We got word about Food Me! being renewed hours before I sent off an email requesting some time off. Grace was ecstatic, Archie nonplussed, as always. Nicholas was sipping on some strange cocktail near his pool when we had a Zoom call to discuss the news.

It took some strings and some begging, but they agreed to push the filming of season two for a few weeks. I credited Elliot, who'd undoubtedly spoken to Grace, to allow me some cool-off time. Those were Grace's words, using exaggerated quotation marks. Archie added that I should refresh before we got deep into business.

"This new season needs to bump up the drama," said Grace, fluffing her curls as she stared at something off-camera.

I now knew without a doubt that any time she'd been unfocused or seemed uncaring, it was because Elliot was there with her. They were probably lounging naked on her bed and waiting for her to come ravish them.

I gagged, but did my best to hide it. "No more one-night-stands who then go on to write a book about me, please?"

Archie laughed, loosening his tie. "We'll see about that. You're lucky your list of conquests is private." He sounded like he was joking, but I knew he wasn't. If he could access any information about who I'd slept with and whether they could be guests on the show, he'd do it, without scruple.

Asshole.

I didn't really wait for them to approve my time off. The day after my meet-up with Elliott, I spoke with the charter company I used for private jets, and arranged for a trip to Paris. We scheduled it for after the Zoom meeting with the producers and director—a nice fuck you, I'll do whatever I want to them.

So as soon as we all logged off the call, I returned to packing my bags and mentally preparing for a complete change of tune and atmosphere.

The instant my foot touched the ground in Charles de Gaulle Airport, I sucked in a deep, dizzying breath of air. There was something different about Europe in general, but more so about France. A purity, an untainted space that never ceased to amaze me, and always relaxed me. At least, before I came head to head with anyone who recognized me and asked me too many questions.

Luckily, the area where my jet landed was secluded. A car service picked me up and rushed me to my penthouse in Paris—a luxurious condo overlooking the Seine river, with a view of the Eiffel Tower worthy of a magazine shoot.

I was privileged, I realized, as I opened my balcony windows to get some fresh air into the stuffy space. I hadn't been here in a while, and though I typically rented it out, I hadn't had anyone inside for months.

The Parisian-polluted yet slightly less frustrating than L.A. atmosphere filtered in, filling my lungs. It felt good to be here, good to oxygenate myself, rid myself of the toxicity from L.A. and all the jerks who'd been hounding me online. All the criticism and negativity melted.

I hadn't understood how badly I needed this.

After a shower and a quick nap—I wasn't immune to jet-lag—I dressed and called my parents to let them know I was in town, and would swing by sometime this week to visit. They lived in the suburbs, near the city of Melun, which was south of Paris. Their countryside home surrounded by fields and trees was a paradise of its own, but before I ended up stuck over there—Mom would coax me into staying longer—I had affairs to attend to here.

I didn't call ahead to warn anyone, but I planned on visiting my Paris restaurant, Béa. Yes, I named it after myself, big deal. I needed to see if business had died down or was affected by all the buzz surrounding me recently.

It was a few metro stations away from my penthouse, so I threw on a cozy jacket, a beanie, and headed into the foray of Parisian public transportation.

I couldn't do this back in L.A. If I stepped onto a bus or crossed a street, people saw me. People identified me. They didn't harass me, per se, but they definitely waved and wanted attention and autographs and questions answered. L.A. wasn't a city where one could blend in and be somewhat anonymous.

In Paris, it was nothing like that. Everyone was too busy, too absorbed in themselves to give a damn about a celebrity chef hopping into the same metro as them. Some might have recognized me—I caught a smile or two and a squint of hey, have I seen that person before?—but if they did, they left me alone.

It wasn't that I wasn't known here; I was, and not always in the best way, because of all my pickiness. But the French weren't in your face about things the way those in L.A. were, in my experience, at least. I had my restaurant here, and Food Me! streamed here as well, and my books were translated to French. But I seldom received backlash or got hounded on the Parisian streets when I took a stroll or visited a museum or an attraction. My side-gigs weren't as popular here.

It was a nice breath from the business of Los Angeles. As I exited the metro after no encounters with any tourists or locals, I smiled at the sight of my corner-located restaurant.

It was packed tonight, with people waiting outside for a seat. The string lights along the red and white awning twinkled in the gentle breeze. I smelled all the flavors that brought growls to my stomach—melted cheese, smoked meats, freshly baked bread. My crew at Béa was top-notch, and anytime I visited it wasn't so much to inspect the premises, but to actually eat the food.

The hostess acknowledged me at once—I'd hired her last year and was happy to see she'd kept the job—and waved me inside the busy building. The tables and chairs were mismatched on purpose, but all were full. A mix of English, French, and other languages swam through the air. Béa was a hub for international locals, those who wanted a bit of a taste from home mixed in with some French culture.

Béa was considered fine-dining, but because it was catered to those who liked to customize their dishes based on what they liked or disliked, some found it to be a more casual hang-out. Many came to hang at the bar for drinks—our bartenders were skilled with crafting all sorts of cocktails, from simple mocktails to elaborate flaming liquor shots. Others visited to have a few bites of appetizers.

I embraced every person who came to Béa, and loved seeing the area so swarmed with people from all over the world. It warmed me up as I walked through the restaurant, keeping my head down hoping no one would single me out—yet. I'd make my rounds later, checking all the tables, greeting all the guests.

First, I had to stop by the kitchen and salute my team.

The manager, Léa, was near the kitchen doors when she saw me. She lit up as she hurried to kiss my cheeks, la bise, French style.

My presence in the restaurant was never feared, but welcomed with enthusiasm and excitement. I wasn't that kind of boss; I didn't storm around groaning and complaining. I trusted those I'd put in charge, and in return, they trusted me and showed nothing but kindness.

"Béa," she said as she led me off to the side, towards the narrow stairs leading up to the offices upstairs. "So good to see you. Did we know you were in town?" She had a northern French accent which normally made me wince; but Léa was a charming, stout woman whose voice was like a subtle wind chime. She appeared sweet and innocent, but I knew she whipped everyone into shape when I wasn't around.

I appreciated her and admired her work ethics.

"Surprise," I said, slowing her pace. "I didn't come to check the books, though. This is more of an informal visit."

Léa raised her bushy eyebrows. "You, informal? Ha!" She shook her head. "With everything going on, you can't pretend that you don't want a peek at the numbers."

I flinched. "Merde," I said, nervous laughter bubbling in my throat. "You know me too well."

Of course she was informed of all the events happening in my life.

"How's this," she said, leading me towards a corner table that had been wiped down seconds ago. "You sit, order a glass or two, and I'll get a charcuterie and cheese board brought to you. Unwind, and I'll go get the most recent books for you to study while you eat, hein?"

I loved the sound of that, and nodded as she hustled upstairs.

She didn't need to put in an order for me—the waiters had seen me and notified the kitchen staff. Within minutes of removing my coat and sitting down, a platter of chopped baguette, saucisson, smoked ham, brie, Camembert, Swiss, pecans, apple slices, and a raspberry jam appeared on my table.

All our charcuterie boards were customizable. The patron picked two to three meats, three to four cheeses, nuts, fruit, and a jam, and could add extras if they wished, for an additional fee.

I never needed to customize my own—my staff knew exactly what I liked.

A glass of red also materialized on my table—the waiter, Gilles, winked as he delivered it. And just as I plucked it for a taste test, Léa reemerged with the books.

Actual books—she was traditional and didn't trust software to pull her numbers—were deposited next to my platter. She let out a heavy breath from having to carry them downstairs.

"Enjoy, Béatrice," she said, squeezing my shoulder. "I think you'll find everything to be quite satisfying."

By everything, she wasn't referring to the food—business was booming here at Béa. While most French were disappointed with me and my picky eating, it appeared the clientele that frequented the restaurant didn't care. The numbers had soared in the past few months, and the reviews—handwritten testimonials that patrons could write on their way out—were excellent. Mostly five and four stars, and a lot of recognition for all the options I offered.

I plopped a piece of Swiss and ham onto bread and hummed in approval as the flavors melted on my tongue.

"I'm so sorry," came a voice from my left, soft-spoken, in broken English. I turned to find a gorgeous, full-bodied woman holding a book—my book. "This is so rude, I—"

I waved at her to approach. "Nonsense," I said, smiling. Gosh, she wasn't just gorgeous, she was hot. Wearing tight jeans that flattered her figure, and a blouse unbuttoned at the top to show her silky brown skin and a silver chain dangling between her hefty breasts. A vision.

"I don't mean to interrupt your meal," she said, clutching the book to her chest, sucking her cherry-colored lips in. For a second, I wondered if they tasted like cherries.

"I speak French," I said, reverting to my native language when I realized her slight struggle to put words together in English. "What can I do for you?"

She visibly relaxed, her nerves loosening as she seemed to unwind. She gestured at the seat across from me. "Can I?" she asked, her voice thicker in her original tongue, less tampered with hesitation.

"Please do." I might have asked her to sit anyway, so I could have her in front of me, allowing me an ample view of her chestnut eyes, her rounded face, her lengthy and heavily coated eyelashes as they batted at me.

She was nervous, fidgeting as she sat; but she still maintained my gaze, absorbed me. "I saw you walk in, earlier. It took me a moment to be sure—we don't see you on TV that much here—but when I figured out who you were...oh, I had to meet you."

"And you happened to have my book with you?" I pointed at the book she kept near her as if letting go of it meant death.

"Ah, yes." She scrunched her beautiful button nose. "I was meeting with a friend who wanted to borrow it, coincidentally. But they can wait." She winced as she hesitantly lifted the book. "Would you...sign it?"

I didn't make it a habit of signing books in public like this, but aside from her, no other patrons had detected my presence, or cared to interrupt their meals to speak with me.

And she was so...adorable. Sexy, too. How could I resist?

"I suppose," I said, smirking as I fetched the pen Léa had brought. The young woman handed me the book, beaming at me as I scribbled a quick note and signed my name.

When she retrieved the book, she immediately went to look at what I'd signed, and flushed. "Oh." She looked up at me, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Her hand went to her heart and she gulped. "Thank you."

I'd written that she was the most beautiful woman in Paris, and that she could interrupt my meal anytime. And I'd jotted down my number, too; another thing I rarely did in any of my restaurants.

After a few questions about me, I asked her about herself. She was a librarian, who dog-sat on the side, and lived nearby. She came to Béa several times a week and loved it here, and never once thought she'd ever come across the owner and founder.

"I'm not a fan-girl, so I won't take up your time or stalk you," she said with a laugh, getting up to leave. "But it was a pleasure to meet you, Béatrice. Truly."

I watched her stand up in slow motion, my tongue twirling in my mouth. She seemed willing enough. From her body language—leaning in, touchy-feely, licking her lips a lot while gawking at my chest area—I presumed she had a slight preference for women.

I couldn't deny I needed a palate cleanser from Zane. Since him, I hadn't been bothered to sleep with anyone else, and only now saw that would have been a great solution to move past him. And I hadn't been with a woman in a while; this lovely lady ticked all my boxes. Well-spoken, charming, polite, and incredibly hot.

She had definite one-night-stand potential, but I didn't want to be too forward. The French were either unhinged, or seriously prudish.

"Clara," I said, snagging her wrist before she walked away. "Please, forgive me if this is too much, but are you...would you be...?"

She read through me and offered a devastating grin in response to my mind shooting into the gutter. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, then one hundred times, yes." She stole my pen from the table, and took my hand, opening my palm. "Here," she said, writing down her phone number, "you can call me, first. Use it. Any time. I would do," she lowered her voice, "anything you asked."

And with that, she sauntered back to her table, to her bewildered-looking date who'd surely thought they were about to be ditched for me.

I smiled into my glass of wine, happy to know that I was loved. I did have fans here, and I could have a good time despite all my current troubles.

Clara, I most definitely will be calling you soon.

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