Free The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) by Lesley Young

reassuring thing I could make out was that no one else had ever made me feel this way. That had to count for something.
    On the other hand, my stomach dropped, that meant this aloof, ill-mannered, formidable man was special.
    “Fleur? You still there?”
    “Mhm.”
    “Oh no. You’re not still into him are you? He’s most definitely not the Hymenator.” I rolled my eyes. My friends used this term frequently.
    “He seemed to make the grade before. You said he was ‘hawt.’”
    “That was before I found out he was some anti-virgin man-whore who spits out women like a wood chipper.”
    Dammit. I shouldn’t have told her about the bimbettes .
    “Come on, Fleur, what do you really know about him? Other than the fact he can barely keep it in his pants?”
    Hm. Good point. And yet. “He supports a local charity for disadvantaged children.”
    “Oh my God. Fleur .” Only Jess and my mother could say my name in a way that gave me pause. (I made a mental note to answer my mother’s last email. We’d been in touch every day, and it helped me miss her less.) “Of course. You googled him, right?” she accused.
    Dammit. She knew me so well.
    “You’ve probably also been listening to that Get It On playlist you made last fall, too, right?” she said, disgusted.
    I cringed. There’s a point when someone can know you too well.
    “I am officially telling you to stay away from him. What about that French class you’re taking? Anyone interesting there?”
    “It hasn’t started yet. Next week.”
    “Stay away from him. He’s a douche. He’ll hurt you. I mean it, Fleur.”
    Jess was always saying “I mean it” to me, so it was hard to take her seriously. That said, she was the third person to warn me off Louis Messette.
    I changed the subject and chatted about work. She was back at the Cove—the clothing store where we worked the past six summers. It was the same old story: the designer-owner was pressuring her to make more commissions. I told Jess how I wished I had that problem with Sylvie. “Be patient,” she advised, confident it would all work out, and I hoped she was right. She gave me the update on Tammy, she was dating a new guy, and we wrapped up the call. Thankfully, Jess didn’t bring up Louis again before saying goodbye. I didn’t want to defend my feelings. Hell, I couldn’t even make sense of them.
    I stared dejectedly at a French cereal box and wondered if I would ever be fluent. The newspaper Marie had deposited on the kitchen counter this morning caught my eye. I glanced at her bedroom door. She must have got home after six a.m.
    Wait. My eyes fell back to the paper, my brain on full alert. The photo underneath the headline “ Le meurtrier arrêté! ” was Marie’s headshot. There was another smaller headshot of a nasty-looking man. I grabbed the paper. My chest swelled as I read on, slowly. Marie’s task force had found the murderer of the drug dealer known as Casolaro. Apparently it had been a hit man from one of Toulon’s port crime gangs. Wow.
    I regarded the closed bedroom door again with awe.
    A superhero for a mother.
    She deserved her sleep.
    I was extra quiet as I got changed into my workout attire: Lululemon pants and a Texas Longhorns football tank top. I loved my university team’s white and orange colors. The logo, a pair of longhorns, arched over each breast, and a big number eleven for Jess’s favorite player was emblazoned on the front and back.
    Marie was such an inspiration, I thought, tying back my hair in a sloppy knot. After my workout, I decided I would investigate local volunteer activities. I laced on my runners, stamping down the rush of anticipation of a pending burn.
    I’m addicted to the stair climber. Not only is it the secret to a cellulite-free tush, nothing else makes me sweat quite like it. And I needed a deep, detoxing sweat.
    Well, technically, I needed to be laid. Since the one man who’d come close to being the mythical Hymenator was apparently