I am a magnificent idiot.
I’m wearing flip-flops in the city, and someone just stepped on my foot with the hard sole of a shoe.
A few minutes later, I make it out of the crowd, hopping around. My foot is bleeding.
I really need a male nurse with a Band-Aid right about now.
With an oh-so-very-attractive Little Prince Band-Aid plastered on my foot—incidentally, the Little Prince is a licensing whore; he’s on everything—I open the door to my Uber ride, and the driver whisks me away to my new offices in the 7th arrondissement. I peer at my foot, studying it. All things considered, I don’t think the little licensor has ever looked so dapper as he does next to a pair of Jimmy Choos.
I’ll be at work shortly, with only a Band-Aid as proof of a little morning struggle. I sink into the leather seat as the car weaves through the streets.
But then something crazy happens when a car drives in morning rush hour.
It’s called . . . wait for it . . . traffic.
I curse. I mutter. I tap my foot. I peer out the window as if I can make all the honking Peugeots and Saabs and Audis disperse by sheer force of will.
Doesn’t work.
I look at the time. It’s eight-fifty-five, which means I’m going to be late on my first day. I fish around in my purse for my cell phone, and fire off a quick text to Marisol.
I’m so very sorry. Stuck in traffic. Be there soon.
I tuck the phone away then stare out the window like a dog, watching the beautiful buildings pass by at the pace of escargot.
At last, the car pulls up to the curb of a busy block, and I thank the driver and get out. Briefly, I lift my gaze and stare at the office building in the business-y section of the 7th arrondissement, swing my gaze to the street sign, then heave the heaviest sigh in the history of Europe.
I’m on Boulevard Bosquet.
And my office is on Rue Bosquet.
I punched in the wrong street name in Uber.
I groan. I frown. My shoulders sag.
A skinny man walking past me tosses a rueful smile in my direction. “It’s Monday,” he says, knowingly.
At least, I think that’s what he said.
Ten minutes later, I make it to the offices of L’Artisan Cosmetique, making me fifteen minutes late, and fifteen tons irritated with myself.
Griffin waits in the lobby. He wears dark slacks that fit well, leather shoes, and a crisp, white button-down shirt. His jaw is smooth, with a freshly shaven look. Briefly, I imagine him in front of his bathroom mirror, running a blade over his jaw. There’s something so sexy about a man with only a towel wrapped around his waist staring into the mirror as he shaves.
When he sees me, he smiles, then his smile disappears. “You okay? You look flustered.”
I hold up a hand, like a stop sign. “I can’t even today.”
He laughs. “‘I can’t even’ doesn’t translate.”
“They haven’t figured out how to express the ultimate frustration yet? Well, the French need to get on that, stat.”
“I’ll send a note to the International Consortium of Idioms and Internet Sayings,” he says, walking me to the elevator.
“Have you been waiting for me this whole time?”
He nods. “But I kept myself busy with some Spanish crossword puzzles.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “I tried to be a half hour early. Instead, I have a Little Prince Band-Aid and an inability to distinguish between rue and boulevard.”
“Ah, yes. It’s a trick we use to ferret out you Yanks. Is it working?”
“Quite well, it seems,” I say, then step into the elevator with the handsome man.
Nerves crawl up my throat. “I’m so pissed at myself for being late.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re adjusting to a new country.”
I sigh. “All the more reason to be on time,” I say as I stab the button for the sixth floor.
As the doors close, Griffin lifts his chin and looks me over. “You smell pretty.”
A grin takes over my face. He’s speaking my language now. “Thank you.”
“It smells like . . .” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head. “Can’t place it.”
“Lilacs,” I supply.
He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I have a terrible nose. Ever since the hospital, I think.”
I furrow my brow. “What? Were you really a nurse?”
He curses under his breath. “No. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a downer.”
“You’re not a downer at all. I’m curious now, though.”
“Someone in my family was in the hospital for a while. Passed away. But we’re all fine,” he says, fixing on a cheery grin. “Now, did you bring a lunchbox and a sandwich for your first day?”
I shake my head, unable to segue into this playful zone so suddenly. Not with this lump in my throat from that news. “Griffin, you don’t have to just wipe it away,” I say as the elevator slows. I wrap a hand around his forearm, trying to comfort him. “You don’t have to be tough for me.”
“Ah, but I do. Because this is your day, and I’m fine. I want you to have a great day at work.”
I peer at him. “I know, but it sounds like you went through something.”
He raises his chin. “Let’s focus on you, Joy. That's why I’m here.”
I sigh, but I understand fully. We don’t always want to talk about hard things. In fact, we don’t often want to at all. Sometimes work is much easier to zoom in on.
Just in case though, I try one last time. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I try to put his comment out of my mind.
When I make it to the offices, Marisol is waiting for me. I’m nearly blinded by her beauty. She’s tall and white-blonde, with cheekbones carved by goddesses. She’s even more stunning in person than she was over Skype—that’s how we did the interviews.
“So good to
