French kiss (25 page)

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That morning, she'd meant to ask him about the opening, but there'd been no time. Xavier had woken her with a kiss on her bare shoulder, whispering that he had to run, but that she should let herself out of the studio, since the door was self-locking. After a lingering kiss on the lips and a request that she call him later, Xavier handed her the sketch and was gone. Stretching across the sofa with a contented sigh, the silk throw draped over her body, Alexa decided that instead of bothering Xavier (who must have been super-stressed) with a phone call, she'd simply show up to the party on her own, looking her most devastating. And surprise him.

Much
sexier.

"A gallery opening, huh?"' Holly asked, glancing down at Alexa. "As in, people standing around in a white room drinking wine and analyzing, like, sculptures of someone's feet?" Holly couldn't think of anything more pretentious or irritating. "Can I come?" she asked in the next breath, startling both herself and Alexa.

But Holly knew just why she had posed the question. She was desperate for a distraction --
any
distraction -- from the gigantic, hovering, elephant-in-the-room problem of Wimbledon. She wanted to cast everything off, to pretend track and Coach Graham and her parents didn't exist. And having an event to

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attend in Paris that night -- even if it was a snobby gallery opening would allow Holly to do just that -- keep stalling, keep pretending.

Holly Jacobson, welcome to the happy Land of Denial!

Lying flat on her back, Alexa studied Holly's anxious face, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Naturally, Alexa had been envisioning sauntering into the gallery alone, people murmuring appreciatively as Xavier rushed over to sweep her into a kiss. But maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a friend by her side as a fallback in case Xavier was busy mingling. Yes, the event was open to the public -- and she
was,
after all, Xavier Pascal's muse -- but Alexa still hadn't been officially invited. It was one thing to arrive unannounced at a house party in Oakridge, as Alexa had done on a dare from Portia sophomore year (she'd gotten drunk off bad keg beer and wound up making out with a hot senior in the upstairs bathroom). It was something else entirely to crash a grown-up Parisian bash where there might be tons of celebrities.

She just hoped Holly wouldn't do something to embarrass her.

"Well, if you don't
need
to run back to England ..." Alexa began with a shrug -- her passive-aggressive way of saying yes. "But," she added, raising a warning eyebrow at Holly, "I'll probably be with Xavier and

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his crew most of the night, so you might need to fend for yourself."

Holly felt her hackles go up at Alexa's condescending tone -- until she saw the humor in her friend's words. Knowing Alexa, she probably had this elaborate fantasy of being the star of the show -- people murmuring appreciatively as she sauntered past, Xavier rushing over to kiss her, cameras going off in her wake ... Holly bit back her smile.

If she was a citizen of Denial Land, then Alexa was the freaking prime minister.

Alexa spent the afternoon napping, while Holly went out for a defiantly big lunch comprised mostly of pastries, so both girls were feeling a little mellower when they arrived at the Galérie Paradis that evening.

Once the bouncer confirmed that they were not, in fact, paparazzi, he let them inside the packed, dimly lit gallery -- which was not at all the stark, snobby scene Holly had been picturing. The floor was painted to look like a cloud-filled sky, the walls were exposed brick, and light-filled paper lanterns swayed from the beams in the ceiling. What sounded like the French equivalent of The Shins blasted from the speakers, and hipsters congregated in groups, sipping flame-colored martinis. Holly decided that if it weren't for the paintings displayed on the walls, the gathering

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would feel like a party at some cool college-age person's apartment.

But instead of getting intimidated by the trendy crowd, Holly felt surprisingly at ease in her new black cami with a burgundy sash, black cardigan, reliable denim mini, and crushed velvet flats. Maybe it was just that she'd been so turned off by coming here, but was pleasantly surprised at how chill the vibe was. Holly was certain that Alexa, for her part, would be totally in her artsy element -- only, when she glanced at her friend, Holly saw that her glossy lips were white with fear.

Why am I so nervous?
Alexa was asking herself at that very moment. Her palms were clammy and her stomach hurt both rare conditions for her.

Yes, Alexa knew she looked hot in her new high-necked, backless paisley halter dress cinched at the waist with a thick, burnished-orange belt -- toeless apricot pumps, and big amber hoops. Her hair was swept back in a loose chignon and held off her face with a wide paisley headband. The effect, Alexa felt, was very Twiggy. Then, glancing around, she caught sight of a super-skinny Asian girl with bleached-blonde hair who was wearing nothing but an oversized, raggedy brown sweater and moon boots. Alexa sighed; it was impossible to stay a step ahead of cutting-edge

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Parisian fashion. But as long as Xavier appreciated her outfit, that was all that mattered. And speaking of which, where
was
he?

Holly, of course, wasn't looking for Xavier at all, which was probably why she spotted him immediately. He was standing on the opposite end of the gallery, surrounded by a tight circle of admirers -- among them a girl with a scarlet-red bob who wore a short white dress that looked as if it had been slashed to bits and a skinny guy with chunky glasses and a chipped front tooth. Xavier was talking animatedly to someone else, someone Holly couldn't make out, and gesturing with one hand while the other held a martini and a cigarette. Holly had to grudgingly concede that the artist looked really, really good in a black button-down shirt tucked into black trousers, a red silk tie, and his paint-stained, scuffed-up boots.

Still on her giving-Xavier-a-second-chance kick, Holly elbowed Alexa and whispered, "He's over there." If anything, Holly thought, that would at least put an end to Alexa's fidgeting -- she'd been giving herself whiplash every two seconds, clearly dying to find her loverboy.

Alexa's heart leaped as she followed Holly's gaze, and there, at long last, was the object of her affection. He was talking with a few of his friends that Alexa

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recognized from last night. But the friends -- along with Holly, Ms. Moon Boots over there, and everyone else in the gallery went blurry, and all Alexa saw was Xavier. His artfully messy auburn hair, his smoky-gray eyes, the mouth she had kissed so many times ... Alexa felt a small explosion of joy and pride in her belly; this yummy guy was the reason all these people were here tonight. And he was all
hers.

"Xavier!" she cried, waving to him across the gallery. He didn't seem to hear over the loud music and the din, so, without even a backward glance at Holly, Alexa began making her way toward him, her feet barely touching the cloudy floor.

Holly watched Alexa float off and rolled her eyes.
Fend for yourself
was right; she should have known that Alexa would ditch her the minute she spied Xavier. Toying with her chunky silver ring, Holly hovered alone in the middle of the chain-smoking, French-chattering mob, her stomach sinking lower by the second. Holly
sucked
at fending for herself, period, and the fact that she didn't speak the language or know a soul -- didn't make matters any easier. Despite her lingering unsettled feelings toward Pierre, Holly desperately wished that he or Raphi had been able to come along. But both St. Laurent siblings were tied up elsewhere for the night.

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A waiter carrying a tray of the dark red martinis walked by and Holly -- just to have something to do with her hands grabbed a drink. But when she took a sip, the tangy-sour taste -- pomegranates, she guessed -- made her grimace.
Ugh.
Holly was wondering if she could discreetly find a place in which to pour out the icky concoction when, suddenly, her ears pricked up at the most beautiful sound she'd heard all evening: someone speaking English.

Holly spun around to find the source of this heavenly sound, and saw two young women positioned in front of one of the brightly colored paintings on the brick wall. "I don't know," one of them, who had straight brown hair and dainty tortoise-shell glasses, said to the other, who had curly red hair and wore slouchy rhinestone-studded boots over pencil-thin jeans. "It's not what I expected."

For the first time since entering the gallery, Holly took a good look at the artwork on the walls
Xavier's
artwork, she reminded herself. All the paintings, she quickly noticed, were of the same, astonishingly beautiful girl, a girl with long, flowing black hair and big dark eyes. In some paintings, the girl's face was bisected into green rectangles, and in others, into purple squares.
And Alexa says he's a genius?
Holly thought dubiously, raising her eyebrows at the purple painting nearest

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her. She didn't remotely see the appeal, but then again, she wasn't remotely an art expert.

"It's juvenile," the redhead pronounced, scribbling something on her notepad. "Simplistic."

"And the geometric shapes are
so
last season," the tortoise-shell girl added with a sigh.

As the two women turned around to face Holly, she saw that they each wore a laminated badge pinned to their respective blouses. Both badges bore the women's names and the words the new york times.
They're art critics,
Holly realized as she watched the women saunter over to the next painting, still scribbling on their pads.
They're reviewing Xavier's show!

And, from what Holly could tell, the review would be far from glowing.

Eager to tell Alexa what she'd overheard, Holly glanced across the gallery. She saw Alexa approach Xavier and his entourage, wearing an expression that was very bright and eager -- and very not Alexa. Immediately, Holly felt a distinct tug in her gut that told her, unquestionably, that she should join her friend. Holly knew Alexa would vastly prefer
not
to have her there, but she couldn't shake off her nagging intuition. To steel herself, she took another sip of her drink -- which made her grimace again -- and began elbowing her way through the gallery.

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Meanwhile, Alexa, her pulse tapping, was almost at Xavier's side, and when she spoke his name for the third time, he finally glanced her way. For an instant, he looked startled; his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Then his face brightened and he held one arm out toward her in a "come-join-me" motion.

"Alexa!" he said warmly. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

Alexa bit her Bourjois-glossed bottom lip, wondering why Xavier wasn't swooning over her surprise appearance. Her first impulse was to fly over and wrap him in a hug -- God, she wanted to feel his body against hers again -- but Xavier made no move to come forward and kiss
her,
so Alexa hung back, standing between Etienne and Ms. Scarlet.

"I -- I read about it in
Pariscope"
Alexa explained, flashing Xavier a sparkly smile.

The girl standing right next to Xavier, who had short dark hair and big dark eyes and whom Alexa didn't recognize from the night before -- made a sound that was somewhere between a titter and a snort.
"Pariscope?
You're kidding, right?" she asked, and her voice reminded Alexa of ice cubes clinking in a glass -- light and melodic, but cold enough to sting.

Instantly, Alexa felt her cheeks color.
Um, dork much?
It wasn't at
all
like her to be so unsubtle. Not

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allowing herself to get too flustered, Alexa coolly met the gaze of the snarky girl, who was sizing her up at the same time.

It was one of those classic pretty-girl showdowns --
Which one of us is cuter? --
that Alexa usually won without breaking a sweat. But now there was no denying that her competitor was absolutely breathtaking. She must have been about nineteen or twenty; tall and slender, she was also far curvier than Alexa would ever be. She had luminous alabaster skin that didn't need a lick of makeup, enormous, onyx-colored eyes, and shimmering black hair that was cropped short and worn slicked back, almost like a boy's. But there was nothing boyish about her tight black bustier, low-slung camouflage Capris, and four-inch metallic silver sandals. A silky, silver scarf knotted at her throat, a tiny diamond stud in her nose, and an antique-looking diamond ring on one finger were her only accessories. She was so French it made Alexa's teeth hurt. Suddenly Alexa felt very pastel-y, very blonde, and very -- God, no
boring
in her paisley dress.

Clearly aware of her victory, Mademoiselle Va-Va-Voom glanced away, shrugging one shoulder, and Alexa crossed her arms over her chest, pissed. Who
was
this girl to dangle Alexandria St. Laurent over the pit of insecurity?