Page 2 of Boarding Pass (Hearts Without Borders #1)

Chapter two

Paris isn’t doing its job.

For God’s sake, it’s supposed to feel like home.

I was born here. I’m fluent in the language. My mother, Parisian to her core, always tells me this city is in my blood. This city has a magic I’ll always carry with me.

Tonight, unfortunately, I feel about as magical as a tax return.

I’m perched on a bar stool, alone at a wine bar called Magnum La Cave, which is tucked off a main drag in Marais, a couple blocks away from my hotel. The place leans hard into its name with walls covered in photos of a mustachioed Tom Selleck from the 80s-era Magnum PI show.

Somehow—against all odds—it’s not tacky, but charming.

The place is popular and the buzz from the tables outside spills into the cozy, character-packed interior, where I swirl my glass of Bordeaux and watch the people around me.

A group of women shriek with laughter and clink their glasses together.

Two men in suits dig into a gorgeous plate of cheese and charcuterie.

Next to me, an older couple leans in close, speaking quietly before sharing a sweet kiss.

Closing my eyes, I sigh deeply and take a large sip of wine. Not because I begrudge them.

If anything, I envy them.

I want what they have.

Instead, I’m thirty-two, single, sitting in Paris trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted. Worshipped. Adored .

Mark was supposed to be the one. We met in our twenties, two young go-getters carving out our glamorous life in New York. I was the artistic one, dreaming of making a living taking photographs. He was practical, with a steady accounting job and great income.

We balanced each other, or so I thought. He kept me from flying off in too many directions at once. I brought some fun into his life. Over time, steady turned into critical, grounded turned into dismissive, and by the time I was finding success in my career, he was busy tearing me down.

“ I just don’t see why you care so much ,“ he scoffed when I booked a major campaign with Valentino. “ It’s just fashion photography, Sophie. You’re not curing cancer .”

I convinced myself he’d come around as soon as my work received critical recognition. Seven years later, I was the most-coveted photographer in fashion and I’d won several awards. Yet, I was still waiting for some acknowledgement by Mark telling me my career was worthwhile.

Meanwhile, he was offered his dream job—the CFO at an international bank. We’d both made it, so I figured I might as well stay. We’d been together so long, why throw it all away? Marriage, the house, the family. It was the next step.

We even picked out a place. A fixer-upper brownstone in Brooklyn, which was a little overpriced but perfect. The wide windows in one of the bedrooms made it a perfect studio. The third bedroom I dreamed of filling with a crib.

Two days before we were supposed to move in, Mark blindsided me.

“I’ve decided not to move in. I’m not happy, Sophie,” he said over gnocchi at our favorite Italian restaurant. “You’re not either. Why are we pretending?”

I remember staring at him, unable to speak. My prime childbearing years were slipping away and I’d been holding out for something he’d given up on. And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Six months later and the brownstone’s mine. I can afford it—thank God my career is thriving—but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to fill it with love. Babies. A future.

I’m still picking up the pieces.

Taking a sip of wine, I glance at my phone.

The email I received an hour ago fills my screen.

Confirmation of my first solo exhibit at the Carmichael Gallery.

Thirty-five pieces. An exhibit signifying a culmination of years of work and fighting for respect in an industry where photographers are seen as disposable—hell, Mark sure did.

It’s everything I’ve wanted. And yet, I can’t even muster up an ounce of enthusiasm.

The door to the bar swings open and an unexpected gust of cool air makes me glance up.

Holy fuck .

The man who walks in is tall and broad-shouldered with dirty-blond hair falling in loose, messy waves.

His leather jacket looks well-loved, like he’s had it since he was a teenager.

Underneath the coat he wears a black t-shirt tucked into faded jeans and lopes in with an easy stride. He seems youthful and uncalculated.

He pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room like he’s not certain where to go. His gaze brushes over me briefly before moving on, but there’s something in the way he carries himself. I want to keep watching him.

He’s magnetic. Not in a polished, cocky way. There’s a softness to him. Something accessible and curious, like he hasn’t figured out how the world works but isn’t too worried about it.

Jesus. What’s wrong with me?

I look down at my near-empty glass, embarrassed at my reaction to a stranger. I didn’t come here to pick up some random guy. I’m in Paris because I just finished shooting Fashion Week. I’m staying for a few weeks to figure out my life. The last thing I need is to ogle some random guy.

I’m here for the kind of introspection that’ll only happen when I’m shopping on ancient cobblestone streets, indulging in spa days and drinking overpriced wine.

Alone .

Suddenly, he’s at the bar an armlength away. He orders something—I can’t hear what—and shifts just slightly to glance back around the room while he waits. His eyes catch mine again for a moment and holy hell. My heart actually stutters.

I look away, heat rises in my cheeks. I’m positive everyone in this room can see my reaction to him.

Ugh .

Do. Not. Make. Eye. Contact.

Bending over, I adjust my camera bag on the back of my chair and pretend to check my phone. Anything to avoid looking at him again. Out of the corner of my eye, I get a glimpse of him, drink in hand, heading toward the empty seat next to me .

No. Nope. Not tonight.

I reach for my glass, intending to finish it swiftly and leave. In my fumbling rush, I knock it over instead.

“Shit!” The wine splashes everywhere and a streak of dark red spreads across the bar, pooling onto the floor. Mortified, I grab a tiny bar napkin and feverishly blot at the mess.

“Need a hand?” a deep voice drawls.

I freeze.

It’s him. Standing there. Holding a full glass of wine in one hand and perusing the chaos with an amused smile.

“No, it’s fine.” My cheeks burn as I keep blotting with my soaked little square of paper. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something.” He sets his glass down, grabs a handful of napkins from the bar and kneels down to wipe up the floor. “But hey, I shouldn’t judge. Last week, I dropped an entire iced coffee in the middle of Starbucks.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

His grin widens, boyish and charming, and for the first time tonight, I feel my shoulders relax.

“Thanks.” I allow myself to look at him directly.

He tosses the soaked napkins into a trash can at the end of bar and takes the seat next to me. “You’re welcome. Do you spill drinks often or am I just the lucky guy who gets to use it as an excuse to meet you?”

“You caught me. It was a tactical spill,” I deadpan. The corners of my mouth twitch despite my best effort to stay composed. “I figured causing a scene might summon a hero—looks like it worked.”

“Well, here I am.” He laughs, light and teasing. There’s something genuine in his eyes. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

For a second, I take him in. He’s so sweet. Earnest. Hot as fuck.

This isn’t part of the plan.

But here we are.

Something tells me I’m not walking out of this bar as the same person who walked in.