Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Winnie
Someone once said, when life gets you down and you’re feeling blue, you should brush yourself off…and go to Paris.
Okay, maybe that was me. I said it and I don’t regret taking an oddball assignment to assist a British professor abroad. I could use a break from my life as an aspiring hair and cosmetic guru in LA. And c’mon, it’s Paris!
So what if I don’t know the language and have a hard time reading maps? I’m nothing if not resourceful. What could go possibly wrong?
Alistair…that’s what.
In a twist, I have a thing for an impossibly smart geek with mismatched socks who just happens to be my best friend’s boss. This can’t be good.
Alistair
I’ve been called an absent-minded professor more than once. I don’t mind at all. My work is important and living on a diet of biscuits and tea while delving into ancient civilization doesn’t seem like terrible thing. But Paris calls. And somehow, I have a new temporary assistant.
Winnie is a technicolor, whirlwind American with a wicked laugh and the subtlety of a steamroller. He’s brash and ridiculous and…funny, warm, lovely, and—
Oh no. This can’t be happening.
Winnie can take Paris, but he can’t take my heart.
Or can he?
Winnie Takes Paris is an MM romantic comedy featuring a fabulous diva, a nerdy professor, and the Parisian adventure of a lifetime!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
WINNIE
“Paris n’a pas été bâti en un jour.” Translation: Paris wasn’t built in a day. —French proverb
A colorful avalanche of clothing spilled from the suitcase atop the fluffy fuchsia-and-tangerine duvet. Sweaters, caftans, berets, and whimsical scarves in rainbow hues jockeyed for space with velvet slippers, black-and-white wingtips, and gold glitter-bomb high-tops. There was little to no chance of the industrial-sized accessory kit fitting inside the oversized luggage, and the regal Himalayan eyeing the mess from her perch on the nearby desk knew it.
“Liza is judging you.”
The cat purred in agreement, languidly swooshing her tail.
I propped my hands on my hips and glanced at my friend lounging on the chaise in the corner. “I don’t think she’s the only one.”
Max sat up with a gasp, clutching at a strand of phantom pearls. His sun-streaked brown hair flopped strategically across his face, falling neatly along his high cheekbones. “Me? Judge? Never.”
I chuckled fondly.
If possible, Max was a bigger diva than me. And that was saying something. In his watermelon midriff tee, pink micro shorts, and a wrist full of beaded bracelets, he was quite fabulous. And probably a tad chilly, too. The weather had been glorious in LA lately, but it was cool tonight. There was a hint of autumn in the air.
Max claimed not to notice. He was a Minnesota transplant and an unapologetic sun worshiper. Less was more in his book…when it came to clothes, anyway. His dress shirts were a size too small, his pants were all capri length, and if he could get away with wearing his Jimmy Choo slides, he was a happy camper.
In his defense, the poor guy wore scrubs and OMG, Crocs for his day job as a dental hygienist. It only seemed right and fair that he celebrate the real Max under those baggy blue cotton garments and plastic white slip-ons.
God, I was going to miss him…and my spoiled feline friend, Liza. And my human friends, Deacon and Andre and Jace and Bjorn, and my sister, Jazz, and my niece and nephew. I’d definitely miss my salon sisters, Jax and Serena, too. Okay, fine…I was going to miss almost everyone, but I’d be home in six weeks and just thinking about the Halloween-themed welcome home parties I had to look forward to would be enough to keep my spirits up if I ever got homesick.
I sincerely doubted that would happen, though. I was Paris bound, baby! The city of lights, love, croissants, wine, the Eiffel Tower, and ding dang berets…
Winnie is coming for you, gay Par-ee!
Truthfully, fucking off to Paris was probably a terrible idea for a guy hoping to get ahead at work. And tapping into my savings account to pay for my plane ticket…also a bad idea. But screw it. I’d tried being sensible and responsible. It wasn’t fun, and I hadn’t reaped any rewards at the salon.
Nothing, nada, zilch.
I’d pasted a phony smile on when that beach-blond idiot who called everyone sugar got the promotion and the chair that was supposed to be mine. I’d worked my booty off and yes, I’d been disappointed. However, I’d sucked it up, dusted off my go-to happy grin and gotten back to it, razzle-dazzling the clientele at The Lounge.
I’d shampooed my heart out, swept the floors, mixed the formulas, handled basic cuts, poured the tea, and dished the dirt. Same as I’d done day in, day out…year after year. Guess what? I didn’t get the next promotion either. I wasn’t as bummed, because Marcus really was an exceptional stylist.
However, last month’s diss had been a gut punch of epic proportion.
Get this…the new receptionist who’d been moonlighting at another salon was asked to join the team as a color expert, a.k.a. stylist. That was supposed to be my spot. My chair. I liked Kylie and I wanted to be happy for her, but I was oh, so sad for me. And let’s get one thing straight—sad was not in my repertoire.
I didn’t do sad.
Ever.
Sad was drab colors, gray skies, and tacky polyester shirts. It was unfortunate breath, bad sex, and running out of coffee on a Monday morning. Things I would never ever intentionally do or be part of if I could help it.
I was so unaccustomed to the emotion that I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me until my best friend, Raine, FaceTimed me from England and said three dreaded, horrible words:
“Winnie, you’re blue.”
Ugh!
I’d sobbed like a baby, spilling my guts out with mascara streaking my cheeks while my bestie had comforted me from afar. Poor guy. I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with me in that state. I’d been a wreck.
In my mind, I’d been disrespected. The more I thought about my predicament, the more I realized it was never going to get better. Management didn’t want me to be anything other than a glorified shampoo person. I was the comedic relief, the fun-time gal, the bad boy with a broom who had the latest gossip and was quick with a compliment.