No Regerts

Highly deliberative music manager Annie accompanies a bratty pop sensation to France for 24 hours to remix an International hit song with a French superstar. Her careful slow-paced nature is put to the test when she has to make a snap decision: Take a chance on the hot French musician she's just met, or walk away and wonder what might have been.

I crammed my carry-on into the overhead bin, cursing fate. And time. And Jude.

Mostly myself.

I’d had one job. An eight-hour flight would be plenty of time to rue mistakes made, paths not taken.

One glance at the misspelled ink on my forearm, and my bile rose. Oh, the irony.

Yesterday—was it really just twenty-four hours ago?—I’d corralled Jude out of this same airport into a bright Paris morning, found our driver, and headed straight to Montmartre on a mission. Jude bounced with excitement to be away from his hovering stage parents, while I freaked the fuck out about babysitting the resident pop brat. All I had to do was make sure he recorded one song. We had twenty-four hours. What could go wrong?

The song, “Sans Regrets,” had been an unrelenting worldwide smash hit the entire summer, but because it was sung in French, the artist, Laurent Gilbert, hadn’t cracked the U.S. airwaves. Everyone wanted to capitalize on the wild success of the song, and so the idea was born to let Jude duet with the French singer. With Jude Delmonico on the remix, that catchy-as-shit tune would sweep the states, the DelManiacs would drive it to platinum, if not gold, and Laurent would gain an American audience. A win for everyone.

If I could keep the little shit in check.

On the drive, Jude didn’t stop listing everything he could do in Paris on my watch. “I’m old enough to drink here.”

I glanced up from my phone. “You’re not going out drinking. We’re here to record.”

He squared his shoulders, like this was a negotiation. “I could get a tattoo.”

And I could handcuff him to his guitar. “You can get a tattoo at home.”

“My parents aren’t here to stop me, though.”

“I’m here to stop you,” I reminded him.

“You’re not the boss of me, Boomer.”

“Millennial, and I beg to differ.”

I dismissed him with a yawn and watched the streets pass by. I’d never been to Paris, and I didn’t want to miss a thing.

When the agency had discovered this talented twerp, Jude wasn’t much more than image and charisma. A golden boy who’d been blessed with sex-machine vocal chords. He’d never known true loss, so his lyrics tended to sound like a Veruca Salt lament. Inexplicably, he’d won a Grammy and had a string of hits.

If all went well, my boss hoped she might entice the elusive Laurent to sign with our company, but for now he seemed content to remain with his team in France. There was a lot riding on the success of this one single.

At the corner of an alley, the car let us out, and I breathed in Paris. The air smelled of bakery and cigarettes and lavender. We’d rented an Airbnb near the studio, but we were short on time, so I ushered Jude straight to the address in my email, winding past closed shops, the narrow lane deserted and eerily silent.

“Did everyone die?” Jude asked.

I had to wonder the same thing. For a major city, Paris was sleepy.

When we found the studio, I dropped my carry-on by the door and peered through a window into darkness, dread tensing my muscles. Had the city been evacuated? Were they still locking down for the pandemic? I scanned the email to confirm we were there on the right day.

“They’re not expecting us for another half hour. Let’s walk around a bit, maybe find some food?”

Jude sagged, as if I’d suggested we visit a museum. “I’m gonna wait here.”

He pulled his hoodie up, obscuring his signature blond curls, slouched down the wall, headphones in, and closed his eyes.

Searching for civilization on my phone’s map, I turned a corner and ran face-first into a man’s chest with an oof.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,” he said, as he held my shoulders to steady me.

“I’m so sorry. Pardon. Excusez-moi,” I blurted out, backing up to give him space.

He wore mirrored sunglasses, which struck me as odd at nine a.m. Navy blazer sleeves rolled up to display tanned forearms, and under that, he sported a lightweight gray sweater, a relaxed but elegant style. Sexy Europeans, man.

“American?” he asked, giving my jeans, faded concert T-shirt, and Converse sneakers a blatant once-over. I returned his scrutiny, studying his scruffy near-beard, his wavy hair, spiked up, like it had a mind of its own, the threads of silver betraying his age.

“I am,” I confessed.

“Lost?”

“Just looking for coffee.”

He turned back the way he’d come, hooking his arm for me to follow. “Come. I will show you the best place.”

I glanced around for witnesses. I’d always been deliberative, weighing the cost-benefit ratio before acting. Following a strange man in a country I’d never visited pinged my risk assessment hard. On the one hand, he looked nice enough. On the other, serial killers often did.

“I can find my own way, thanks.”

His radiant smile disappeared into a pout. “I insist. It is very near. Come with me.”

What decided me was an immediate need for caffeine. I figured as long as he didn’t try to lure me to a second location, he wasn’t likely to haul me into a van.