window covering. Good lord, it’s already Tuesday morning. The last thing I remember is lying down at eight p.m. on Monday evening. Holy balls. I slept for over fifteen hours, and I feel great. I guess I just found a cure for jet lag.

  Katherine told me about a little grocery store around the corner that sells anything I might need from day to day, so when I’ve showered and thrown on some clothes, I pop out to go for a wander. But with my first few steps, I realize that the first thing I need is coffee. Hot, delicious Parisian coffee. If I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to need the stuff to pump through my veins and fuel my brain, after all. It has to be priority number one.

  Not far from my place, tucked away on a car-free side street, I find a small café. Complete with yellow and blue striped awning and little bistro tables arranged tidily on a small patio. I wander inside, excited, giddy, and slightly frightened of the place. Everyone here is so stylish, so confident. So French. The woman in front of me moves with snooty motions, like she has disdain for the very air she breathes. At first I want to be annoyed with her, but I remind myself that as a writer, I should remember that everyone has a story. Maybe she just found out that her husband is cheating on her. Maybe her cat ran away. Maybe a man humped her on an airplane without telling her he had some stupid-shoe-wearing floozy back home called Monique.

  She orders a café américain and what the French call a pain au chocolat, which is really a fancy word for a croissant stuffed with chocolate. I can’t think of a better damned breakfast, and even if I could, I have no idea how to pronounce anything. So I ask for the same thing. The cashier asks me something in rapid fire French, and I have no clue what she’s saying.

  “Pardonnez-moi?” I ask a few times, trying my best to pronounce the words properly before remembering that I really don’t speak the language, and whatever explanation she’s giving me may as well be in Arimathean. I tell her that I’m sorry, I’m an American. That seems enough to persuade her just to throw me a sneering smile and a handful of change.

  I take the coffee and the small paper bag that contains the pain au chocolat and head outside to find a seat.

  It’s got to be noon by now, and the July sun is already threatening to heat Paris to outlandish temperatures. The patio is mercifully set in the shade between rows of buildings. I sit down and just stare at my surroundings, mesmerized.

  Beautiful Paris. Everything is so old, so well-maintained, so loved. Part of me wants to invent my own tales about the inhabitants of this wonderful place, and as I look around, I start to do just that.

  Every wall tells me a story about lovers who leaned against it as they made out a hundred years ago. I can hear soft music coming from a window upstairs. Maybe it’s the apartment where the butcher lives.

  An old woman lives in apartment C. She fell in love with a boy once, but lost him during the war. Now she has three cats and an old, out of tune piano to keep her company. She’s happy.

  Paris is full of wonders, and many of them are invisible. I’m in love with its mysteries already. Even if my life doesn’t become one of its more exciting stories, I’m happy to be an observer.

  I sip my coffee, watching people wander up and down the cobblestone street. In the distance funny little cars boot along, horns blaring occasionally as angry drivers make their way to or from work. Cars are different here; European makes and models called things like Skoda and Merde, vehicles that would be laughed off the road in the U.S. for being too dorky. But here, they’re absolutely perfect. Our enormous SUVs would probably seem ridiculous on these narrow streets.

  Occasionally, my eyes meet those of a passerby who’s observing me just as I’m observing them. The men smile at me, almost without fail. The women scowl. I think there’s an inherent lack of trust between women in France. I suppose they all think their husband or lover is sleeping around. Any woman they spot is a potential enemy.

  After a few minutes, all that’s left of my pain au chocolat is a small pile of flaky crumbs scattered on the table in front of me. It’s all I can do not to lean down and lick the surface clean; it was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. But I resist, rising to my feet in preparation for a walk. This city begs for my legs to move, my feet to guide me.

  I head off in a random direction, confident that if I get lost, the GPS on my phone will guide me back. As usual I’m greeted by a row of pretty little shops lining the street that sell anything from comic books to clothing to computers. Everything I could possibly want exists within this one city block. Well, almost everything.

  There’s no shop that sells honest men.

  I look at my phone. It’s 12:53, but time doesn’t matter. I have no pressing plans. Zero obligations. I am free.

  So I keep walking, wondering what I’ll encounter around the next corner, trying to take every inch of Paris in, to absorb this city into my mind and soul.

  After a while I spy a fenced off green area, which I assume is a church yard. As I come closer, though, I realize that it’s a large, amazingly well-hidden park, surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence. A large double-sided gate is wide open, welcoming visitors. Naturally, I wander inside to take a look around. It seems like the sort of place where Parisians might hang out to enjoy their lunch, and my brain tells me that observing the French in their natural habitat might be an excellent use of my time.

  People are sitting here and there on the grass, on benches, reading, leaning against one another. Everyone’s having a pleasant time from the looks of it, and a feeling of peace washes over me. The place oozes relaxation and bliss. I have yet to see a stressed-out person. After New York, this place is like a blood pressure drug.

  I keep wandering until I spot a bunch of men in the distance, kicking a ball around like kids. Everyone in this town knows how to enjoy themselves. Curious, I move towards the soccer players, my eyes trained o
n the ball as it passes between this foot and that, shooting back and forth. They’re good, these guys, though they’re not dressed in uniforms; it’s obviously a casual match. Some of the men have taken their shirts off and are enjoying the sun beating down on their flesh. Maybe it’s a shirts vs. skins game. Either way, damn, the view is very nice.

  Oh, sweet monkey captain. Correction: The view was very nice. As of one second ago, it’s making me hyperventilate.

  Conlon. Freaking. Davies. is striking the ball into the opposing team’s net.

  Kill me now.

  Frantically, I look around for something—anything—large enough to hide behind. I thrust myself towards the only tree in my immediate vicinity, wondering if there’s any way I can get to it before he sees me.

  I make it, pressing my back to its trunk as I try to catch my breath. But it’s not my lungs, it’s my heart that I should worry about. The heart that’s trying to make a quick escape through my throat.

  Okay, Adriana. Calm down, assess escape routes, then leave. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  I press my hand to my chest, which is rising up and down like a boat in a hurricane, and close my eyes. Oh, thank God. Conlon hasn’t appeared. He didn’t see me. It’s all going to be fine.

  “Excusez-moi,” a nearby male voice says. My eyes pop open.

  There’s a light-haired man standing in front of me, smiling. He’s shirtless, shiny with sweat, and wearing white shorts that are so short and tight that I can tell his religion. He’s one of the soccer players, and he’s staring at me with a big, stupid grin on his face.

  “Yes?” I say, not wanting to be rude to one of the first Parisians I’ve actually talked to.

  “Ah, you’re American?” he asks, pressing a palm to the tree. Right next to my face. I pull as far away from his arm as I can get without revealing myself to the soccer field’s inhabitants.

  “Yes?” I say again, my eyes shifting about. How the hell do I get away from this guy without being seen?

  “I noticed you standing here,” he says, leaning in. “All alone.”