French kiss (22 page)

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And Alexa discovered that he'd lied on the bridge yesterday -- Xavier Pascal wasn't just good with his hands.

He was incredible.

They fell back against the sofa together, their bodies entwining. As she and Xavier continued their feverish kissing, Alexa let her own hands wander over his body. She trailed one hand down the length of Xavier's smooth, muscular back, while letting the other lightly rub the nape of his neck. When they came up for air, Alexa, smiled at him, tracing the jagged scar above his lip with her fingertip.

"How did you get that?" she whispered, curious.

"From a fight, back when I was young and stupid," Xavier explained, leaning in to nip her earlobe.

"And now you're older and wiser?" Alexa laughed, kissing the tattoo on his shoulder and thinking about his scuffle with the photographers that night.

Xavier nodded. "Now I have you," he whispered into her ear. "My muse."

Alexa thought she might pass out.
Hello, Dream? This is Coming True. It's so nice to meet you.

Xavier began hiking up her short white skirt, his lips still against her ear. "Do you want to stay over here tonight?" he asked, his fingers as smooth as his voice.

Alexa tried as hard as she could not to hear Holly's

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voice singing
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
She knew, though, that this
was
her and Xavier's
voulez-vous
moment: the instant in which they decided just how serious they were going to get. Alexa felt the briefest flicker of hesitation; though she felt so close to Xavier, she
had
only met him yesterday. And hadn't she decided she was too mature for one-night flings when she'd rejected Sven in Eurotrash?

But this isn
'
t just a fling,
Alexa thought, wrapping her arms around Xavier. As if to confirm that thought, Xavier spoke into her ear once more and this time what he said made Alexa's heart swell with joy.

"Je t'aime."

Those were Xavier's words.

The world's most meaningful, wondrous, heart-pounding words -- in
any
language.

And though Xavier and Alexa had been speaking to each other in French all night, those words unleashed in Alexa such unblemished happiness that, when she spoke next, her tongue chose the language that, despite everything, came most naturally to her. She spoke English.

"Me, too," Alexa said, arching her back, her mouth seeking his. "I love you, Xavier."

And then they didn't need words anymore.

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chapter twelve

L'Amour

"I hate her," Holly muttered, dragging her duffel out of the guest room, her cheeks flushed with still-bubbling anger. "Track meet. If you can call him your boyfriend. Like I care. She's such a bitch."

Holly realized that in talking to herself, she probably sounded like a crazy old woman,
but
it didn't matter. Nobody was around to hear her anyway; seconds ago, Alexa (the bitch in question) had stormed out of the apartment for her date with Sketchmaster Xavier. Then, Holly, too furious to cry, had done some storming of her own, back to the guest room to retrieve her bag.

The fight with Alexa had left Holly a whopping fifteen minutes to get to Gare du Nord, and as she crossed the living room with her duffel bag in tow,

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she had no idea how she was going to do that. The Métro would probably take too long, but she didn't know
where
she could catch a cab; unlike in New York -- the only big city Holly was semi-familiar with you couldn't just hail a taxi anywhere in Paris. Annoyingly, there were specific stands that -- as Holly had discovered when she, Alexa, and the cousins had tried to get home from Eurotrash at three in the morning seemed to be located as far as possible from any human activity.

Holly stood at the front door of the apartment, feeling the symptoms of what had to be an oncoming anxiety attack, when she heard a key turn in the lock. She gasped once at the sound, and then again when she saw the person walking in.

"Pierre," Holly said.

'"Oily," Pierre said.

They looked at each other.

"Urn, I was just leaving," Holly mumbled, swiftly turning her gaze to the floor. "Like, for good." She pointed unnecessarily to the duffel in her hand, her face reddening. She felt the tension crackle between them a tension that was very different from the one she'd felt when fighting with Alexa.

"I can see that," Pierre said softly.

Holly bit her lip, studying her Adidas. Now was clearly the time for their good-bye, and Holly wondered

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how best to handle it. The face-off with Alexa had left Holly feeling edgy and reckless (as face-offs with Alexa often did), and for a second, she considered saying exactly what was on her mind:
Thanks for showing me Paris, Pierre. I'm sorry I was so weird last night. And, oh yeah, I think I might be in love with you, but I have a serious boyfriend back home whom I never told you about. Later!

Or not.

Opting instead for an abrupt "bye," and a quick wave, Holly tried to walk around Pierre to the door, but to her astonishment, he blocked her way.

'"Oily, I am afraid I cannot let you leave tonight," Pierre announced, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice had a teasing lilt to it, but when Holly lifted her head, she saw that his expression was hopeful. Suddenly, without understanding why, Holly felt a small
ping
of excitement in her chest, as if she somehow sensed that Pierre was about to change her destiny.

Which, of course, he was.

"Why not?" Holly demanded, trying to sound firm, even as she felt her duffel wobble in her hand. "I have to catch a train, Pierre."

"Because." Pierre shot an impish grin at Holly, reached into the pocket of the messenger bag slung across his chest, and, with a flourish, pulled out two

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blue tickets. "If you leave tonight you will lose your only chance to sit in the front row of the Opéra Gamier and see an incredible performance of
Roméo et Juliette.
It begins at eight, but I believe we will make it if we hurry."

Holly glanced from the tickets to Pierre's beaming face, not fully comprehending. "You mean, the play?" was all she could manage. The slight thrumming in her chest was progressing to actual thumping.

Pierre shook his head and glanced down at the tickets, as if to double-check.
"Non
-- the ballet," he replied. He looked back at Holly, a small crease of concern appearing in his smooth olive forehead. "You like ballet, yes?"

Surprisingly, Holly Jacobson
did
like ballet. She almost felt like it was her dirty little secret. Nobody at Oakridge High would ever look beyond Holly's hoodie-and-sneakers exterior and guess that she had a private passion for tights and toe shoes. But Holly's parents had shoved her into ballet lessons when she was six, and despite the pink girliness of it all, she'd loved ballet's rigors and challenges. Though she'd quit when she started running in junior high, Holly still fiercely believed that dance was as much a sport as track or soccer.

But, Holly realized as she nodded at Pierre,
her
interest in ballet was a hell of a lot less surprising

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than
his.
Back home, Holly didn't know a single boy who would willingly sit through a dance performance. Over winter break, she'd hesitantly broached to Tyler the possibility of taking the train into New York to see
The Nutcracker
at Lincoln Center, but she'd only gotten as far as
"The Nut
--" before Tyler cut her off with exaggerated gagging motions. Holly remembered something Alexa had said to her over lunch that day that European guys tended to have more interest in cultural stuff than their American counterparts but then Holly dismissed all thoughts of Alexa entirely.

Still, Holly couldn't resist asking Pierre if he went to the ballet often, and felt kind of relieved when he laughed and shook his head. "These are from my parents," he explained, giving the tickets a tap. "They are, how you say, members?
Oui.
Members of the Opéra Gamier. They go to a ballet or an opera almost every week. But tonight they have to attend an event for my father's work, so
voilà,
they gave me their tickets." Pierre paused and gave Holly a slow, knee-melting smile. "And, 'Oily, you were the first person that I thought of."

Okay. Holly's heart had now achieved full slamming-against-ribcage status. So maybe Raphi
had
known something about this -- known that Holly would in fact have a date. Tonight. At eight o'clock. Which, naturally, was when Holly's train was leaving. And she

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knew, from glancing at the schedule earlier, that it was the last train going to England that night.

"Pierre, I'm so sorry," Holly said, her throat constricting. "It does sound great, but I can't -- I really have to get " Suddenly, Holly paused, and saw her two options branching out before her, like in a "Choose Your Own Adventure" novel. One road led to Puma sweatpants and tight ponytails and the steel-gray sky above Wimbledon. The other led to Holly in her new green safari-print dress and a sumptuous opera house, with Pierre sitting next to her in a dark theater.

Hmm. A toughie.

Holly felt recklessness warming her blood again. The thing was, despite her earlier grumbling, Holly
did
care about what Alexa had said. And the memory of Alexa's derisiveness over Holly's lack of boy-experience, over the track meet -- fueled in Holly the desire to do something
different.
To swerve off her appointed path. Holly's roiling resentment toward her friend, combined with Pierre's delectable nearness and the invitation in his dreamy blue eyes, all came together in one powerful instant.

Holly Jacobson chose her own adventure. For tonight, she chose Paris.

Blushing, Holly smiled back at Pierre and gave him a small, barely perceptible nod.
This feels right,

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she realized. Why had she even hesitated? And, more important, why had it not occurred to her before that she could take a
morning
train to England? The track meet wasn't until ten tomorrow, and the ride from Paris took only about three hours. All Holly had to do was set her alarm for dawn and catch the earliest train possible out of Gare du Nord.

Meghan and Jess would understand.

"Ah,
" Pierre said, a huge grin spreading across his face. "You have changed your mind?"

"Well, first I have to change my
clothes,"
Holly replied, unable to suppress her own grin as she gestured down to her jeans and waffle shirt. Pierre himself looked very Euro-boy-cute in a tweed blazer with the collar turned up, worn over a plain white T-shirt, pencil-skinny black pants, and black loafers.

"You will thank me for this afterward, I promise," Pierre said. He came up very close to her and, as she had that day in the park, Holly got the stomach-swooping sense that Pierre might kiss her. But instead he spun her around and pointed her in the direction of the guestroom. "Go change quickly!" Pierre urged. "The show will not wait for us."

The show will not wait for us,
Holly thought as she hurried back into the guest room with her duffel. Breathless, she tore open her bag and pulled out the new dress and flat-heeled boots she'd been dying for

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a chance to wear. Shows did not wait and neither did life. And Tyler or no Tyler, track meet or no track meet, Holly Jacobson was sick of walking in on life midway through the opening dance. This time, she wanted to be there when the curtain came up.

"Bravo!" Holly heard herself calling, two glorious hours later, as the heavy velvet curtain came down on the ballet of
Roméo et Juliette.
She and Pierre, along with the rest of the audience, were on their feet, clapping wildly for the dancers, who'd just taken their final bow. Holly had never said the word
bravo
before in her life, but then again, she'd never seen a performance like this one -- all lavish costumes, jaw-dropping dancing, heavenly music, and of course, tragically star-crossed lovers. Holly had realized that anybody who thought ballet was boring had clearly never sat in the front row; many times, she'd felt like the dancers were flying right out
at
her. It had been -- just as Pierre had promised back in the apartment incredible.

"So, I was right, yes?" Pierre asked. He and Holly strolled into the marble-and-gilt lobby of the Opéra Gamier amid a swarm of dressed-to-the-nines Parisians some women in silken gowns and garlands of pearls, some men in crisp black tuxedos all clucking over the ballet. "This was worth missing your train