Contemporary Romance
Date Published: 07-25-2025
Publisher: Lipstick Publishing
When Annalise Garner arrives in Paris to study art, she’s chasing
quiet—far from her Southern roots, far from expectations. What she
doesn’t expect is to meet Jett Hunter, a star American soccer player
with green eyes, a bruised past, and a future under a constant spotlight.
Jett lives for the game. Annelise lives for the canvas. But when fate
intertwines their worlds on a rain-soaked street in the City of Lights,
neither is prepared for the slow-burn connection that follows.
As their hearts tangle between café tables and gallery walls, the
intrusion of the press and career choices threaten to pull them apart.
Jett faces pressure to return to New York.
Annalise wrestles with who she is beyond her art.
And just when they start to find their rhythm, a devastating injury changes
everything.
Set against the romance of Paris and the quiet beauty of rebuilding a life,
One Year in Paris is a tender story of love that endures the noise, finds
strength in the silence, and blooms where it’s least expected.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Paris, France.
March.
Paris smelled like warm bread, rain, and the kind of freedom you didn’t
realize you were starving for until you tasted it.
Annelise Garner pressed her sketchbook to her chest as she crossed Place du
Tertre, her long blond curls pulled into a loose braid and a soft, excited
nervousness fluttering in her chest. This wasn’t just a
vacation—it was a year away from all expectations. No cotillions, no
pageants, no family name to maintain. Just art, sunlight, and the faint
promise of something more.
She passed a café tucked between a bookstore and a patisserie, where
laughter spilled onto the street. A gust of wind tugged at her scarf, and she
caught it just before it flew—only to stumble directly into someone
walking briskly around the corner.
Hard chest. Expensive cologne. An arm around her waist, steadying.
“Whoa—pardon,” a deep voice rumbled. American, unmistakably.
Rough with surprise. Smooth with heat.
Annelise looked up—and found herself staring into the greenest eyes
she’d ever seen.
The man holding her was tall…Ridiculously tall. His hair was dark and
swept back in the kind of effortless way that meant effort had definitely been
involved. A few people nearby had slowed down to look. Some pointed.
“Y-you’re American,” she blurted in surprise before she
could stop herself.
He smirked. “So are you.”
“Atlanta.”
“New York.”
They paused.
“I’m Annelise.”
“Jett Hunter.”
And as he stepped back, letting her go with a soft brush of his fingers, she
noticed the gym bag over his shoulder, scuffed cleats peeking out the side.
That name…Jett Hunter. It tickled something in her brain. A memory from
a sports magazine her friend from back home, Abigail, had fawned over.
She blinked.
“You play soccer…”
He gave her a crooked smile. “A little.”
“How long have you been in Paris?”
“Two years…You?”
“Two months…I’m here studying art for a year courtesy of a
generous inheritance from my grandpa.”
“My contract ends in seven months.”
Annelise nodded. “I wish I could stay forever, but—” she
shrugged.
She didn’t give a reason and Jett didn’t know her well enough to
ask.
Jett Hunter didn’t believe in fate. He believed in timing—on the
field, in life, in love, if that was even something he still believed in at
all.
But when he spotted her again the next morning, crossing Rue des Abbesses with
a portfolio twice her size and sunlight catching in her golden hair, he felt
something stir.
She hadn’t seen him yet. She was juggling her sketchbook tucked under
one arm and what looked like a artists satchel in the other. Same soft curls,
same honey-sweet presence…Annelise.
He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to be sure.
Yep. It was her.
Jett stood up from his table before he thought better of it, dodged a Vespa,
and stepped into her path just as she looked up.
She gasped, nearly bumping into him again, and blinked in surprise.
“You?”
He gave a crooked grin. “Starting to think you’re following
me.”
Her lips parted—then curved. “Or you’re following me.”
“Touché.”
She shifted the satchel and sketchpad awkwardly. “Do you usually begin
your mornings by bumping into strangers?”
“I had a need for croissants,” he explained. “And accidental
run-ins with beautiful strangers are a bonus,” he added.
Her cheeks colored faintly. It looked good on her. Real. Not rehearsed like
the women he usually met who were after him for nothing more than his fame and
fortune.
He nodded toward the café behind him. “Sit with me?”
She hesitated for a breath. Then nodded.
They sat under the striped awning, a plate of flaky pastries between them. Two
Americans in the heart of Montmartre pretending Paris wasn’t working
some strange kind of magic on them.
Annelise told him about her art studies and Georgia summers. She spoke briefly
of her political family, being an only child, how she used to sketch horses in
the back pasture and dream of painting sunrises in another country.
Jett told her about New York, the endless push of fame, and how Paris had been
a necessary escape. He didn’t mention the pressure from the club or the
headlines speculating about his focus slipping. Not yet.
“I prefer to keep to myself. I don’t usually do people,” she
admitted, stirring her espresso slowly. “They’re
too…complicated.”
“Yet here you are sat across from one this morning.”
Annelise looked up. “You’re different. You feel like—”
She stopped herself.
“Like what?” he asked softly.
“Like someone real.”
Jett became quiet. It had been a long time since anyone had said that to him.
Even longer since it felt true.
When Annelise stood to leave, she gave him a smile that felt like spring.
“Same café tomorrow?” he asked, not wanting to let her slip
from his life.
She looked over her shoulder as she walked away. “If the croissants are
this good again.”
He watched her go—shoulders relaxed, curls bouncing lightly, sunlight
wrapped around her like a promise.
Jett sat back in his chair, let the Paris air fill his lungs, and for the
first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was running toward the
next match or away from himself.
He just felt…here.
And that was enough.
About the Author
I’m an Australian author who writes in a variety of genres,
including Western romance, historical romance, Gay Romance, and contemporary
romance. I also have a Thriller Murder/Mystery, children’s, non-fiction
and young adult.
I have published over 60 books and novellas, many of which feature strong,
independent heroines and rugged, alpha male heroes. Some of my popular series
include the Outback Australia series and The Carter Brothers series.
My books are known for their well-researched historical details and vivid
descriptions of the Australian landscape.
My work has garnered praise from readers and critics alike, and I have won
several awards for my writing.
If you're interested in learning more about my books:
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/SusanHorsnell
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