It was ten o'clock in the morning when I realized that we've overslept. We were still jet-lagged. I found Leila lying on the bed beside me with her body facing downwards.
"Leila," I shook her.
"Mmm..." Leila mumbled.
"We've got to get moving."
"It's still early," she complained.
"It's ten in the morning!"
She bolted up right. "What?"
"And we've got to get moving. It could've been easier if Margaret gave us a list of specific places to explore but we've got nowhere to go."
Leila groaned. "Now, I'm hating her way of promoting people. I mean," she stood from the bed. "We work for a magazine, for God's sake!" she said exasperatingly. "I don't see her point of sending people out of New York and expect them to send in reports every single day. We're not Dora the Explorer!"
A thought stirred in my mind. "Do you remember those letters outside our door?"
Leila squinted at me suspiciously. "Yes..."
I went to the front door and opened it. I found the pile of letters collected in a leather-bound strap beside the door.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I said as we kept our eyes on the yellowing pile of envelopes.
"Yes."
YOU ARE READING
It Started in Paris
ChickLitLauren goes to Paris for a business trip. She ignores the countless love letters that arrives at her door in her apartment in Paris. Her curiosity clicks her into opening the letters. Someone named Jean Hughe is the writer of the letters for...
