French Kiss Read online

  “Hol, you wouldn’t believe the things that asshole said to me on our last night together,” Alexa continued passionately, leaning toward her friend. “And then he just up and left for stupid Barcelona, completely destroying our anniversary trip and—” Suddenly, Alexa paused, studying Holly’s serious expression. Now that she wasn’t weeping hysterically on the phone, Alexa had the clarity to realize that Holly might resent this situation. Alexa sincerely hoped that Holly wouldn’t feel like Alexa had stolen Diego away from her only to dump him a year later.

  Which…hmm…was actually sort of what had happened.

  But Holly, who seemed intrigued, urged Alexa to continue. And, as the girls sipped their cool, sweet kirs and Alexa explained the whole sordid ordeal, Holly was all understanding and insight.

  “You know,” she observed, sipping her smooth, delicious drink, which Alexa had said was dry white wine mixed with black-currant liqueur, “Diego comes from a family of doctors—both his parents are surgeons and his uncles, too, I think. I can see how being premed in college might make him a little more uptight, since he’s got all these expectations to deal with now.”

  Alexa stared into her blush-colored kir. She felt a momentary prickle of annoyance that Holly was taking Diego’s side, until Alexa realized that her friend had a point. When Alexa and Diego had been together, they were usually too busy getting busy to discuss their respective families. But Holly had known Diego’s family when she was younger, so she’d probably paid more attention. Alexa felt a surge of gratitude toward calm, thoughtful Holly; Portia and Maeve would have never been this helpful in a boy-related crisis.

  Alexa reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s hand. “You’re so wise, Hol,” she said softly. “I never stopped to wonder why Diego was getting on my nerves. Mostly, I think the problem was that we just didn’t travel well together—we were bickering the entire time.” Alexa remembered the grand conclusion she’d reached that morning, over coffee and croissants at her cousins’. “I have this theory,” she added. “The couple that travels well together…”

  “Stays together?” Holly offered with a grin, squeezing Alexa’s hand back. “If that’s the case, Alexa, maybe we should be dating each other!” Holly had always marveled at how famously she and Alexa got along when they weren’t at home.

  Alexa laughed, finishing her kir. “Break it to Tyler gently, okay?” she teased.

  There it was again—the fleeting distraction in Holly’s eyes.

  “Holly,” Alexa began softly. “Is everything…okay with you and Tyler?” Alexa realized that, throughout her Diego rant, Holly hadn’t once mentioned the boy in her life.

  Holly stared at the green square and spraying fountains across the street. She’d been so ready to dish about Tyler with Alexa, but now, faced with the opportunity, she found herself hesitating. Maybe it was that Alexa had so candidly spilled her guts about Diego, and Holly felt that her own issues were somehow trivial in comparison. Maybe it was Holly’s good old natural shyness swallowing her words. Or maybe it was that Alexa herself was at the center of Holly’s Tyler heartache. In any case, she knew she couldn’t open up just yet. So she shook her head and assured Alexa that everything was cool.

  Then Holly glanced at her watch, yawning. Lounging in the café was so mellow that she was finally feeling her fatigue from that morning’s escapade; she’d been running on pure adrenaline before. She hoped she’d be able to turn in early that night, or maybe nap a little. “Do you mind if we head to your cousins’ place?” she asked Alexa, glad to have a reason to change the subject.

  Alexa clapped a hand to her mouth. “Merde! We do need to go back and change—we’re having dinner at my uncle’s before we go clubbing!” Alexa had been so focused on going out dancing that the gathering at her aunt and uncle’s sumptuous townhouse had slipped her mind. Plus, we’ll have to get Holly Paris-ready, Alexa decided, eyeing her friend’s sloppy ponytail, boring waffle shirt, and makeup-free face.

  Clubbing—tonight? Holly sighed as the bill for their drinks arrived. She should have known an early night would be impossible with Alexa.

  Leaving the café, the girls walked the short distance to rue de Sévigné, where Raphaëlle and Pierre lived. Holly was immediately enchanted by the narrow street, with its cluster of slightly crooked houses and funky storefronts. Alexa pulled a brass key out of her lizard handbag and opened a tall, dark wooden door that creaked loudly. Holly was surprised that the musty stairwell they entered didn’t have an overhead light, but she followed Alexa carefully up the winding staircase until they reached the third floor.

  “Alexa?” Holly asked, her polite instincts kicking in as they stepped onto the landing. “Are you sure I’m not imposing? Your cousins don’t even know me—”

  “Please,” Alexa cut in, rolling her eyes. “Diego was supposed to stay here, too, remember? There’s plenty of room, and they’ll totally love you.” She stopped in front of a dark green apartment door—Holly noticed ST. LAURENT printed above the keyhole—and was fishing in her bag for another key, when the door swung open from the inside and a boy wearing jeans and a white T-shirt stepped out.

  The most gorgeous boy Holly had seen…in any country.

  He had smooth olive skin—even darker than Diego Mendieta’s—and thick curly dark hair that spilled messily into his eyes, which—by contrast—were a bright, startling blue. His face wasn’t perfect, the way Tyler’s was; his nose was prominent, his forehead was high, and his upper lip was fuller than his bottom…but somehow it all worked.

  Brilliantly.

  “Alexa, mon amour!” he exclaimed. “Pardon—je vais acheter une bouteille de vin pour Maman…” Holly was just wishing she understood French when the boy trailed off, turned away from Alexa, and looked right at her. His face broke into a slow, devastatingly sexy smile.

  “Ah. You are ’Olly, non?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

  “Ollie?” Holly repeated, unconsciously taking a step back.

  Alexa burst out laughing at this cute moment of cross-cultural crossed wires. “He means Holly,” she clarified, jabbing her cousin’s toned arm. “The French always make the ‘H’ silent at the beginning of words or names. Anyway,” she added, putting her other hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Yes, Pierre, this is mon amie, Holly, and Holly, this is my favorite cousin in the world, Pierre.”

  “Enchanté,” Pierre murmured, and then, as Holly’s heart pounded like mad, he came even closer to her, leaned in, and kissed her once on each cheek. His lips were soft, and she could smell his cologne—sharp and sweet, like some exotic spice. Holly stood stock still, her pulse tapping from his unexpected closeness. She’d never been kissed by someone when meeting them for the first time—especially not a boy.

  “Um—nice to meet you,” she finally managed, her cheeks burning. She stuck out her hand, but instead of shaking it, Pierre simply took it in both of his for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips as his blue eyes held hers.

  “Wait!” Alexa exclaimed, and both Pierre and Holly gave a start, looking her way. “Duh,” she went on, shaking back her long hair. “I forgot. You guys know each other.”

  “We do?” Holly asked, her heartbeat still a little erratic even as Pierre released her hand. She certainly would have recalled meeting this guy before.

  Alexa’s eyes were dancing. “Don’t you remember, Hol?” she asked. This was one of her most beloved childhood memories. “We crank-called Pierre when we were little! We were playing Truth or Dare and—”

  “I pretended to be you on the phone, so we could trick your twelve-year-old cousin in Paris…” Holly finished, and glanced at Pierre. “That was you?” she asked in disbelief.

  Holly remembered herself at ten—skinny, gawky, and even frecklier, her hair in two light-brown plaits—on the phone with a boy she’d never met before. Alexa had whispered French phrases into her ear, and Holly had dutifully repeated them into the phone, trying not to giggle. A boy’s voice—just making the transition to deepness�
��on the other end had responded with a confused “Alexa? C’est toi?” but Holly had hung up before he could ask any more questions.

  Pierre grinned, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. “We meet again.”

  Holly nodded slowly. If Pierre had been twelve when they’d talked on the phone, he was about nineteen now. She had no idea what Pierre had looked like all those years ago…but he certainly seemed to have matured very nicely.

  And suddenly, Holly wasn’t feeling all that tired anymore.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Eurotrash

  Deliciously steamy and refreshed, Alexa adjusted the teeny pink towel around her body and flitted out of her cousins’ bathroom into the small, cozy guest room across the hall. It was where she and Diego would have stayed had their vacation not gone awry. Two narrow twin beds were positioned across from each other—she and Diego would have had to make do with pushing them together again—and a full-length mirror was propped crookedly in one corner. The yellow shutters were flung wide open, allowing the rosy light of a Paris evening to spill inside.

  “Shower’s all yours, babe,” Alexa told Holly, who was sitting on her designated bed and staring into space. “Earth to Holly,” Alexa added teasingly, taking out her tube of Frédéric Fekkai styling gel from the makeup bag on her bed. “We need to be all primped and beautiful by the time Raphaëlle gets back from closing up shop.”

  Alexa’s other cousin—Pierre’s twenty-four-year-old big sis—owned Frou-Frou, an über-hip handbag boutique in the neighborhood. During Alexa’s visit to the store that morning, the ever-generous Raphaëlle had said Alexa was welcome to anything that caught her fancy—including the new line of pink-polka-dot drawstring purses. Alexa had declined, thinking she’d check out Dior first; Raphi’s stuff, while adorable, wasn’t quite her style.

  “Oops—sorry!” Holly exclaimed, turning to Alexa, her eyes very big. “I zoned out for a second.” She’d been thinking of Tyler and—for no apparent reason—feeling guilty. Hurriedly, she rooted around in her duffel, pulling out a towel, soap, and shampoo. “If Raphaëlle’s at work, where did Pierre go?” Holly asked casually. “Does he have a job, too?” She’d been wondering that ever since he’d sprinted on down the stairs after they’d met.

  Hmm, Alexa thought, a juicy suspicion sprouting in her mind. “He went to pick up wine for dinner tonight,” she replied, scrunching product into her wet hair. “And, no—he’s a student at the Sorbonne. This is technically Raphi’s place, but she lets him crash here.”

  As Holly headed to the shower, Alexa smiled to herself. She’d totally picked up on an energy between Holly and her cousin, and now wondered if something might be brewing there. Though with Tyler Davis in the picture, probably not.

  “Hey…Alexa?” she heard Holly call from the bathroom. Her voice was hesitant. “Can I ask you a completely stupid question?”

  “Let me guess,” Alexa said with a laugh, peeking out into the hall to see Holly’s face sticking out from the bathroom door. “The toilet?”

  Holly nodded, looking mortified. “Where is it? I really have to pee.”

  “Next door,” Alexa replied, pointing. “That’s how it works here. They have one room for the shower and sink, and another just for the toilet.” She shrugged. “Welcome to France.”

  Holly sighed, heading for the other room. She’d never figure out this country. First there’d been Pierre and his surprising two-cheek kiss. Then there was the apartment itself; all slanted ceilings, uneven wooden floors, and old-fashioned moldings, it seemed straight out of the nineteenth century. But the walls were painted with giant black and white polka dots, and orange shag rugs, bright lava lamps, and retro French movie posters took up every inch of space. Holly, who was accustomed to the simple symmetry of her suburban split-level in Oakridge, had never seen anything quite like this.

  The shower, too, proved to be a mystery. Once inside, Holly had to struggle with the odd handheld nozzle; there was no ledge to rest it on, so while Holly shaved her legs, the stream of water kept spraying her in the face. It was the least relaxing shower of her life.

  When she finally emerged, a little winded, Holly wrapped her yellow towel tight around herself, gave her wet hair a shake, and padded out of the bathroom. She was hardly thinking as she turned the knob on a closed door across the hall, but when she stepped into the room, Holly’s heart leaped; this wasn’t the guest room where she and Alexa were staying, but a boy’s bedroom. The navy blue quilt on the single bed and a poster of the French soccer team above the desk were dead giveaways.

  So was Pierre, who was standing next to the bed, wearing absolutely nothing but white boxer shorts.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” Holly gasped, her face catching fire, as her eyes—almost without her own volition—swept over Pierre’s broad shoulders and smooth, olive-skinned chest. Holly felt her stomach somersault but she found herself unable to turn away. “You’re, um—you’re back from getting wine,” she added unnecessarily, her voice shaky.

  “’Olly,” Pierre said warmly, without a trace of embarrassment or surprise. He flashed her a grin, his teeth very white against his dark complexion. Something about him briefly reminded Holly of a pirate—in the best possible way. “I am just…how you say, changing?” Pierre added casually. He gestured to the pair of jeans in his left hand, which he’d clearly just stepped out of, and tilted his head to one side, his blue eyes sparkling.

  “Changing,” Holly affirmed tremblingly, as the blush in her face made its way down her neck to her damp collarbone. Suddenly, she realized that—in her short towel—she wasn’t all that covered up, either, and, felt a fresh wave of shyness. “I—I should go,” she mumbled, ducking her head and hurrying back out into the hall, taking care to close the door firmly behind her. As she headed over to the real guest room, Holly couldn’t help thinking that, if Tyler, or any boy she knew from back home, had been in the same position as Pierre—walked in on by a girl they’d just met—they’d have acted as fidgety and flustered as she was now feeling. Pierre’s matter-of-fact cool had been refreshingly different.

  And, okay, yeah. Pretty damn sexy.

  Trying to banish images of Pierre’s sculpted upper body from her mind, Holly slipped into the guest room, where Alexa stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing a simple black tube dress, champagne-colored strappy sandals, and a miserable frown. In a heartbeat, Holly decided not to mention the random encounter with Pierre. It wasn’t that big a deal after all, and calling attention to it would somehow give it more weight.

  “I hate it, hate it, hate it,” Alexa declared, hands on hips. “I’m capital-B boring.”

  Holly glanced over, grateful for the distraction. She saw nothing wrong with Alexa’s outfit but knew better than to argue with her stubborn friend. “So wear something else,” she suggested, unzipping her duffel and pulling out the halter top that had been wasted on Wimbledon. Thankfully, Alexa seemed too wrapped up in her clothes to notice Holly’s crimson face. Sometimes, Alexa’s self-absorption could be a good thing.

  “I don’t have anything else!” Alexa wailed, spinning around and sorting through the surviving clothes that she’d dumped onto her bed. The thief had left her with very slim pickings. “At least,” she added, tossing a tank top over her shoulder. “Nothing that’s right for Eurotrash.”

  “For what?” Holly asked, running her fingers through her wet bangs.

  “Eurotrash,” Alexa repeated, returning to the mirror. “The hottest new discothèque in Paris, and where we’ll be going with the cousins right after dinner.”

  Despite the dissatisfaction with her outfit, Alexa felt a shiver of excitement; she’d never been to Eurotrash, but considering its spicy reputation, she was sure it would provide a most scintillating evening. As she reached for her LaLicious body butter to smooth over her arms, Alexa imagined dirty dancing with some European sex god to the rhythmic beats of house music, and her pulse quickened. Take that, Diego Mendieta.

  Meanwhile, Holly’s pul
se was also racing—for an entirely different reason. The cousins. So Pierre would be coming, too. Drawing a deep breath, Holly held up her halter. “Would this be okay for—for Eurotrash?” she asked, wanting to giggle at the ridiculous name.

  Alexa turned to assess. Holly’s top was clearly a designer knockoff, but its bright sea-green color and crystal beading along the V-neck were très chic. Plus, lucky Holly—who was much more well-endowed than A-cup Alexa—would fill it out nicely. “It’s perfect,” Alexa assured her friend with a grin. She was impressed; it seemed Holly didn’t need a major Paris overhaul after all.

  The girls were slipping on their dinner-party cover-ups—a sparkly shrug for Alexa, a black cardigan for Holly—when a knock sounded on their door.

  “Allô?” Pierre called. “You are, euh…how you say…decent?”

  Holly had been reaching for the doorknob but she pulled back, her heart thudding. She wasn’t quite ready to see Pierre again. And she wondered if his “decent” comment was a private joke meant for her.

  “More or less,” Alexa teased, scooting by Holly to open the door. “Look at you, hot stuff!” she added when she saw Pierre standing there, holding a bottle of wine and wearing a sky-blue shirt that matched his eyes. Having a cute cousin, Alexa had decided, was both a blessing and a curse; he made for fun eye candy but was also the one boy she could never have.

  “And you,” Pierre replied, giving Alexa a wide smile. “It is, perhaps, in the genes?”

  “Definitely,” Alexa laughed, stepping out into the hall and revealing Holly, who’d been standing paralyzed behind her.