French Kiss Page 4

  “Yeah, but we are American,” Diego was saying as they cut through the spotless beige lobby. Though Diego’s parents were Cuban, he’d been born in Miami, and Alexa knew he considered himself very much American. “I mean, just because you’re in a foreign country,” he added thoughtfully, “why should you pretend to be something you’re not?”

  Alexa rolled her eyes as they stepped out onto the wide, windswept boulevard St-Germain. Leave it to Mr. Princeton to turn everything into a philosophical debate. “Darling,” she laughed. “That’s one deep thought too many for a springtime Saturday in Paris.”

  Their first stop was Café de Flore, where they lunched on chewy baguettes slathered in butter, fresh mussels, and crispy fries. Two porcelain cups of ink-black coffee sitting on the white tablecloth rounded out the perfect Parisian picture.

  “Heaven,” Alexa sighed between bites. She’d been craving a visit to Flore. The fabled corner café, with its brightly lit sign set amid a spray of flowers and its crowded, mirrored interior, was one of Alexa’s favorites. Legend had it that Picasso used to hang here, so in years past, Alexa would linger over her espresso, smoke a few Gauloises (Alexa didn’t smoke, but in Paris, she liked to indulge occasionally), and imagine she, too, was a famous Left Bank artiste. Alexa did fancy herself a photographer. She’d photographed Paris before, but she hoped she’d have a chance to take some interesting new shots of the city this week.

  “Mmm,” Diego agreed, reaching for a fry. He was smiling, Alexa observed, and seemed to have recovered from the whole attack-of-the-twin-beds trauma.

  “See? Aren’t you glad you’re not cramming for midterms?” Alexa laughed, lifting her delicate coffee cup to her lips.

  Although Diego had been totally into the idea of a Paris trip, his spring break fell a month after Alexa’s. So it had been a huge effort on Alexa’s part to get her stubborn boyfriend to pause in prepping for his biology exams and agree to join her.

  “I guess,” Diego chuckled, giving Alexa an affectionate look. “If I were at school now, I’d be, like, suffering in the library, instead of sitting here with you—”

  “Eating the best food ever,” Alexa interjected around a mouthful of baguette.

  “Though not the healthiest,” Diego pointed out. His brow furrowed in concern as he examined the salt-speckled fry between his fingers. “Do you realize how much sodium is in one of these babies?”

  Alexa swallowed the last of her coffee, feeling a spark of impatience. Diego was premed at Princeton and loved showing off his vast medical knowledge. Usually, his drive and dedication turned Alexa on, but now she was un peu peeved.

  “Relax, Doctor Mendieta,” she retorted, toying with one of her oversize silver hoops and glancing out the window at the ritzy passersby on the boulevard. A light drizzle was falling, shrouding the elegant, cream-colored buildings in a thick fog. Alexa had forgotten that Paris in the springtime sometimes felt more like late winter. But what was it her father always said? Our city is stunning in any season. It was true; the rain only added to the romance.

  Alexa, who hadn’t brought her cell along, figured she should find a phone booth and check in back home; Diego had called his parents in Miami earlier that day to tell them he’d arrived safely. But Alexa knew her very French, very chill father wasn’t the type to fret over her. And her ambitious American mother, busy being a Manhattan fashionista, had barely remembered to punch Alexa’s trip into her BlackBerry. Alexa was an only child, and her parents’ culture-clash marriage had crashed and burned soon after the move from Paris to the States. As Alexa liked to joke to Diego, the upside of her occasional loneliness was that she had the freedom to do pretty much whatever she pleased.

  Sort of the opposite of Holly Jacobson’s life, Alexa mused, thinking of her old friend and wondering how she was faring across the Channel.

  “So where to next?”

  Diego’s voice startled her. Alexa glanced at her boyfriend, who was impatiently drumming his long fingers on the table as he glanced around for their waiter. Next? she wondered. They’d only been at the café for an hour.

  “There he is!” Diego said, furiously signaling to their waiter. “Can we get the check?” he shouted across the café. A rail-thin woman in a Dior trench coat glanced up from her espresso and Paris-Match with a scowl.

  Alexa cringed. Couldn’t Diego at least attempt to speak French?

  “What’s the rush, baby?” she asked as the waiter disdainfully dropped the tissue-paper-thin bill on their table. She was perfectly content to sit here all afternoon, people-watching and listening to the vintage Serge Gainsbourg playing softly in the background. In Paris, café culture was practically a religion.

  “Well, we’re only here for seven days,” Diego replied, reaching into his messenger bag and—to Alexa’s horror—taking out a large, glossy Frommer’s guidebook. “We should get in some sightseeing, don’t you think?”

  Pardonnez-moi?

  Alexa stared at her boyfriend, not comprehending. Sightseeing? Diego knew she was from Paris. By the age of seven, she’d already had the whole Notre Dame-Arc de Triomphe-Eiffel Tower gig down cold. Alexa St. Laurent had seen all there was to see in this city.

  “Like—like which sights?” Alexa managed to ask, pulling her pale pink wallet out of her Chloé lizard bag; Diego had forgotten to exchange his dollars for euros at the airport, so she’d been the unofficial bank thus far.

  Diego shot her a sheepish grin and ducked his head. When he spoke, he addressed the guidebook in his lap. “Well…at the risk of sounding like those girls from the lobby, I’ve always wanted to, um, go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

  Alexa gasped in shock, her manicured hands flying to her mouth. “Oh…my God,” she whispered, consumed by shame. Her boyfriend may as well have gotten down on all fours and started chewing on the tablecloth—even that would have been preferable to this declaration. “Diego, no. You can’t be serious.”

  Alexa had always thought that the Eiffel Tower—all graceful steel lacework—was lovely. But the super-famous structure was also so, well, Kodak Moment Number One—not to mention tainted by the gross Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes proposal—that Alexa now considered it no more than a cheesy tourist trap. She’d even torn up the photo of the tower that she’d once displayed on the bulletin board in her bedroom.

  “Would you hear me out?” Diego’s dark eyes flashed. Both he and Alexa had a certain fire in their temperaments, which worked out nicely for some activities—but could lead to angry flare-ups when they weren’t getting it on. “You know I was only in Paris once before—for that weekend with my parents and sister. We did, like, the two-second tour of the city, but we didn’t even go to the Eiffel Tower.”

  Alexa felt a slow, sinking dread in her stomach that told her this issue wasn’t going to resolve itself any time soon. “It’s just that there are so many better ways to spend our time here,” she explained, trying to keep the sharpness out of her tone. “Like walking across the Pont-Neuf or shopping at Collete or—”

  Diego silenced her by leaning across the small table and taking her hands in his. “Alexa, think about it,” he urged, his expression intense. “We could go at night. You and me, at the very top, the entire city spread out beneath us…” He tilted his head, leaned in closer, and softly kissed her pouty bottom lip. “Remember?” he whispered, his dimples showing.

  Alexa nodded, weakening. How could she have forgotten? A year ago, she and Diego had shared a breathtaking rooftop experience in South Beach—and had been together ever since. This trip was supposed to be their anniversary, after all; it would be meaningful for the two of them to re-create that magical night.

  But Alexa wasn’t ready to give in yet.

  As a compromise, she agreed to Diego’s Frommer’s-inspired suggestion that they hit up Montmartre, the funky Right Bank neighborhood where the domed, all-white basilica, Sacré-Coeur, stood. They left Café de Flore, rode the Métro to Abbesses (“The trains are so clean here!” Diego exclaimed loudly while Alexa looked for places to hide), and silently hiked up the steep hill to Sacré-Coeur, the tension still crackling between them.

  But being in Montmartre cheered Alexa up; she loved its crooked alleyways and slightly seedy atmosphere. Street vendors hawked piping-hot crêpes alongside miniature replicas of Sacré-Coeur, whitefaced mimes performed for wide-eyed children, and wannabe artists perched on stools, sketching at their easels. While Diego made straight for the grand steps of the basilica, Alexa hung back, wanting to scope out the scene some more.

  When one of the sketchers glanced up from his easel, Alexa’s heart fluttered. Clad in a tight black T-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed-up boots—the French dirty-boy uniform—he was on the short side, but lean. His ropy body and narrow gray eyes made Alexa think of a hungry cat. A black knit hat was pulled down low over his eyes, almost as if he were going incognito—and there was a smudge of charcoal on his left cheekbone. She bet his lips tasted of Gauloises and cheap beer.

  Holding Alexa’s gaze—was he trying to guess what her lips tasted like?—the artist picked up a fresh piece of charcoal and resumed sketching, almost as if he planned to draw her. Alexa, who never blushed, felt a hot redness stealing up her face. She was used to guys checking her out—even today, she’d gotten several sideways smiles from boys on the Métro—but this eye contact felt more intense, more personal.

  Alexa drew a deep breath, steadying herself. Yes, she’d always had a weakness for seductive French boys, but she was here with Diego. And she loved Diego. Didn’t she?

  Dizzy, Alexa whirled away from the artist’s penetrating stare and flew toward the cathedral in search of her boyfriend. When she spotted his dark hair and tall figure, she immediately hurried over, flung her arms around his neck, and buried her face in the collar o
f his striped shirt, feeling a mixture of guilt and longing.

  “Baby,” Diego said, clearly startled but pleased. His arms went around her waist and he drew her close, nuzzling her neck. Naturally, since they were in Paris, their cuddling didn’t prompt even a second glance from the people milling about on the steps.

  “I don’t want us to argue anymore,” Alexa spoke into Diego’s ear, clinging tightly to him.

  “Then let’s not,” Diego murmured. “Let’s just have fun.”

  And, as they started kissing on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, with the setting sun bathing Montmartre in a golden glow, Alexa decided that they would do exactly that. This week would be the best, most wildly romantic one of their lives.

  If only Diego would get over the stupid Eiffel Tower.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Royal Mess

  “Is that Prince William?” Holly’s best friend, Meghan, asked, pointing to a blond boy in a navy blue sweater who was leaning against the bar, drinking a bottle of Theakston’s beer.

  Holly groaned. “I hate to break it to you, Meggie,” she replied, reaching for the pitcher of ale, “but what would the extremely hot heir to the British throne be doing in a dinky pub in Wimbledon?”

  From the moment the girls had arrived in England two days before, on Saturday, Meghan had been spotting members of the royal family everywhere: at the run-down faux-Victorian hostel where the team was staying, at the local fish-and-chips place, even on the running track at Wimbledon Park. Her obsessing was starting to wear on Holly’s nerves.

  “The same thing we’re doing,” Jess chimed in, plopping down on the wooden bench across from them with a fresh pitcher. “Getting sloshed.” Grinning, she filled her mug to the brim, then clinked it against Holly’s. “Cheerio.”

  Holly toasted Jess back and tentatively sipped at the cool, foamy ale. She wasn’t a big drinker, but in England, where the drinking age was eighteen, and no one seemed to card, it was hard to resist. In fact, all the members of the Oakridge High girls’ track team—on their blissful free hour before curfew—were scattered throughout the Fox Run Pub. Disregarding the fact that they weren’t supposed to drink while competing, the girls were drowning their sorrows in pints. That morning, they’d lost miserably to the annoyingly svelte, über-blonde German team.

  Of course, Holly—team captain and perpetual guilt magnet—blamed herself.

  While Jess and Meghan continued to swoon over the Prince William clone, Holly tuned them out, set down her pint, and rested one freckled cheek in her hand. For the millionth time that night, she rotated her sore ankle beneath the table and mentally replayed the awful events of that morning.

  Ponytail swinging, heart thumping, she’d been pounding up the track as her teammates screamed her on. But then she’d felt it—sharp and sure as the stitch in her side: She was off her game. Holly had been feeling fuzzy and distracted ever since she’d gotten to England. But she hadn’t expected her condition to worsen on the track. As Holly’s legs slowed, the pompous captain of the German team—Brünhilde or whatever her name was—shot by her. Holly’s stomach dropped, and her knees followed; as her left ankle turned, she stumbled and fell, slapping her hands against the crimson-colored track. A hush fell over the stadium.

  It was the most mortifying moment of Holly Jacobson’s entire life, not counting the time a random boy had seen her naked in South Beach last year.

  Shaking, she’d picked herself up and limped across the finish line—dead last.

  “Jacobson,” Coach Graham had barked, storming over. “You were a mess out there!” In a matter of days, Ms. Graham had morphed from friendly, Go-Team-Go! coach into Psycho Drill Sergeant.

  Holly had tried to catch her breath as the rest of the team gathered around her, asking if she was okay. She’d sought out Meghan’s and Jess’s concerned faces in the crowd and lifted her shoulders at them in a helpless I suck, don’t I? gesture. More than anything, Holly hated knowing that she’d let her team down.

  Frowning, Coach Graham had led Holly through the crush of Oakridge girls, over to the nearest wooden bench. She’d promptly sat Holly down and expertly prodded her achy ankle.

  “Ouch,” Holly had whispered, wincing and turning her head away. Pieces of hair that had escaped from her ponytail stuck damply to the back of her neck, her green uniform felt itchy, and her palms burned. Holly had been running track for the past four years; she was used to enduring discomfort, even pain. Tiger Balm and Icy-Hot could be a girl’s best friends. But now, Holly didn’t want to deal with the recovery process. She was sick of always worrying about injuries. And she bet that Coach Graham would make a huge deal out of this latest one.

  “It’s not sprained, but you need to stay off it,” Coach Graham had pronounced, confirming Holly’s fears. After applying an ice pack to Holly’s ankle, she straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest, glowering. “Though you shouldn’t have any problems walking, doing any running would be a terrible idea now.” She cleared her throat and gave a decisive shake of her curly ash-blonde bob. “I don’t think you’ll be able to compete for the rest of the week.”

  Thud. That had been the sound of Holly’s heart completing its slow descent. She’d stared up at her coach in disbelief. Not being able to run was the worst punishment someone could inflict on Holly Jacobson; it was only while in motion that she felt in control of her life. And running always provided a blissful distraction from whatever problems Holly might be grappling with at the time. Holly couldn’t bear the thought of a week spent sitting lamely on the sidelines, watching as her teammates sped up and down the track, trying to cheer them on despite the lump in her throat.

  Because then she’d have lots of free time to dwell on that one big problem she was dealing with.

  “I’m—I’m fine,” Holly had protested feebly. She’d reached down, feeling with her own fingers how swollen her ankle was. “Just give me, like, another day—”

  But Ms. Graham had already interrupted with a litany of reasons as to why Holly had to remain benched—though she was expected to attend every single practice session and competition, of course. As her coach rambled on, Holly had stared dreamily at the dark green treetops that ringed the track, suddenly filled with the desire to run. Not in a race this time, but as a means of escape. Holly imagined herself running and running, leaving Wimbledon and the rest of England far behind. Only she didn’t want to run home, to her parents and Oakridge. She wanted to go someplace where nobody knew her and didn’t care in the slightest about track and field.

  “The thing is, Jacobson,” Coach Graham had said, her voice stern. “Your head has been in the clouds from the minute this trip began. Honestly, I’m not surprised you fell today.” She’d taken a step closer, blocking Holly’s pleasant view of the treetops. “What’s been throwing you off? I want an explanation.”

  Holly had blown her bangs up off her forehead, at a loss. What reason could she possibly offer her coach? Jet-lag? PMS? Torn tendon? Or…the truth?

  Tyler.

  Now, sitting with her friends in the crowded pub, listening to the rhythmic beats of Dizzee Rascal, and watching guys and girls snog at the bar, Holly felt a deep pang of longing. Tyler Davis may have caused her fall that morning, but she still missed him like crazy.

  Tyler had called her only once since she’d been in England, on Saturday night, and they’d suffered through The Most Awkward Conversation in the History of Dating. (The highlights, as Holly remembered, had been “Um” and “Yeah.”) Then, when Tyler had blurted “Do you want to talk about, you know, the car?” Holly panicked. She’d been agonizing nonstop over what she’d termed “the car-tastrophe”—but discussing it was a whole different beast. What if Tyler confirmed her worst fears (“You’re no Alexa St. Laurent!”), and Holly started crying? So, swallowing her hurt and confusion, she’d made up some feeble excuse about needing to go stretch, and abruptly clicked off.