The bar sat tucked into the corner of the boutique hotel like a sultry secret. It wasn't flashy—no neon signs or booming music—just low, warm light, shelves of amber-colored liquor, and a quiet, jazzy murmur that wrapped around the space like smoke.
Lena Carter sat alone at the far end of the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. The cocktail tasted faintly of citrus and something herbal, but she wasn't drinking for the flavor. She was drinking for the silence it softened. The ache it blurred.
She hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since stepping off the plane in Paris that afternoon. And yet, the city already felt like it had seeped into her skin—its strange beauty, its melancholy, its promise of something more.
Her dress clung softly to her curves, black silk that kissed her thighs when she shifted on the stool. Her dark hair was pinned loosely, a few strands brushing her neck. She hadn't worn perfume, but her skin still held the warm echo of vanilla from her lotion that morning. She hadn't planned to come to the bar. She hadn't planned much of anything, really.
After ending a six-year relationship, planning felt impossible.
This trip had been impulsive. A dare to herself. To get on a plane, disappear into another city, and let the past slip behind her like old skin.
She was mid-sip, eyes unfocused, when she felt it: that sensation of being watched.
Not in a sleazy way. Not like the man two stools down who kept glancing at her cleavage and pretending not to. No—this was different. Like heat brushing against her bare shoulder. Like being read instead of looked at.
She turned her head slightly, and there he was.
Him.
He had just walked in, loosening the collar of his dress shirt, one hand running through tousled dark hair as he crossed the room. He wasn't showy. He didn't need to be. His presence alone pulled the attention of the room like gravity.
Tall, lean but strong, dressed in a tailored black suit with no tie—just an open collar revealing the edge of tanned skin and a hint of something tattooed just above the line. His eyes swept the space, unreadable and sharp, before landing on her.
They didn't flick away.
He walked straight to the seat beside her. Confident. Effortless. Close, but not too close.
"Is it taken?" he asked, his voice low and smoky with a French lilt.
Lena tilted her glass slightly, gave him a half-smile. "Not yet."
He smiled—just a small curve of lips, but enough to make her breath catch.
"Then I'll be careful," he said, sitting down.
There was a pause. Not awkward—just heavy. Charged. Like something electric had slipped between them and was waiting to spark.
He signaled to the bartender, ordered in French. Lena caught only part of it—whiskey, neat.
"You're American," he said, turning back to her. "But not here for business."
She raised a brow. "No?"
"No," he said simply. "You have a sadness in your eyes. And you're dressed like a woman who wants to be noticed, but not recognized."
Lena blinked. "You read people often?"
"I watch," he replied. "Sometimes I'm wrong. I don't think I am tonight."
She hesitated, lips parting, unsure whether to feel intrigued or disarmed. But she didn't pull away. She didn't want to. "And what about you?" she asked. "What are you here for?"
He didn't answer right away. Just took a slow sip of his whiskey and looked at her like he was trying to decide if he wanted to tell her the truth.
"Escape," he said finally.
It was a single word, but it hit her like a confession.
The rest of the world blurred. The clink of glasses, the soft jazz, the whispered conversations around them—all faded. It was just them. A woman who'd run away from a life that didn't fit anymore. A man who looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.
The silence between them crackled.
He leaned in, not enough to touch, just close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.
"Would you like to come upstairs with me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She stared at him, pulse pounding in her throat. The question wasn't crude. It wasn't even demanding. It was… honest.
Yes, he was beautiful. Yes, her body already ached at the thought of his hands. But more than that, something in her soul wanted to collide with his. Even if just for a night.
Her mouth felt dry. "Yes," she said.
He rose without hesitation and offered his hand. She slipped hers into it, warm and trembling.
He didn't ask her name.
She didn't ask his.
Together, they walked out of the bar and into the elevator, the air thick with anticipation.
Room 406 awaited them.