24 Hours in Paris Page 2

  “The airline changed my flight.” She frowned. “It’s later now and they assigned me a middle seat.” She glanced around at the others. “Anyone else get a flight change alert?”

  Mira’s colleagues checked their phones, all except for Jake, who was still preoccupied with his precious cans of Bloom. One by one, they confirmed their flight details were the same.

  “Why only me?” she scowled, immediately deciding it was white-collar racism.

  “Shirley mentioned something about this earlier today,” Frank explained. “She got an alert that the flight was overbooked and said she’d handle it.” He smiled. “I guess it’s handled.”

  Even though Mira didn’t mind the idea of some bonus hours in Paris, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d been cast off to the island of misfit marketers.

  Jake noticed Mira still scowling at her phone. “What happened?” He darted his eyes around the table. “Did I miss something?”

  Mira wanted to ignore him, but a part of her was sickly curious. “Did you get an email from Shirley?”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and nodded. “Yup.” He opened it and seemed confused. “Why is there another booking number? Didn’t I already get this email?” He looked to Mira with desperate eyes. “Can you just summarize what it says? I really need to get back to the bar.”

  Mira thought about lying and telling him his flight had been delayed by twenty-four hours, but fortunately for him, she wasn’t that evil. At least not yet. “You and I got bumped to a different flight; it’s three hours later.” She glanced at his phone screen. “I mean . . . I’m assuming you’re on that flight. You should really check.”

  He scanned the email and nodded. “Yep, three hours later—awesome!”

  Jake sauntered back to the bar, leaving Mira and her colleagues to return to their fun. Or in Mira’s case, sipping wine, avoiding nauseating chitchat, and struggling to care about corporate wins.

  *

  After the last of the plates had been cleared, Mira emerged from the restroom to discover all her coworkers had left. All except for Jake, who was canoodling with the waitress by the bar.

  They ditched me, Mira thought to herself.

  The woman who co-owned the restaurant noticed Mira standing frozen in place.

  “Mademoiselle?” she said softly. Mira turned and acknowledged her with a nod, her face slightly stunned. “Your colleagues mentioned they had to leave for an early flight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Everything is paid for, so you may continue to enjoy the evening with your colleague.”

  The woman gestured to Jake, but from the look on her face, she knew as well as Mira that there wasn’t much fun to be had in the land of third-wheel awkwardness.

  “Thanks,” Mira said, “but I actually need to head out too.” She adjusted her blazer. “Big morning ahead.”

  As Mira made her way to the exit, she inadvertently made eye contact with the hot bartender, he of tousled dark hair and tanned skin. He looked like he belonged on a beach in Saint-Tropez, and as a result she started to imagine him shirtless. Maybe pantless too.

  The bartender responded by treating Mira to the sort of smoldering stare she’d previously only read about in books or seen in movies. “Care to join us for last call?” he offered, his voice the auditory version of silky fondue.

  Mira looked from the bartender’s handsome face to Jake, who was busy putting the moves on the waitress. After making a quick internal calculation, she concluded that the ego-boosting benefit of being hit on by a hot French bartender did not outweigh the cost of being annoyed by the very life force that was Jake.

  She politely shook her head and left the restaurant.

  Once outside, Mira took a moment to revel in the warm summer air. As the night breeze danced across her face, she realized something equally as important as her cost-versus-benefit math: Was she even in the right emotional state to be flirting with a man right now?

  Not even close.

  *

  Later that night, back in her quaint hotel room, Mira laid out some clothing options for the next morning.

  She had already planned to use her extra hours in Paris to wake up early, take an inspirational stroll by the river, and then enjoy a breakfast at one of the places on her bucket list. She felt a nervous twinge at the thought of officially cracking open the list. Each bullet point was laced with high expectations, but it was either that, or wake up late and order room service, which just seemed wrong in a city as beautiful as Paris.

  She did her best to calm the nervous feeling by focusing on her outfit; the strolling portion of the morning meant that functionality was key, but the neighborhood of the breakfast spot required something more high-end. She pushed her more practical pieces to the side and zeroed in on anything approaching fashionable.

  She ultimately landed on one of her work blazers paired with a T-shirt, a pendant necklace, jeans, and her glossy white-and-rose-gold sneakers. It was hardly on the level of an Instagram influencer, but for Mira, it was more than enough.

  Once cozy in bed, she grabbed her phone, set an alarm, and opened the airline app. “You better work this time,” she muttered, sounding equal parts threatening and nervous. A few taps and a long pause later, she sighed in frustration.

  The convenient online check-in was simply not to be.

  Knowing she’d need extra time to check in at the airport, she edited her alarm for some all-important buffer, before placing her phone on the nightstand and switching off the lamp.

  In a matter of moments, Mira’s nervousness faded into eager anticipation.

  Tomorrow is going to be amazing.

  CHAPTER

  two

  M

  The Next Morning

  The sun burned brightly in the clear blue sky, its powerful rays making the Seine River sparkle.

  Mira leaned against the railing of Pont des Arts, the bridge across from the Louvre with spectacular views from all sides. Her current vantage point was the iconic one, with the Eiffel Tower showcased in the distance. She wasn’t close enough to admire the famed structure’s intricate wrought-iron composition, but it was the only clear look she’d gotten since arriving, and she wanted to make it last.

  A long sigh escaped from Mira’s lips. It was a moment loaded with the first real semblance of joy she’d felt since the business trip had begun, and with two full hours remaining, she hoped it wouldn’t be the last. Her stomach grumbled with anticipation, fixated on the famous French toast that was to come.

  Despite her stomach’s soundtrack of calorie deprivation, she couldn’t leave the bridge without capturing the postcard image. She snapped a photo and immediately examined it. “Why does it look so much smaller?” she groaned. She utilized the zoom feature and gave it a second try, but a frown was her only reward. “Why does it look so blurry?”

  It was still quite early in the day for Paris, and Mira’s current surroundings showed it, with minimal traffic out on the roads, and only a few locals and early-bird tourists making their way on foot.

  Mira crossed the road with brisk steps, passing a café terrace serving coffee to the day’s first tourists. Her path led her along

  the Louvre’s outer exterior and then into the smaller side streets, the perfect route for a foreigner wanting to soak in the atmosphere of Paris.

  In a matter of minutes, Rue Saint-Honoré became Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and though the width of the street hadn’t changed at all, there was a marked difference in the offerings. Quaint cafés and pâtisserie shops gave way to Gucci, Cartier, Hermès, and every other high-end boutique well beyond her financial reach.

  Mira’s footsteps slowed as she approached an alluring window showcasing all things Chanel. The latest iteration of the Chanel wool suit was prominently displayed behind the glass, an evergreen look, no matter the season. The summer beach
collection was the other main draw, with a belted one-piece swimsuit featuring the brand’s famous monogram.

  But these weren’t the pieces that caught Mira’s eye. She found herself drawn to an item that could’ve easily been missed; a full flap leather wallet displayed on a silver table. It was nearly identical to the one Mira’s future mother-in-law had given to her at her engagement ceremony.

  Mira’s understanding of engagement ceremonies held in Sikh temples in upstate New York was minimal at best, but she knew that after an hour of sitting cross-legged on an uncomfortable carpet, you could always count on a series of gifts and several wads of cash. After years of watching cousin after cousin collect their own engagement ceremony cash and prizes, Mira’s turn had finally come on that cold November day. Her outfit had been pink with silver accents, dazzling by Western standards, but muted compared to the multiple lehenga outfit changes she’d be cycling through on her wedding day. The thing she remembered most about that day was her posed smile, and how strained it became with each additional photo. In the moment, she’d chalked it up to simple fatigue, but looking back, it was an early warning. And she’d missed it.

  The past and the present seemed worlds apart, with only the full flap leather wallet tying them together. It was just another thing she would have to return, whereas every single memory stuck to her like glue.

  Mira stepped away from the storefront window, eager to escape the somber mood by running from her problems—or in this case, power walking the last few blocks to the restaurant.

  Before long, Mira’s dark thoughts disappeared into the sights and sounds of a pleasing terrace—and the smell of the best French toast of all time.

  Known as pain perdu or lost bread, it was a simple dish often made at home with the last stale pieces of baguette. Despite its humble nature, the version of the dish that landed at Mira’s table had nothing to do with humility. What sat on Mira’s plate was an updated French rendition, something that had gotten food bloggers talking. On the surface, the French toast resembled two fluffy cylinders of goodness. Each toast tower was yellow all around, lightly browned on top, and encircled with maple syrup and fresh blueberries. It was almost too good to eat. Almost.

  When Mira used her gleaming fork to slice through the first tower, she could only gasp. Beyond the surface was the sort of light and airy sorcery she never could’ve conjured, not in her mind nor in her cramped Manhattan kitchen.

  If the inaugural fork slice had been good, then the first official bite was an otherworldly joyfest. The delicate eggy flavor and syrupy sweetness surrounded Mira’s taste buds in a warm embrace, which immediately validated putting modernized pain perdu on her bucket list.

  In a matter of minutes, the only thing left on Mira’s plate was a single rogue blueberry she would save for the end of her meal. In the meantime, she sipped her coffee and watched as the

  occasional chic Parisian woman passed by. Second by second, her petit dejeuner faded into her mind, replaced with the playback of Indian dress fittings, cake tastings, exorbitant expenses, the deepening dread with each turn of the calendar . . . it was all coming back to the surface. She wondered what it would take to stop being hit with these emotional waves. Would there be no relief until she faced her problems? If so, that was bullshit—especially because she’d already dealt with her biggest problem of all.

  Only weeks ago, she’d helplessly watched as her entire future hurdled toward a marriage with a good-on-paper guy whom she wasn’t truly in love with. But then, she’d stopped it, like a driver slamming the brakes mere seconds before a head-on collision.

  Most people in Mira’s situation would’ve simply kept on hurdling, opting for a comfortable risk-averse future—before eventually convincing themselves it was everything they’d wanted all along. A part of Mira liked the sound of a risk-averse future, but ultimately, she’d been incapable of taking that path. She wanted something more, even if she didn’t quite know what that something was. And now, after having blown up her entire life, she was perfectly free to go find it.

  The only flaw in the plan was that so far, freedom felt like shit. She’d risked everything, but inner peace eluded her. She’d shown courage, but there didn’t seem to be a reward. It didn’t help that courage wasn’t a word ever used in conversations with her Indian family. Even as a child while watching Wizard of Oz with her parents, they’d never understood what the Cowardly Lion was missing. No heart, no brain, now these were life-altering problems. But no courage? That didn’t seem like a problem at all.

  So here was Mira, with a pocketful of courage that was not only irrelevant to her family, but worse than that, was viewed as selfishness. She was selfish because her parents had already sent out the invitations, she was selfish for putting them through the nightmare of all this stress, and she was selfish for not letting them marry off their daughter within the prespinster timeline laid out by the Indian community.

  Mira popped the last blueberry into her mouth, watching as a mother pushing a bassinet stroller passed by. “Could’ve been me by next year,” she whispered, before glancing at her unadorned ring finger. “Back to square one.”

  Whether or not Mira’s choices were selfish, she’d truly done her best to call off the wedding within a reasonable time frame. In fact, she’d given nearly two months’ notice to everyone involved, in a sequence of awkward and hellish conversations she hoped to never live through again. Through it all, she hadn’t even missed a single day of work. It should’ve been a badge of honor, but she was learning the hard way that meeting every deadline and kicking ass in branding wasn’t quite the tonic for filling the void.

  The one thing Mira could count on, was that she’d officially survived the worst experience of her life. It was a small comfort, but it was something. On a less comforting note, another truth emerged as she sat under the warmth of the summer sun: it would take a lot more than one fabulous meal to feel happy again.

  With full awareness of the rough road ahead, Mira opted for a few more minutes of people-watching, which if nothing else was a distracting bit of fun.

  After paying for her meal, she strolled back along the designer brick road, armed with some courage and a deep-down hope that time would heal all things.

  *

  Before long, Mira had returned to the hotel lobby, right on schedule to collect her belongings and make her way to the airport. She wasn’t looking forward to going back home and facing the rubble of her blown-up life, but she’d always have Paris—a morning’s worth, anyway.

  Mira thanked the concierge as he brought out her carry-on.

  “Au revoir, bonne journée,” he said, gesturing to the revolving doors.

  That was strange. “And the car?”

  His stare was long and his eyes devoid of emotion. “Car?”

  “My itinerary says our company hired cars to take us to the airport.”

  “Ah yes,” he said, finally understanding. “There were three cars, and they were occupied by your colleagues for the earlier departure.”

  She gasped. “They didn’t save me a car?” She racked her brain for who could be responsible for this terrible mistake. Frank? Shirley?

  Someone will die for this.

  Before Mira could plot out her first-ever murder, Jake lumbered out of the elevator and headed her way. She’d almost forgotten he was part of this equation, and truthfully, had kind of hoped she wouldn’t see him at all. Especially now, the way he looked so sweaty and worse for wear. He resembled a man who’d spent the night playing the sponge to every drop of booze in the vicinity.

  Jake glanced from the concierge to Mira. “Car ready?”

  “They only budgeted three cars,” she said, “and our colleagues already used them.”

  Not having the time to wait for his reaction, Mira pulled out her phone and opened the ride share app. Her eyes bulged when she took in the details. “A hundred and twenty euros just to
go to the airport?” She looked to the concierge for answers. “Doesn’t that seem ridiculous?”

  The concierge shrugged. “Surge pricing is common on the weekends; you know . . . everyone off to the airport for their little holidays in Lisbon or Biarritz.” The last part of his sentence was coated in a palpable contempt.

  “But it’s Friday morning; don’t people have to work?”

  The concierge chuckled but said nothing.

  “Let’s just take it and expense it,” Jake suggested.

  She snorted. “You think Shirley will ever let that expense form make it to Frank’s desk?” It was well known among Bloom employees that Shirley the overlord/office manager ate power trips for breakfast, up to and including vetoing expenses that would be standard practice in any other company. As VP of Marketing and Sales, Frank always managed to avoid getting involved, which made Mira all but certain there was blackmail in the mix.

  Regardless of Frank and Shirley’s weird dynamic, surge pricing wasn’t the answer to Mira’s problems. She turned and made her way to the revolving doors.

  “Where are you going?” Jake asked.

  She turned back. “I’m taking the R-E-R train.”

  Jake looked confused.

  “It’s a train that goes to the airport. Some of them are even express.” Her schedule now faced the slight delay of getting to the airport by public transit, but she wasn’t going to let it stress her out. She noticed that Jake hadn’t moved. “Good luck with the surge pricing.”

  “I’ll come with you!”

  “Why?”

  He headed for the doors. “I don’t trust Shirley either.”

  *

  The métro station was busy, a fact that instantly stressed Mira out. As she and Jake squeezed their way onto the train, she reminded herself it was only a one-stop subway ride of less than one minute, after which they would arrive at Châtelet, the station that not only connected to multiple métro lines, but to trains that traveled out of Paris. The RER B train passed through the station frequently, and it would get them to Charles de Gaulle Airport in plenty of time. She clutched the nearest metal pole and nodded to herself in affirmation.