Page 20 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

My eyelids feel heavy. A nap would be nice. But I didn’t fly seven hours across the Atlantic to sleep my day away.

“I’m in Paris,” I mutter aloud, like the reminder alone should inject energy directly into my bloodstream.

I push myself up and head back to my room to change. I slip into a simple flare dress that stops just at my knees and flat sandals. Comfortable enough to walk in, cute enough to feel pretty. I smooth my hair, add a swipe of lip gloss, and grab my purse.

I already called the lobby earlier. They told me Louis would be waiting downstairs.

When I step outside the hotel, Louis stands by the curb beside the black SUV that brought us earlier, hat tipped slightly forward.

“Good morning, Miss Harper,” he says in smooth English, and I almost laugh in relief.

“Good morning,” I reply, smiling back. “Thank you for taking me around.”

“My pleasure,” he says, opening the door for me.

As we drive through Paris, I take it all in, smiling. Louis stops whenever I ask: a small artisan market, a perfume shop, a bookstore tucked into a quiet street. I pick up little souvenirs, postcards, and a hat I absolutely don’t need but love anyway.

When I reach for my wallet, Louis gently shakes his head.

“Mr. Volkov asked me to use his card for anything you buy,” he says calmly, already tapping to pay.

I blink at him. “He… he did?”

“Yes, miss.”

The first time surprises me. The second time confuses me. By the third, my mind is officially spiraling.

Why would Leonid do that? It’s thoughtful, but completely unnecessary. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or unsettled by his generosity. Would he expect me to repay him in some way?

As we drive back to the hotel, I stare out the window again as the city glides past, trying not to overthink it, and failing miserably.

Later that evening, I’m in my room sending Tasha pictures of the things I got, when a knock sounds at the door.

I know it’s Leonid, but my heart jumps anyway. I open it to find him standing there.

“You’re back,” I say, the words stupidly obvious.

He smiles faintly. “Just finished with my meetings.”

There’s a brief pause, like he’s weighing something. Then, “I was thinking of getting dinner. Would you like to join me?”

My answer comes too fast. “Yeah. Just—give me a few minutes to change.”

“I’ll freshen up as well,” he says. “Thirty minutes?”

“Perfect.”

I close the door and immediately lean my forehead against it for half a second.

Okay. Calm down. It’s just dinner. In Paris. With a devastating billionaire who once sexted you into oblivion.

Totally normal.

I cross to my suitcase and pull out a green cowl-neck dress, one of the ones Tasha forced me to buy after insisting it would make my eyes pop.

She wasn’t wrong. The fabric skims my curves, soft and fluid, hugging in all the right places without trying too hard. I do my makeup a little more carefully than usual, curl my hair so it falls in loose waves over my shoulders.

When I look at my reflection, I actually pause. I like what I see. The dress brings out the green in my eyes, warms my skin, and makes me feel feminine and confident. Maybe Tasha deserves a thank-you text later.