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 in-tersection 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 ri-dicule. 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’ill 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 un-shaven 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 pas-sages. 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.

Several other women near her all turned their attention on me and I felt like the mouse that had just been spotted by the starving cats. “Mike! Please come get me. I’m getting—”

“May I have your autograph, s’ill vous plaît?” Pens, paper, and cameras seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

I tried to back up to get some space between me and the rising commotion, but I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. I turned to apologize, but the girl was less than forgiving, making her angry point by spout-ing off and giving me a hard shove.

I muttered a curse and without thinking, I pushed her back, defending myself. I was tired of taking random shit from his fans.

After almost a year of enduring snide comments, insults, and threats combined with all the other random bullshit from everyone else who felt I didn’t belong with Ryan, something in me snapped.

That’s when her friends got involved and the shoving match started. Three against one. The girl in the black jacket palmed my face, scraping my sunglasses off. I didn’t know what was more important—defending myself or retrieving the glasses, which were a gift from Ryan.