Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Such as?” I prompt, surprisingly curious as to what they had to say about me. Or at least curious what Autumn had to say.
“They think you are a ‘thirst trap’, as Molly called you. Yori was initially concerned you might be ill, even asked if you needed a bottle of water. But once they worked out the slang, it was understood that you are sexy.” He chuckles, shooting me a friendly jab. “If only they knew what an ass you are.”
“Hopefully, you didn’t tell them,” I joke back, knowing he would never. Tobias has been with Jacqueline for a few years now and became a surprisingly good friend despite his proximity to my aunt.
“Didn’t have to. Beatrice did that for me. She’s French, so she knows the gossip and your reputation.”
“Merde,” I growl. “What did she say?”
“That the Eiffel Tower would dwarf your ego, you earned your position by name only, and you are a man whore who can take home any woman you’d like, but then you kick them out with nary a call for a taxi immediately after bedding them.” He delivers all this with a straight face and zero emotion.
My brows knit together, and I feel my face redden with fury, though it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. But the other finalists haven’t. Autumn hasn’t, or at least she hadn’t before Beatrice opened her mouth and spewed forth rumors as though they’re the truth of my character. “How dare she?”
I’m clenching the arms of my chair, but Tobias shrugs casually. “She’s not wrong, though I will add that your reputation as a lover isn’t quite so crass. I usually hear after breakfast, at least.”
His smirk is one that only he could get away with. If anyone else were to suggest I’m that rude, I would filet them with words at the least. I’m not stupid. I know physical altercations aren’t in my best interests when my looks are my trademark.
“Fuck off, man. I don’t want them to think of me like that . . . or House Corbin,” I argue, adding on that last bit after a too-long pause.
“Mmm-hmm. Believable. Totally.” He waits for me to banter back, but when I’m sullenly quiet, he offers, “Sounds like the hens are escaping the hen house tonight as well. Going to a club to celebrate the start of their adventure.”
Instantly, all I can think of is Autumn at a club or bar, her body swaying to music as a smile curls her lips. The lights would dance on her pale skin, her hair a fiery beacon to the other patrons. She’d be instantly surrounded by Parisian men trying to charm her. My blood heats at the imaginary possibility. “Where?”
He studies me for a moment curiously before lazily replying, “Les Chautons Fous.”
CHAPTER 5
AUTUMN
Tobias’s tour amps up our excitement even more, if that’s possible. The workroom is spacious and bright, with a wall of windows that overlook the city and large tables to spread out our work. The supply room is a rainbow of fabrics, trimmings, and notions. The air itself feels full of potential.
Getting to know the other competitors today has proven to be interesting as well. As embarrassing as the costume debacle was, the outrageousness of it broke the ice between us and I’ve enjoyed talking to them.
Katarina has revealed herself to be dryly sarcastic with a wicked sense of humor, though she rarely laughed at her own zingers today. Yori is quiet, listening more than speaking, though I get the sense that she’s keenly observant, likely cataloging everything she hears. Molly is as wild and crazy as I remember, possibly more so, speaking with no filter or concern for how her words land. Beatrice is a harder read. She’s polite, classy, and aloof.
I feel like the competition will be fun, and thankfully, no one seems too antagonistic. Not even Beatrice, despite Molly’s and my earlier concerns that she might be a Regina George type. She actually suggested that we all go out tonight to get a feel for Paris before we’re too busy to enjoy this adventure.
Back in my tiny apartment, I flip through the pieces I brought, considering what will be most appropriate for a Paris nightclub. I’ve started with a black spaghetti-strap bodysuit with a thong bottom, perfect for any skirt I select. But which one?
Suddenly, I’m struck with brilliance. We were allowed to bring our wardrobe items home with us, and the plaid scarf I used as a train is calling to me. I pick it up, thumbing the edge, and then wrap it around my waist. It’s just long enough down my thighs to work perfectly. I add a skinny leather belt that encircles my waist twice, strappy Mary Jane stilettos, and a delicate pearl necklace.
I don’t have a full-length mirror, but I can visualize the outfit in my head. I’m ready.