There was a small station with fresh-baked pastries and lemon water near the check-in desk in the rear of the room. She stared at the croissants and the assortment of jams, mouthwatering. If I’d just come here first, I could’ve killed two agenda birds with one stone, she thought, checking her phone. It was after three. If she checked in right away, she might be able to head over to the Eiffel Tower and salvage some of her to-do list for the day.

Her growling stomach protested that.

She clamped a hand over it and approached the check-in. “Hello.”

“Bonjour,” the Asian woman behind the desk said pleasantly with a French accent. Despite looking about the age of one of Diana’s daughters, she was wearing a sophisticated pale pink cashmere sweater that Diana would’ve worn. “Checking in?”

“That’s right. I’m Diana St. James. I have a reservation.”

“Good to have you staying with us, Ms. St. James,” the woman said, tapping something into her computer. “Is this your first time in Paris?”

She nodded.

“Well, welcome. We have you in one of our penthouse suites for three days, correct?”

“Yes,” she said, her stomach growling even louder now as she handed over her American Express.

The clerk must’ve heard it, because she smiled as she continued to type. “Please help yourself to one of our complimentary pastries.”

Diana laughed, “I think I need something more substantial.”

The lady smiled, not looking up from her computer. “You may have more than one.”

I could eat the whole tray, Diana thought and was not exaggerating in the least. “Well . . .”

The clerk passed over a folio which contained the keycard and said, “If you’d like to go to your room, the elevator is behind you. Otherwise, the inn’s restaurant is through those doors. They’re serving lunch now.”

Diana followed her pointing finger to a set of double doors behind the piano. “Perfect,” she said, gathering her things and navigating around the furniture. As she walked, she noticed a French newspaper on the coffee table. As she paused to try to translate the headline, the elevator doors dinged open and a voice called, “Ah, Annie, what’s the story?” with an Irish accent.

The woman behind the desk giggled. “Fine, Sean, and you?”

Diana looked over her shoulder to see a man with a beard checking out the rack with brochures from different attractions. As he did, he took a cup and tipped the lever on the decanter one-handed, pouring himself a cup of water, which he swallowed in a single gulp.

“Have a great day, Annie!” he said as Diana turned away and headed toward the restaurant. She found herself in a small cozy pub, all dark cherry wood with a small bar on the end and only a couple of tables. Coats of arms, French flags, and war memorabilia decorated the walls. Because it was three in the afternoon, the place was empty.

Diana hovered there, wondering if it was indeed open because there didn’t even seem to be a hostess.