Sutton woke hard, alone, unsure for a moment where she was. Her back hurt, and her mouth was dry. The sun was shining outside, puffy white clouds meandering through the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She raised her head, the room coming into view. The picture window in front of her showed the black metal lines of the Tour, which centered her.

Paris. She was in Paris. She was Justine Holliday, from Hollywood, Florida. She was writing a memoir. She’d met a handsome young man and had a fun few days of pleasure. Just what the doctor ordered.

So why didn’t she feel all romantic and gooey inside?

Probably because she’d stumbled on a nasty crime scene and all the magic of Paris was lost to her now.

She peeled herself up off the desk. She’d fallen asleep with her head on the keyboard. She was stiff and sore and headachy. Her stomach was still queasy. She must be coming down with something. She probably picked it up on the plane. Great.

She drank a glass of water, stretched a little. A croissant wouldn’t go amiss. She knew she had to be careful with the carbs; she’d turn into a house if she didn’t watch her diet, but right now, with an upset stomach and a stiff neck, the prospect of warm, flaky dough drenched in butter and jam sounded heavenly.

She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She took the stairs down, for the exercise. Outside, the air was crisp as if it had rained overnight and washed away the stickiness of the pollen, but the streets weren’t wet, and the air was still suffused with floating yellow fairies.

It was a beautiful morning.

The café on the corner had a small set of tables in front of their windows with a red-and-white-striped awning overhead. It was so French. So perfect.

She was being ridiculous. She needed to stick with the program. She’d planned this for weeks and now she was here and she needed to stop being a wishy-washy child and roll with the decisions she’d made. This was what she wanted. Paris. Freedom.

Yes.

Suddenly ravenous and filled with love for her new life, she purchased two croissants with strawberry jam and sat at the table, drinking cool water from a small glass. The waiter brought her a steaming hot café au lait. She opened her notebook and wrote a few lines. Really, wasn’t this exactly what she was hoping for? She wanted to smell the Parisian air, feel the cobblestones under her feet. Finishing her breakfast, she made a few more notes, paid the check, and decided to walk before working more.