Sleeping With Paris Read Online Free PDF

living? You’re there all alone?”
    I explained my change of plans to her so she would stop flipping out.
    “Well, I’m just glad you’re okay. Your father and I have been worried sick since we got your message a few days ago. You are okay, aren’t you dear?”
    “Mom, I’m fine,” I lied. Hearing the concern in her voice made me miss her immensely.
    “Charlotte, are you crying?”
    Only one stray tear had made its way down my cheek, but moms always know.
    “Mom, I don’t know what I’m doing here . . . I have no one. I’m totally alone.”
    “Oh honey, you’re going to be okay. You’re not alone. I love you.”
    “Jeff’s such a bastard.”
    “Yes he is, dear.” My poor mom tried to comfort me, but I was past the point of help. I needed to go back to bed. After I hung up the phone, I passed out on my rock hard mattress. I didn’t even care that it felt like a rock. I just needed to sleep.
     
    ***
     
    I woke abruptly to the sound of high-pitched sirens racing down the street. I shot up in my bed, not realizing where I was for a second. As the blaring noise made its way past my building, I remembered. I was in Paris. Alone.
    I checked my watch—it was eight p.m. Paris time. I had slept for twelve hours. So much for adjusting to the time zone and going to sleep later that night. I peeled myself off of the hot, sticky, plastic bed, hung up some of my clothes, and decided to go exploring. I refused to sit alone in a puddle of my own tears on my first night in Paris.
    After dragging my weary body down the hall, I found the world’s smallest and nastiest set of showers. Fabulous. Not having a choice in the matter though, I battled with the ice cold water until, with no warning, the high-powered stream became boiling hot. Once I’d had enough, I wrapped myself as tightly as I could in my skimpy bath towel. As I emerged from the steamy shower cell, I bumped smack into another wet, towel-wrapped body.
    I took a step back to have a look at the man who I’d just lunged my half-naked body at and found a tall, lean, muscular guy with light brown hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow. He was gazing down at me with a devious grin.  
    “ Oh, pardon ,” he said as he checked to make sure his towel was still wrapped around his waist.
    I was at such a loss for words that, like an idiot, I let out a burst of high-pitched laughter, bolted out of the bathroom and booked it as fast as I could down the hallway.
    Back in my room, I blew dry my long hair, dabbed on a touch of make-up, and threw on my favorite pair of jeans and a silky black tank, all the while replaying my intimate encounter with the hot, half-naked French guy over and over in my head. I wished I had said something even remotely intelligent instead of letting out that horrible laugh and running out of there as if he had cooties or something. On the bright side, if all the guys around here looked like him, this communal shower thing might not turn out to be so bad after all.
    As I left my room, I spotted a guy locking his apartment door two doors down from mine. As he turned around, he caught my eye and grinned. It was the shower guy. I almost didn’t recognize him with clothes on.
    “ Bonsoir, Mademoiselle ,” he said politely.
    “ Bonsoir ,” I responded as I blushed from head to toe.
    I could hear the French hottie walking toward me as I pushed the down button and waited for the elevator.
    “ Vous êtes française ?” he asked with a bold grin on his face.
    “ Non, je suis américaine ,” I answered, excited that my hint of an American accent hadn’t seeped through and that he had actually thought I was French.
    “Oh, you are American. You look very French to me. My name is Luc,” he said in an adorable accent. “And you?”
    “I'm Charlotte,” I said, letting a smile slide across my lips.
    He leaned in for the obligatory greeting kisses on both cheeks—the bisous or bises as the French call them. His little bit of stubble brushed up