Maybe it was foolish to think she might actually show up. The woman did add a perhaps before she said she’d see me. There’s hardly a more noncommittal word in the English language than perhaps.

My gaze drifts to my phone by force of habit, as if there might be a text telling me she’s late, but she promises to be here any minute. As if she’ll say I can’t wait to see your sexy arse.

But of course she sends no text because she doesn’t have my number.

This was just a lark.

I toss some money on the counter and head out. I stroll along the canal, through Nyhavn, passing the colorful homes, including the one where Hans Christian Andersen penned his most famous fairy tales, like “The Princess and the Pea.” Across the bridge, I wind my way through the quieter streets to my place.

I bought this modern two-bedroom home when I had business in this city relatively often. But I also liked being near my mum, and my grandfather too, especially since, as tough as he is, his health has been touch and go lately. In my humble opinion, it’s his spirits that are bringing him down. They’ve dampened, understandably, since our grandmother passed away a year ago.

I slide the key in the lock, go in, and flick on a hall light to find Erik sprawled out on the couch, snoozing. A glossy magazine is in his hands, sliding through his fingers, as if he was reading it mere moments ago. It falls to the hardwood where it hits with a gentle thud. He flinches, as if he’s about to wake up, but instead flips to his side, still snoozing.

Quietly, I pad over to him and pick it up, since I’m not fond of messy homes. He’s been reading an article on Copenhagen nightlife, and I peruse it quickly.

The Jane, not to be confused with the little bistro Jane, is a happening joint.

I groan as I toss the magazine on the coffee table.

Jane.

I bet that’s where the little mermaid went tonight. Jane, not The Jane.

I can’t believe I forgot about that little eatery and its nefarious plans to trip me up tonight. Damn. I’m losing my touch.

I shrug as I head to my room. What can you do?

I’ll never see her again.

After I brush my teeth, my phone buzzes.

A bolt of tension shoots through me. Phone calls this late can only bring bad news. Perhaps it’s Grandfather. Perhaps it’s another frantic call from my mum that his health has taken a turn for the worse.

But the number is a Paris one. I answer it.

“Is this Christian Ellison?” It’s a man’s voice, a French accent to his English.

“Yes, this is he. How can I help you?”

“This is Jean-Paul at the Capstone Language Institute. Sorry for the late hour, but your name was given to me by Griffin Thomas,” he says, mentioning my good friend.

Griffin and I went to school together in London, and he recently moved to Paris. He’s been telling me to put my language skills to use. Griffin says it’s an affront to the universe if I don’t share them, so he must have passed on my name. I didn’t learn six languages to not use them. I studied my arse off from the age of five so I’d never be without the ability to communicate.

“Tell me more,” I say to the man on the phone.

Jean-Paul gives me the basics of the assignment. A large multi-national company with business interests across the globe is hosting a conference in Paris, and yada, yada, yada. That’s all I need to know. Business, multinational, partnerships—those words whet my appetite. Besides, my calendar has been mockingly empty, longing to be filled.

“Can I lure you out of retirement?”

He barely needs to ask once. “When does it start? A week?”

“Monday,” he says, his voice nervous. “I’d need you on a plane to Paris tomorrow. The eleven a.m. flight.”

“Consider it done.”

A burst of excitement zips through me. I have something to do. Somewhere to be. I text my mates that I’ll miss drinks tomorrow night, and I’m not bothered when they text back that there’s no way in hell they’ll let me cash in another time.

The next morning, I sling a duffel bag on my shoulder and head to the airport.

When I retired a year ago, flush with cash from the sale of most of my holdings, I imagined that my greatest goal would be to do what I wanted any second of the day.

To live life to the fullest.

To climb mountains, sail the seas, wander the streets and take leisurely lunches, meet lovely and brilliant women and entertain them with my tongue and other talents all night long. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed all of it, yet there’s nothing quite as fulfilling as, well, filling my days.

As I head down the Jetway and onto the plane, I glance briefly to the left, checking out the first-class section. That used to be my stomping ground. First-class everywhere, a champagne and caviar lifestyle. I wouldn’t complain about a cushy seat in one of the first rows, but since Capstone is flying me over, I’ll spend the short flight in economy.

I turn the other way to find my seat, then stop in my tracks, the strangest thought flickering through my head. I whip my gaze back, peering at the second row in first class. A petite brunette with black cat eye glasses reminds me vaguely of the woman from yesterday. She’s sound asleep, and I can only see her profile. But it scratches an itch in my mind, and I can’t stop wondering if it’s her.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you find your seat?” The flight attendant asks kindly but pointedly too. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.

I point to the back of the jet. “I’m all good.”

I shake away the crazy thoughts. My brain is playing tricks on me. That’s not her, and there’s no way I’ll see her again, no way she’d be on the same plane.

As we fly over Germany, I let the date that never was fall out of my head.

I don’t think about her any longer.

For the next year, I enjoy the hell out of having something to do nearly every day. Something I love. Something that keeps me more than busy—something that brings me pleasure.

Talking.

I’ve always loved to talk. To tell stories. To chat, whether with strangers or friends, business partners or adversaries, my family or the women I’ve dated and sometimes become entangled with. Talking about anything and nothing is one of my greatest pleasures.

Griffin was right. I do love translating, and I love Paris, and I love the life I’ve carved out as I bounce from assignment to assignment, translating for French, Danish, Swedish, and other companies that need my expertise, picking up jobs as I want them, enjoying evenings out with friends in the City of Lights.

The best part? My brother, Erik, moves to Paris with his wife, and works feverishly to expand the firm and strike new deals. That keeps me occupied too, since he lets me dip my fingers in the pie now and then and help him bake the partnerships to the right temperature.

I don’t mind helping him. He’s the reason I have two homes, a fat bank account, and the choice to live my life the way I want. I owe all my success to him.

It’s a brilliant year as I turn 30, with one exception.

For one dark month, I return to Copenhagen to mourn the loss of my grandfather when he passes away at the ripe old age of ninety.