“These drivers think they can just park wherever the hell they want!”

Impatient taxi drivers add to the noise, laying on their horns with gusto.

“What’s goin’ on?!” one shouts to a hotel attendant trying to appease the crowd.

The attendant waves at him to calm down. “We got some special guest leavin’. Should just take a minute.”

At hearing this, we all turn collectively to watch as a small entourage of people exit the front entrance of the hotel. I suspect it to be Eugene and his briefcase at first. No doubt they’d require special treatment like this, but then I see two hotel attendants carrying luggage, a bodyguard bringing up the rear, and then…Emmett walking alongside Miranda, cutting across the sidewalk like he owns the world.

For a brief moment, I observe him as if I’m just another unsuspecting pedestrian. He’s paired a navy suit jacket with a slightly darker sweater underneath it. From his cuff, his silver Jaeger-LeCoultre watch peeks out. His black hair is impeccably styled and his shoes look as if they’ve just finished being shined, but he hasn’t shaved this morning, leaving a tantalizing amount of stubble that I’m unaccustomed to seeing on him. He somehow looks more French today than ever.

Sacré bleu.

He looks up into the crowd and catches me staring; the intensity of his brown eyes makes me feel momentarily off balance, but his expression doesn’t change. There’s no hint of recognition, no kindness.

I’m the same as everybody else, watching with a slack jaw as he escorts Miranda to the waiting Range Rover. He reaches it first, and rather than getting in, he stands back and ushers her forward then offers his hand. She doesn’t need it. She is fully capable of sliding onto the back seat without his help, but she doesn’t pass up the chance to gently lay her hand in his and bestow a beautiful smile of thanks in return for his gallantry. Then it’s Emmett’s turn to get in, but for a moment he stalls, his hand on the roof above the door.

I stand frozen, my breath arrested, hope growing with every millisecond he fails to get in after her. Then his head turns as if listening to something Miranda’s just said, and without another moment’s hesitation, he slides into the vehicle beside her.

I’m left on the sidewalk, waiting for my taxi while everyone around me chatters loudly about Emmett and who they think he could be.

“Probably some big-time actor. Did you see how smug he looked walking out of the hotel like that while we all stood here, waiting?”

“He’s not an actor,” someone corrects. “He’s a businessman. I recognized him. Can’t think of his first name, but he’s that French guy’s son. Mercier something.”

The hotel attendant directing the taxi line hears this. “That fucking billionaire guy? Are you shitting me?”

“We should have asked for an autograph or some spare change.”

They laugh at this, and then someone cuts in, “You see the girl he was with? Damn, she was fine.”