Wanderlust
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Copyright
Also By Lauren Blakely
About Wanderlust
Stay Up to Date With Lauren
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com
Cover Design by © Helen Williams
Photo: Rafa Catala
First Edition March 2018
* * *
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also By Lauren Blakely
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Big Rock
Mister O
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Full Package
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Hard Wood
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One Love Series dual-POV Standalones
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
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Standalones
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The Knocked Up Plan
Most Valuable Playboy
Stud Finder
The V Card
Most Likely to Score
Wanderlust
Come As You Are (April 2018)
Part-Time Lover (June 2018)
The Real Deal (Summer 2018)
Unbreak My Heart (Summer 2018)
Once Upon a Real Good Time (Fall 2018)
Once Upon a Sure Thing (Fall 2018)
Far Too Tempting
21 Stolen Kisses
Playing With Her Heart
Out of Bounds
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The Caught Up in Love Series
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Stars in Their Eyes
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The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
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The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
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The Joy Delivered Duet
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
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The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
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Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
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Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
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The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
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About Wanderlust
The first time I met him, his sexy British accent almost talked me into giving him my number on the spot. The second time, he nearly charmed the panties off me with his wit. Then I learned he's the key to success in my new job in Paris. The man who tempts me into fling-worthy dirty daydreams has turned out to be my personal translator, and his accent is the hottest thing I've ever heard.
My mantra is simple -- Don't mix business with pleasure. I do my best to resist him as he teaches me how to converse with my co-workers, navigate the metro and order the perfect bottle of wine at dinner. But I also figure out how to tell the charming and clever man what I most want to say -- that I want him to take me back to his flat -- tonight.
Except there's a catch...
***
One more assignment before I take off on my big adventure...
And it involves the toughest work ever -- resisting the fetching American woman I spend all my days with. But you know what they say about best intentions. Soon, we're spending our nights tangled together, and I don't want to let her go. The trouble is, my wanderlust is calling to me, and before we know it I'll be traveling the globe to fulfill a promise I made long ago. What could possibly go wrong with falling in love in Paris? Nothing...unless one of you is leaving.
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Prologue
Joy
* * *
Forget oysters. Screw candlelight and champagne. A sexy accent is the truest aphrodisiac. I’m talking a weak-in-the-knees, flutters-all-over, fast-track to euphoria.
I’ve tried to analyze precisely why the sound of a man’s words can elicit this reaction in, frankly, millions of women. But when I break down an accent and study it like a chemical reaction, it’s nearly impossible to draw a logical conclusion. The ingredients in and of themselves don’t seem swoontastic enough.
And yet, accents have been known to induce major swooning.
That’s why, in my professional opinion, the sounds aren’t the rocket fuel for the tingles. Instead, it’s the associations evoked. Italian is food, wine, and days drenched in the pleasures of the senses. Australian is the laid-back twang of a surfer. A Southern drawl says a man will take his sweet time. Oh, yes, darlin’, will he ever.
But British? Dear God. A de
licious British accent to my oh-so-American ears triggers wave after wave of goose bumps across my skin. My knees wobble. My stomach swoops. My skin heats. All the turned-on centers in my body are cranked to high.
A British accent is James Bond in a bottle. It’s sex, it’s style, it’s sophistication, and it’s the man who’ll find his way out of any jam, save the damsel, and do it all with silver cuff links on.
Wait. Make that platinum.
Charmed, indeed.
That’s why I say it’s a damn good thing I’m moving to a country that won’t be chock full of my personal vocal kryptonite, since I don’t have the time or inclination for distractions in my life right now. Look, I don’t have a single problem with the French accent whatsoever. A hot French man can voulez-vous coucher avec moi, if you know what I mean.
But it’s a British accent that turns me to Silly Putty, so in Paris I’ll be mighty fine.
Then, I meet him.
1
Joy
* * *
I’m giving myself a gold star.
I’ve managed the entire transatlantic flight speaking only French. Yay me! Or should I say oui, moi! Pretty sure that’s not an official saying, but whatevercakes. Either way, I’m rocking it in the speak-French-or-die department.
I’ve rattled off my s’il vous plaits and mercis like a native speaker, and I’m about to break out an even fancier request as the flight attendant strolls by offering the last round of beverages.
“Would you like something?” she asks in French.
I’ve checked my app. The words are on my tongue for fizzy water. “Je voudrais l’eau avec bulles.”
With a pinch to her lips, the angular flight attendant arches a brow. “Excusez-moi?”
Oops. I bet bubbles was the problem. Maybe my app went a little too literally when I looked up that word. I try to talk around the confusion, to explain what I want, when I remember something I read in a travel blog once about how the French order still versus sparkling water.
I snap my fingers and smile, going for it in a whole new direction. “L’eau avec gaz.”
Water with gas.
I snicker to myself. The French call the sparkling variety of water gassy.
The flight attendant blinks.
I say it again, louder this time, prompting the kindly old couple in front of me to whip their heads around. Doesn’t faze me. I’m naturally loud. That isn’t the first time someone’s blanched in surprise at my volume, nor will it be the last.
The blonde twig smiles sympathetically and says, “Of course, mademoiselle. I will bring you a Perrier.”
Le sigh. She spoke to me in English. Cue the disappointment track.
But hey, I’m a mademoiselle at least. So, obviously I’m still winning at life.
When she brings the drink, it’s delish. Not gassy at all, so I’m coming out ahead in the drink department, too. Optimism, thy name is moi.
Thirty minutes later, the loudspeaker crackles and an authoritative voice booms throughout the jetliner. “We are nearing Charles DeGaulle airport,” the pilot intones, and a spate of nerves flutters up my chest. But I ignore them because I’m ready for this adventure no matter how daunting the drink ordering may be.
My seatmate in 2A, a lovely lady in a pink-checkered suit, smelling faintly of Obsession and tweed, shoots me a caring smile. “Is this your first time in Paris?”
She speaks in English with the most delightful French accent. Her lips are freshly glossed, like she slicked some on moments ago. Otherwise, she wears little makeup, and her hair is clipped in a loose but immaculate bun.
“I was supposed to visit a year ago for vacation . . .” I say, my voice trailing off. But I don’t want to get into why that trip never transpired. She lifts an eyebrow, waiting for my answer, perhaps wondering, too. I return to my cheery side. “That didn’t happen and that’s A-OK. But I’ve always wanted to go. I wish I had studied abroad. It’s one of my great regrets that I didn’t.”
“And now you can remedy that regret with a visit.”
I nod. “I’ve been taking French lessons and reading all the guidebooks.” Though, in fairness, I memorized nearly every one a year ago, it seems. I pored over photos on Instagram and pictures from French food bloggers, devouring everything I could unearth on Paris. “The city has always seemed magical to me, the places, the shops, the river.”
“Paris can indeed be a magical city. And is this a holiday for you?”
I can’t believe I’m about to utter the next words, because I can still barely believe they’re true. “I’ll be working in Paris. That’s why I’ve been speaking French to the flight attendants. To practice.”
Her brown eyes are warm, and they twinkle in a friendly way. “Then, next time say De l'eau gazeuse or eau pétillante. That’s what we call water with bubbles. Sparkling water.”
“Ohhhhhh. Information that would have been handy an hour ago,” I say, smacking my forehead playfully. “I bet the flight attendant thinks I’m a typical unrefined American.”
“No. Of course not. I’m sure she appreciates the effort.”
“I try,” I say in French.
A gentle smile is her response. It crinkles her face. Wrinkles line her forehead, but they’re soft, like the rest of her.
“It is good to attempt the language,” she tells me. “And how long will you stay?”
I shrug happily. “I’m not sure. For now, it’s a relocation. My company is sending me to Paris to work on a new project.”
“How thrilling.”
“Je suis excitée!” I say, trotting out more of my French.
The woman shakes her head. “No,” she says as a faint blush crosses her cheeks. She drops her voice lower. “That means you are excited.”
“But I am.”
Her brown eyes widen, and she waves her hand over her lap. “Down there.”
My mouth forms an O. “Well, shame on me,” I say, and she laughs. “That’s not appropriate at all. What would I say instead?”
“It depends. If you’re excited to see someone, if you’re excited to eat a croissant, if you’re looking forward to something . . .” She makes a rolling gesture with her hand, inviting me to fill in the rest.
“Personally, I’m excited for all croissants. I think they’re proof that people weren’t meant to eat a gluten-free diet. Like, ever.”
She laughs lightly. “Carbs are divine. So, you are definitely looking forward to croissants in Paris.”
“I am.” I flash a bright smile. I’ve been told my smile occupies all the real estate on my face. I attribute this to being from Texas. We do everything supersize. “I’m looking forward to my new life in Paris.”
She smiles and translates into her language. I repeat her words.
“Very good.”
“Thank you.”
She hums, a soft little sound. “Paris is a good place for a new life. I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.”
A few years ago, reinvention was the last thing I’d imagined wanting. I was content with a capital C.
Now, it’s what I need most.
As the jet descends, I find that I am well and truly excited—not down there, but here, in my chest, in my heart—for what lies ahead.
Mostly because it’s just that. Ahead.
The past belongs to yesterday.
When the wheels touch the tarmac, I bid yesterday a silent and final adieu.
2
Griffin
* * *
The way a travel book tells it, the River Seine is 485 miles long, thirty-one feet deep on average, and is spanned by thirty-seven bridges in France’s capital city.
Boring.
Facts can be so terribly dull.
If I were writing a travel book, I’d surely add other details.
For instance, the river is also a home to occasional sewage overflows, it’s a resting spot for love locks from the Pont Des Arts tossed in the river when angry lovers split, and it’s a fairly popular wa
tery disposal site for dead bodies, since about fifty-five of those buggers were dredged up in the Seine as recently as ten years ago.
Just picture that the next time someone suggests a dinner boat cruise down the Seine.
Yes, if I were a tour guide, I’d spend too much time noodling on little details with my tourists, like when were the bodies tossed into the water and how long had they been earthworm meat before being given the heave-ho to their wet graves. As for the love locks, I’d ponder how many clever little bits and bobs could have been made with the damn discarded metal in the first place. Picture frames, necklaces, and the like . . . I have to imagine an entire industry could be born from the declarations of love that weigh down one of the city’s bridges.
But perhaps that’s why I’m not a tour guide. I find the odd facts and curiosities of a city much more interesting than monuments and guideposts.