One to Chase - Tia Louise Page 0,4

sexual from the start. As a chief executive at Arnys, one of the leading men’s fashion houses in Paris, he was dripping with wealth and access, not to mention always impeccably dressed.

We met during fashion week. I sat on the front row across the catwalk from the dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonis who wouldn’t take his eyes off me. Naturally, I had my roommate Celeste introduce us once it was over. Celeste is French cool, but I knew her well enough to see she was star struck by him.

She interned at Vogue, which was how we scored our great seats. I could afford to buy tickets, of course, but her position seated us two chairs down from Donatella at the Atelier Versace show.

The fashions were amazing—solid black pantsuits with swirling or asymmetrical patterns cut out of the necklines, go-go red dresses with glittery geometric shapes and arrows crossing the bodice. And of course, Donatella’s signature white slacks and blazer. All set to the techno-chic musical backdrop of David Guetta.

Then my eyes landed on Armand’s black ones. The slightest grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and my insides sizzled. He was older, sophisticated, a touch of grey at his temples.

After Celeste introduced us, he took me to dinner at Epicure and then to his apartment near Sacre Coeur where we fucked the night away. The next morning, he sent me home in his car, and that was the beginning of what I thought was our mutually beneficial arrangement.

We both had demanding jobs, we both had plenty of money, and we both had a taste for the finer things. Not to mention Armand was fantastic in bed. He was older, but he kept my needs met.

Six months in and he presented me with a key to his maison, and with a sly grin revealing straight white teeth, he practically insisted I give up my place with Celeste and move in with him.

First, I would not leave Celeste high and dry like that. What kind of friend would I be?

(Actually, Celeste had just told me she was moving in with her boyfriend Brys at the end of the month, so I was either looking for my own place or a new roommate anyway.)

But seriously, what the hell?

The first conversation Armand and I had after I realized I would be sleeping with him more than once concerned how I do not do relationships. Yes, he was a fabulous lay, but the very idea of someone wanting to own me made my blood run cold.

Did he listen? Clearly not.

So typically French.

I packed my bags and left that day for home—my real home.

Sure I could’ve lived alone in Paris, but that’s just sad. I like having someone to chat with in the evenings.

Another deep inhale of late spring Chicago air, and I’m standing in front of an imposing steel skyscraper. I’ll figure out the Armand situation later. For now, I have to do my familial duty.

Pulling the shiny brass handle, I go through the double doors, cross the grey marble floors, and punch the elevator button.

I don’t need this meeting. I grew up in Chicago. I know all the connected assholes in this city and all their children, too. If worse comes to worse, I can dial up Karen Philpot and invite her to lunch.

Karen. The very idea makes my skin crawl. You know how every group has one person with all the gossip? One person who knows which businesses are failing, which executives are cheating on their wives, and which socialite was spotted covertly leaving rehab? In the old Chicago group that person is Karen.

I swear, the woman does nothing all day but lunch with her spies. While some of us actually focus on our careers or worthwhile endeavors...

Honestly, I don’t give a shit.

The bad blood between Karen and me is ancient history, I’m sure. Enough time has passed, enough water under the bridge, and I trust I’m the only one who remembers those days with a cringe.

No, Karen is not an option. Instead, I’ll meet Edward Merritt. Non-sparkling Edward Merritt. My lips curl in a smile, the Karen problem momentarily forgotten.

Edward is clearly a newcomer to the Chicago scene. He wasn’t here when I left for Cornell. Good god, what a grueling penance that was. Ithaca is as cold as a witch’s tit half the year, and the spring does not make up for it. I should’ve opted for Berkley instead.

“May I help you?” A petite brunette with a fashionable pixie haircut greets me from