24 Hours in Paris

  W by Wattpad Books

  An imprint of Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group

  Copyright© 2022 Romi Moondi

  All rights reserved.

  Published in Canada by Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group, a

  division of Wattpad Corp.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders.

  36 Wellington Street E., Suite 200, Toronto, ON M5E 1C7 Canada

  www.wattpad.com

  First W by Wattpad Books edition: May 2022

  ISBN 978-1-99025-917-3 (Trade Paper original)

  ISBN 978-1-99025-918-0 (eBook edition)

  Names, characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental.

  Wattpad, W by Wattpad Books, Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Wattpad Corp. and/or WEBTOON Entertainment Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request.

  Printed and bound in Canada

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover design by Cassie Gonzales

  Table of Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to the City of Light.

  Being in your glow is magic.

  Chapter

  one

  M

  The Night Before

  Mira had always believed that laughter was infectious. It had the power to spread from one delighted face to the next, but here, in the corner of this chic Paris bistro where the brash American laughter surrounded her in waves, she managed to stay immune.

  She pressed her lips together tight, a defensive move to avoid being lumped in with the rowdiness of her tablemates. Mira was simply different from the loud tourist stereotype too often proven right in the train cars, cafés, and cobblestoned streets of Paris. She was different from them, dammit, and everyone in this bistro needed to know.

  The staff seemed unbothered by the elevated noise, but was it any surprise? Each successive round of laughter meant another round of drinks: more champagne, more pricey vintage reds.

  The husband-and-wife owners exchanged a knowing look as they brought out a few more bottles from the cellar. Given that they owned a restaurant off Avenue Montaigne—a notable street in the 8th arrondissement and home to the famous Plaza Athenée—Mira could only assume they were well acquainted with the platinum card–carrying demographic. Early summer was an especially busy period, with swarms of jet-setters descending on Paris, particularly on a night like this, when the glitzy Haute Couture Fashion Week had just gotten underway.

  Not that Mira and her crew had anything to do with fashion. They were merely another rowdy group of white-collar Americans who just happened to be in Paris on business. The business of pushing the latest in sparkling beverages, to be exact.

  The owners now made a beeline to Frank, Mira’s fifty-something boss, who sat at the head of the long wooden table. Even in the soft glow of candlelight, his tailored suit and looming presence made it clear he was the one in charge. In their office back in New York, that meant rejecting an idea with a simple shake of the head. In this bistro, however, that meant being the one in charge of appraising the wine, which he now carefully did by examining the labels.

  “Not a bad selection,” he acknowledged, his accent a faded tribute to a childhood growing up in Queens. “We’ll take both.”

  The owners shifted their focus to refilling everyone’s glasses. They worked their way down the table slowly, starting with the smartly dressed middle-aged executives, and moving on to the younger, more fashion-forward employees.

  Mira, at the younger end of the table, could feel her taste buds anticipating a fresh dose of wine, but before her glass could get some attention, it was the thirtysomething man with sandy brown hair and pale blue eyes who received his refill first. He grinned as each ounce cascaded into the glass, a smarmy look that expressed an affection for company-sponsored unlimited refills. The smarm paired well with the hair gel sweeping his shaggy hair into a greasy salesman dome. Without all that product, he could’ve been one of those intensely handsome bed-headed men you’d see reading books on the subway, men whom Mira had been known to crush on during her A train trek to the office. Instead, the greasy gel had sealed his fate (and his hair) in her eyes.

  Hair aside, he was tall and broad shouldered and had probably been the captain of the rowing team in college (and had likely done a good job of making sure everyone knew it). She noticed him unfasten the top two buttons of his shirt, a sign that he was probably a few glasses in.

  “It’s hot in here,” he said, before holding his fresh glass of wine to the light. “But it’s okay; I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.” He snickered at his own lame joke, ignoring Mira’s immediate groan. After gulping some wine, he elbowed the male colleague to his left. “We men can handle our liquor, amirite?”

  “It’s not liquor, it’s wine,” Mira muttered, her brown eyes

  narrowing in disapproval. She tucked a few strands of long black hair behind one ear, frowning at the presence of this irritating dude. She’d always heard that frowning was the dangerous road to deep-set wrinkles, but up until now her South Asian genes had been good to her, and she was often still mistaken for a woman in her twenties, despite being weeks away from turning thirty-five. This ego-boosting clerical error hadn’t yet occurred on the business trip, but for the moment she had other pressing problems on her mind. In addition to her latest groan, she’d served up two eye rolls, three smirks, and countless raised eyebrows in the hours since the evening had begun, all of it brought on by the irritating man-child sitting across from her.

  She was Mira Attwal.

  He was Jake Lewis.

  And while they worked for the same company, the similarities ended there.

  “I know liquor isn’t wine,” Jake finally said. “And so does he.” He gestured to his colleague. “And everyone.” He gestured to the air. “Which is why when you say it, it’s kind of interchangeable.” He nodded as if to convince himself that his word salad was legit.

  “Thanks for the clarification.”

  Mira’s eyes bore deep into Jake’s forehead, as she wondered about the size of the brain knocking around in that oversize skull.

  Mira worked in branding.

  Jake worked in sales.

  And aside from this five-day business trip, they’d never interacted as coworkers even once.

  Of course, that didn’t mean she’d never noticed him before at the office. It also didn’t mean she’d never thought of him, sometimes even for an hour or two, afte
r those rare occasions when they’d shared

  an elevator and she’d found herself ogling his jawline, or, depending on where he’d been standing, the outline of his ass. But did she have to admit either of those things when he was acting in such a drunken, slovenly fashion? Certainly not.

  She studied his face. “Is that oyster juice on your chin?”

  Looking slightly embarrassed, Jake grabbed a napkin and wiped it off.

  Apart from some time spent studying his physical attributes, Mira only knew Jake from the grandiose persona he’d projected in their meetings during the past few days. She hadn’t been impressed by all the showmanship, which made it satisfying to embarrass him during this dinner. Did that make her a bad person? Maybe. Or maybe it was just that his big, greasy dome of hair needed to be brought down a peg (or two).

  To Mira’s disappointment, his embarrassment was all too brief, his confidence now restored at the sight of the pretty waitress he’d been scoping out all night. By Mira’s estimation, the waitress had been doing a very good job; clearing the plates in a timely manner and replacing each carafe before the water got too low—she was a winner. Still, Mira had a feeling that Jake wasn’t interested in her customer service.

  “You’re back,” he observed, eyes zeroed in on the kill.

  The waitress’s only response was a look of coyness.

  As Mira wondered which pickup line he’d choose from the greasy-salesman starter pack, she saw him reach into his brown leather workbag and found herself instantly intrigued. She wondered if there was a long-stemmed rose inside that bag. It could’ve been a napkin and she’d be equally enthralled, as she’d been starved for entertainment since the start of these company dinners.

  Night after night, she’d been a bored observer of coworkers gobbling up foie gras this and braised rabbit that, all while getting drunk at these long wooden tables—and always at restaurants that weren’t even on her Paris bucket list. She’d tried to stretch their imaginations, but no one had seemed on board with her idea for a picnic at Luxembourg Gardens, or a stroll along the riverbank with handheld crêpes and the sparkling Eiffel Tower as the backdrop.

  So here she was, on their final night, with the saga of Jake and the waitress as her only form of entertainment.

  Jake’s hand emerged from the bag, his fingers clutching a

  lavender-colored can of flavored sparkling water called Bloom. Jake was the top salesman at Bloom, but for the moment he was more like Vanna White as he proudly showcased the newest flavor in the company’s line of botanical-based, calorie-free fizz. “Now, Chloe . . .” he started.

  Mira took immediate note of the waitress’s subtle wince, but judging by Jake’s come-hither stare he didn’t have a clue.

  “My name is Colette.”

  He wasn’t the least bit fazed.

  “Yes of course, Colette. Now tell me: are you ready to be at the forefront of the next big thing in cocktails?” He gestured to the bar. “Let’s ask the barman to whip up a little something with this lavender magic.”

  Colette seemed uncertain.

  “I’ll make it worth his while.”

  For some ungodly reason, the waitress started to crack, her neutral expression giving way to a hint of excitement.

  At first Mira couldn’t believe it, but a moment later she grudgingly realized why Jake was the top salesman at Bloom.

  The waitress played with her hair, a clear sign that the mating ritual had begun.

  “Perhaps I could speak to the barman.”

  Jake lowered his voice for the next part: “I’ll make it worth your while too.”

  And there it was. The typical line used by basic bros the world over.

  Without thinking, Mira reached over and patted Jake’s arm. It must’ve been the wine. “You’re coming off a little thirsty.”

  He turned to her with a look of faux innocence. “I was talking about giving her a tip.”

  Without another word he hopped out of his chair and followed Colette to the bar.

  Mira shrugged and sipped her wine, her only entertainment now out of earshot. What remained were the colleagues on her right discussing summer camp options for the kids, a colleague on her

  left filming a video of herself that was bound to wind up in her

  Instagram stories, and the guy that Jake had been next to, who was now in the grips of a furious texting session.

  Inspired by the way the aggressive texter was ignoring them all, Mira pulled out her phone in the hopes of a decent distraction.

  Her eyes brightened at the stream of notifications, but the eager glow dimmed out within seconds, when she realized all the messages were from the Bloom group chat.

  The company HQ in New York City had clearly heard about their stellar presentation to the top beverage distributor in Paris, and the overall reaction had been different variations of “Kudos!” and “Congrats!”

  Today’s big win was the latest high point in Bloom’s skyrocketing success, which now included an expansion into international markets.

  The brand’s popularity had grown in part due to partnerships with Instagram influencers, a strategic move that Mira had suggested—despite being intimidated by the fashionable outfits and makeup filters that were a favorite among the influencing set. The social media superstars had done a great job of showcasing the artsy font and soft, appealing colors of each can in the flavor lineup, sometimes with selfies that garnered endless likes, and other times with curated shots of not-so-casual picnics—where silverware was the norm and not a single hair was ever out of place.

  With the influencers locked into multiyear contracts, expansion into Europe had become the next big goal, with countless late nights and strategy decks culminating in this all-important trip. The initial thought had been to nab a bit of shelf space in European grocery stores, but in the presentation to the distributor earlier that day, Jake had mentioned the potential synergy between the speakeasy bar scene and Bloom—which would especially work in Paris, where there were now as many craft cocktail bars as in London.

  With a range of flavors like elderflower, honeysuckle, and the recently-introduced lavender, Jake had been right in identifying this untapped market—even though he’d used the word synergy in his presentation, a loathed business term in Mira’s mind, right up there with pivot and take this offline.

  As Mira scrolled through the company chat, she tried her best to feel a sense of pride, and why not? The brand colors and lettering that the influencers were so obsessed with had all been handpicked by Mira. She was also the one who had convinced the head of

  marketing to lean in hard on the floral angle, when she’d explained how people seemed to gravitate toward that hippie botanical shit. Despite all of that, she couldn’t generate the normal feelings that usually accompanied not only an amazing performance review,

  but her best year yet as head of branding.

  Mira decided that her muted reaction was excusable, given the event that had recently unfolded in her life. Funnily enough, the event was also the term for the fated day when an asteroid had slammed into the earth millions of years ago. That one big event

  had killed off the dinosaurs and brought on a planet-altering ice age, and even though her personal event hadn’t caused the death of an entire species, it was, in its own way, equally cataclysmic.

  It was the reason why Mira couldn’t manage any excitement in the company chat, and the reason why she’d jumped at the chance to accompany the team on the business trip to Paris. On the night before their departure, Mira had spent hours revising her Paris bucket list in obsessive fashion, a list she’d curated on and off for almost two decades. That list had been a life raft during the strict Indian upbringing that had defined her teenage years, and then the awkwardness of marriage pressure in the years that had followed. Recently, with Mira’s growing success in the corporate world, there had been plenty of opportun
ities to visit Paris, but somehow all the buildup had made the thought of actually going seem too daunting.

  But then the Bloom business trip to Paris had presented itself: a perfect opportunity to escape the event, daunting buildup or not.

  Except, here she was, on her last night in Paris with not a single bucket list item checked off. Ever since she’d gotten here, it had been early team meetings over hurried breakfasts, presentations between work lunches and dinners, and then collapsing onto her bed at the end of it all, too tired to even think about venturing out on her own. Even the hotel, a lovely establishment nestled in a quiet side street of the 1st arrondissement, was closer to sprawling attractions she didn’t have time for—like the Louvre—versus anything she could sneak in quickly.

  As Mira sipped her wine, she couldn’t escape the fact that a business trip was hardly the appropriate scenario for some freewheelin’ bucket-list fun. It should’ve been obvious right from the start, but that was the thing with cataclysmic personal events—they had a way of clouding one’s judgment.

  Her next sip of wine was more urgent than the last, the liquid laced with the sweet nectar of trying to forget.

  She noticed Jake reemerge from the bar, which luckily distracted her from chugging down the entire contents of her glass. She watched as he delivered a complimentary cocktail to the patrons at the nearest table. In his salesman way, he urged each of them to try a sip. Everyone was curious enough to oblige, and then, one by one, every single face lit up.

  Jake hurried back to the company table and searched his bag for more cans of Bloom. “Cocktails!” he exclaimed, catching the boss’s eye. “Was I right or was I right?”

  Frank shook his head and chuckled. “You were born to be a salesman.”

  Mira had no interest in engaging in a Jake-centered love fest, so she turned her attention back to her phone. She noticed the glowing beacon of an email notification, and as she read the contents, every muscle in her forehead tensed into a series of knots.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What’s the matter?” a colleague asked.