Finally, at the end of the block I found the window I was looking for and sought out the solace waiting on the other side.

The two men stopped short, peering through the glass to confirm I was inside. Perhaps it was the display of women’s panties that stopped them from entering? My heart was thrumming much too fast for my liking.

An extremely thin blonde with razor-sharp cheekbones approached me and started speaking in French.

By the inflection of her voice I could tell she was asking if I needed help but at that moment I didn’t know if I needed assistance with clothing or with creepy stalkers. I could always call for a taxi and head back to safety.

“Mademoiselle?”

My eyes were fixed on the window as I watched the two men trot across the busy street. At least they weren’t standing directly outside the shop anymore. Hopefully they gave up. The clerk touched my arm lightly, breaking me from my surveillance.

“Oui. Oui. Um, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui. Yes. Can I help you?”

Now that the language barrier was bridged, it was time to get down to business.

I tried to check the street without being obvious, pretending to glance at clothing but more worried about the unknown men who had followed me. God, when did I turn into this paranoid mess? I spent my entire life not being frightened or having to look over my shoulder, worried that some asshole with a digital camera was going to catch me doing something embarrassing. And now I was on heightened alert of my every mannerism.

Even something so naturally innocent like scratching a boob or a butt cheek could be captured as the next photo to grace a gossip magazine cover. Suddenly the thrill of finding some new Parisian designer clothing was gone and replaced by fear and suspicion. My first time in Paris was quickly turning sour.

I wondered how different things would be if I were here with Thomas. No one would give a shit about me then.

I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing his ruggedness vividly.

My mental reprimand swooped right in behind that. I can’t believe I allowed that thought to cross my mind! That was so not fair to Ryan. Like he has any control over this, the voice in my head berated. My situation was still within my control, knowing that there are concessions to be made when being involved with someone as famous as Ryan. The choice comes down to either dealing with the public attention or passing up true love for anonymity.

I decided to pass up the leather jacket instead; an easy choice at eighteen hundred euro. I really didn’t need to spend that kind of money; not when I had to replace an expensive bar refrigerator. After all this time, I still couldn’t bring myself to feel comfortable using Ryan’s credit card. While most women would think nothing of spending his money, money that I didn’t earn or that we had pooled together, I could not.

It went totally against the grain for me. Maybe if he were here with me I’d feel differently. It would have been something we did together. A twenty-two-hundred-dollar jacket would feel like a gift. But alone, it just felt like I was abusing his generosity.

After about an hour of meandering through the surrounding shops, and with no signs of my two unwanted friends, I headed straight back to the hotel with my meager purchases. No sooner did I reach the first intersection than I spied the two men I was trying to avoid spring up from seats at the outdoor café across the street. Shit. I felt the cold sweat break out. They were able to cross in my direction; traffic was hindering me from crossing at my corner.

I stepped closer to a tall man who was dressed very Euro-chic; when he glanced down at me I smiled, hoping to attract a new, safer sort of friend. I practically jogged to keep up with his long strides, but I was determined to stay next to him. The two assholes were a few paces behind me.

Just as I started to feel relieved that the hotel was in sight, a new panic swelled. The front of the hotel was surrounded by a mob-sized crowd. Police were cordoning off the sidewalks as more people continued to gather.

I squeezed my way through the tightly packed crowd, trying to avoid the two creeps following me.

When I finally made it to the end of the line, a police officer stopped me, blocking my way to the front doors.

“No, I’m a guest of the hotel. My fiancé is inside.” I tried to keep my voice down and dug into my purse. “My name is Taryn Mitchell. I am engaged to Ryan Christensen.”

My admission was instantly refuted as if I had just told the biggest joke. “Oui, mademoiselle, as are all of these women as well!”

I was incensed at being the focus of his ridicule. I frantically searched my tiny purse, only to realize that I never got an ID badge for the event, nor did I have my passport.

“Unless you have proof of your stay, I cannot let you enter. Back away from the gates, s’il vous plaît.”

I tried to plead one more time, as this situation was turning dire. Several officers gathered, obviously intrigued by my issue; however, I was quickly dismissed as some delusional fan.

The officer’s tone became harsh. “Mademoiselle, back away. Now! I will not warn you again.”

I tried calling Trish but the call immediately rolled to voice mail. I didn’t have David’s number and calling Ryan was out of the question. Panic and a low-battery light were causing my nerves to twitch.

Mike, please pick up. Why is no one answering their damn phones?

More women were gathering. The crowd was getting unruly and my two hours were just about up.

Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.

I looked over my shoulder to see that the two creepy men were just a few feet away and narrowing.

Where the hell could I go? They didn’t appear to be paparazzi, so what the hell did they want? Would they dare try to accost me while here in this thick crowd? Perhaps hold me for ransom, knowing that someone as rich as Ryan could well afford to pay? One stick of a needle filled with a knockout drug and I could find myself being carried out of here only to wake up duct-taped in the trunk of a car. Screaming wouldn’t solve anything in this loud crowd and the police would probably arrest me if I tried to rush past any of these wooden barricades.

I squeezed in between several girls, receiving hostile glances in the process. The creepy man with the bad comb-over hairstyle stared at me like a hungry tiger ready to pounce. His squat face was pockmarked and unshaven and was probably on the first page of France’s Most Wanted List. His tall friend with the newsboy cap was eyeing the police, nervously glancing back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. I needed to put as much distance between us as possible.

Terror clenched my stomach as I saw him raise the black item in his hand. Panicked, I froze. I couldn’t look away. And then he aimed and started to take my picture. I shoved my sunglasses over my eyes and ducked, trying to get closer to the hotel entrance, hiding my face while contorting my body through the narrowest of human passages. Come hell or high water, I was getting back inside that door.

I called Ryan’s cell, only to land in his voice mailbox. Finally someone answered my frustratingly slow international call. “Mike! Oh thank God! I’m out front of the hotel, but they won’t let me back in.”

No sooner did I get the words out when someone touched my shoulder. “Aren’t you Taryn Mitchell?”

some young woman asked in a thick French accent. I could see her getting very excited about the prospect. I didn’t know what to do.

“You are, aren’t you? Do you think I could get a photo with you?” she asked with much enthusiasm.