“We just got off a plane and I’m in desperate need…” I trail off as Sebastian leans forward and takes my hand, smiling at me as if I’m not quite right.
The waitress looks at me blankly as if she doesn’t speak a word of English, which is a lie. Everyone speaks enough to understand coffee. I’m sure she’s wondering what’s the deal between Sebastian and me.
If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to smile at her so she could be reassured that I have no interest in Sebastian sexually. We’re strictly friends.
Best friends.
Well, best friends who used to have sex. I met him my freshman year at UC Berkeley. I was nursing a broken heart, and he was drop-dead gorgeous and willing to fuck without asking questions. Thankfully we’re two peas in a pod. Within months, we both knew that we’re definitely better as friends than lovers.
I’m not the type of girl who’s ever going to be in a serious relationship, and Sebastian is a playboy. He’s also my partner, my rock, my voice of reason. I’d do anything for him, which is why I’m in Paris. He’s broke again.
Sebastian likes to live way above his means. His theory is that if you live like you’re the best, you will, in fact, become the best.
As absurd as that thinking is, it works for him most of the time. I’m the opposite. It makes me nervous if I have to dip into my savings account. Sebastian doesn’t even have a savings account, another reason why we’re better as friends.
Crossing my legs, I glance down at my new heels. They’re soft black Italian leather and crisscross up my ankles. I admit it—I have a weakness for shoes, and even though I pride myself on not being impressed by wealth, I was excited to see the shiny black box waiting for me on my bed when I checked in. The shoes were a welcome gift from Alberto, the designer we’re shooting. Timing is everything.
Alberto exploded this year in the fashion world. I met him backstage at the Emmys. Some of the actresses were wearing his dresses and I was there to shoot the cast of Schitt’s Creek.
We hit it off, drank way too much champagne, and ended up at the Abbey doing shots. He passed out that night at my cute Venice bungalow and we’ve stayed close. He’s young, talented, and has a fresh take—not the same crap we’ve seen over and over.
When he called me two weeks ago and begged me to come to Paris to shoot his upcoming collection, I turned him down.
Fashion Week is a lot: the crowds, parties, celebrities, egos. I’ve done it twice and vowed never to do it again.
Unfortunately, he had already gotten ahold of Sebastian who was over the moon about being able to make rent and spend a week in Paris first class.
So… here I sit, dead tired, no coffee, and all-around feeling off. I keep thinking it’s exhaustion, but it’s more like an anxiety or nagging feeling. As if I forgot to lock my door or left my flat iron on.
Yawning, I try to ignore the laughter from my best friend and the waitress. Coffee and breakfast seem forgotten. Might as well check my phone for messages.
Quickly I scan all the missed calls to make sure none are from my mom or brother. Zero from them. Unfortunately, I have ten, no, twelve from my ex and soon-to-be-former agent.
Perfect. I glance up at the gorgeous hotel. Its stunning, giant floral displays are tastefully arranged all over the hotel filling the space with a soft but fresh smell. Whites, creams, and golds grace the lobby and restaurant we’re sitting in. I lean my head back to admire the ornate turquoise beams that house the glass ceilings.
My phone vibrates again. I don’t need to look down to know it’s my ex. I can sense his craziness across the ocean.
I try hard not to regret things, but Jeff is one big fat mistake. This is absolutely the last time I get into a relationship with my agent.
Why? Why do I do these things?
Maybe I was feeling pressured to find someone or I was sick of sex without some sort of connection. Whatever it was, in a moment of weakness I said yes to Jeff. He’s older, powerful, and rich, not to mention one of the best agents on both coasts. All signs pointed to him being stable and secure.
God, was I wrong. I’ve never been with a more paranoid, borderline narcissistic man. Not to mention the sex was beyond bad. Cringeworthy, really.
I close my eyes and try not to let my mind remember his body. Great, now I see him naked.
Jesus.
Clearly I have shit judgment when it comes to men. It has to be hereditary, maybe even a Fontaine curse. After all, I do come from a long line of bad decision-makers.