The Art of French Kissing (25 page)

Jeannie pursed her lips. “You are making a
huge
mistake,” she said. “One of these days, you’re going to have to learn that adulthood is about not always getting what you want, you know.” Then, as if my decision not to give Brett another chance was a personal affront to her, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.

Chapter Twenty-One

P
oppy had booked me on the 7:20 a.m. to LaGuardia, and thanks to traffic, it was nearly noon when I arrived at the Katie Jones studio for the 2 p.m. taping. By the time I was seated, my nerves were fully on edge, but I couldn’t explain why. It unsettled me to think of seeing Guillaume again. I’d been trying hard to put what had happened behind me, but he was, of course, at the center of it all.

I felt conspicuously alone as I waited for the show to begin.

“You all by yourself?” asked the overweight man to my right, who was so large that he was sitting in both his seat and half of mine, wedging me against my left armrest. Thankfully, I was on an aisle, so at least I wasn’t squashed against a person on the other side, too.

I forced a smile. “Yes.”

“A pretty girl like you?” he asked, the words pouring out in a syrupy drawl. Beside him, his wife giggled and looked at me. “You don’t got no friends?”

I gritted my teeth. “They’re just not sitting with me,” I said.

The man snickered and said something to his wife. I rolled my eyes. It seemed the whole world was in cahoots with Jeannie to remind me of the error of my lonely ways.

The show began at two, and I settled in to watch as Katie Jones opened with a monologue that the Texan next to me found so funny, he shook the whole row of seats with his chortles every few seconds. I was relieved when the jokes were over.

The second half of the show opened with an interview with movie star Cole Brannon, who was starring in the most anticipated release of the summer. When Katie finished talking to the tall, handsome actor, she turned to the camera.

“Hang on, because after the break, we have France’s craziest export, Guillaume Riche, who will be playing his Top Ten hit ‘City of Light,’ ” she said, reaching one hand up to smooth her perfect brunette bob. “And maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll tell us what it’s like to water-ski down the Seine River in SpongeBob SquarePants boxers and a top hat!”

The crowd laughed, and the house lights went up as the show went to commercial break. I scanned the room for Poppy, but couldn’t find her. On the darkened stage, a crew hurried to set up a drum kit, mics, and amps that would be used for Guillaume’s performance in a moment. I caught sight of Jean-Marc, Guillaume’s drummer, and my heart leapt into my throat. I missed those guys more than I had realized.

After the break, the spotlight shone back on Katie Jones. She grinned into the camera and said dramatically, “Ladies and gentlemen, Guillaume Riche!”

My heart began to thud wildly the moment the stage lights flashed on, revealing Guillaume standing there. He looked even more handsome than I’d ever seen him. He was wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves ripped just above the biceps to show off his impressive arms, and his tight jeans clung perfectly to the sculptured curves of his legs. His hair was professionally tousled into little wayward spikes; he looked like he had just gotten out of bed looking clean-shaven and perfect. The guitar he was currently strumming was the final touch; it was emblazoned with the French flag, and his Jodi Head strap read
RICHE
down the front in bold, Swarovski-crystal letters.

As the crowd went wild with screams and whistles, I smiled. Guillaume Riche had crossed the pond for his first American appearance as a ready-made superstar. The crowds loved him. In fact, there was a girl in front of me who was screaming so loudly that I was fairly sure she was about to hyperventilate. Although I was no longer working with KMG, I felt a little swell of pride for the small role I’d played in his career. This felt better than all the boy bands I’d ever helped unleash on the world.

The band started playing, and when Guillaume started in on the first verse of “City of Light,” I was stunned to hear a chorus of voices throughout the auditorium join in. Guillaume looked surprised, too, but he grinned broadly and turned the enthusiasm up a notch. Around me, scores of girls were still on their feet, singing in unison with Guillaume. It was an incredible thing to see. In that moment, I missed working with Poppy so much it hurt; I missed KMG; I missed the buzz and excitement of working on a project that was bound for such success. I even missed Guillaume.

“City of Light” ended with a standing ovation from the crowd, and then Katie Jones joined Guillaume at the mic and promised the audience they’d be back after the commercial to talk to Guillaume about his breakout success and his penchant for getting into crazy situations.

After the brief break, the house lights faded again, and the spotlights swung toward Katie’s interview area, where Guillaume was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, holding a coffee mug, and looking very French. I felt another pang that I tried to dismiss.

The crowd went wild again while Guillaume laughed and waved with his free hand. Finally, the screams quieted.

“That’s quite a reaction you’re getting,” Katie said with her signature slow, toothy grin.

Guillaume smiled back. “I’m a lucky, lucky man,” he said. A few girls in the audience screamed, and Guillaume obliged them with another wave.

“Some would say it’s talent and not luck,” Katie said. She glanced at her notecards. “Okay, so it looks like your album is really doing great in the United States, right?”

“Yes. It’s such a thrill,” Guillaume said. I smiled. They sounded like words right out of Poppy’s mouth—and I suspected they were. “I’m really grateful that everyone is listening to my music. I’ve always wanted to be a big hit with the American girls.”

The crowd erupted in still more screams, and Guillaume blew a few kisses. “I love American girls, Katie,” he said over the din. “Too bad you’re married.”

Katie smiled again and shook her head. “So I have to ask you,” she said. “What’s with all these crazy stunts? You were arrested for skiing on the river in Paris last week? And you’ve gotten locked in the Eiffel Tower? Is that right?”

Guillaume glanced offstage, where I suspected Poppy was standing, shooting him death looks. “Well, Katie, the Eiffel Tower thing was a mistake,” he said. I breathed a sigh of relief. Good; he was sticking to the story. “It was all a misunderstanding. But yes, I admit that the waterskiing thing was a little crazy.”

The audience laughed and Guillaume made an embarrassed face. “I guess I just felt like having a ski, you know?” he said, widening his eyes into that same puppy-dog look of innocence he had tried with me. The audience seemed to eat it right up.

They talked for a moment more about the next single on the album, the inspiration for his songs, and his plans for a US tour in the fall. Then Katie peered down at her notes.

“So, Guillaume, I’ve been told that you have some sort of public apology to make tonight?” she asked.

My heart skipped a beat and I sat up a little straighter in my chair (which was hard to do with the Texan sharing my seating space).

“Yes, Katie,” Guillaume said, pulling a slightly sheepish face that I suspected he had practiced in the mirror to achieve maximum cuteness. It worked. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a fuckup.”

The audience laughed, and Katie reminded Guillaume that he couldn’t talk like that on American TV. “I guess that’ll be bleeped out,” Katie said with a smile, glancing at the camera.

“Sorry, sorry,” Guillaume said, not looking sorry at all. “Anyhow. The thing is, I had this great publicist, Emma, for a month.”

My jaw dropped and time seemed to slow down around me.

“She was the only one who seemed to be able to get me out of scrapes without getting too mad at me,” Guillaume continued. I could barely hear him over the rushing sound in my ears. I knew that my face had turned beet red, although of course no one in the audience knew that I was the person he was talking about. Guillaume went on: “Somehow, she always made it so I came out looking good.”

“Okay, she sounds perfect,” Katie said. “I need a publicist like that.” The audience laughed lightly, and she added, “So, what’s the problem?”

Guillaume cast his eyes down. “Well, the thing is, she liked this reporter named Gabriel, and I
knew
she did,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I muttered to myself, prompting a strange look from my Texan seatmate. I barely noticed. My face felt hot, and my palms were suddenly sweaty. Had Guillaume really just announced to
the entire country
that I had an inappropriate crush on a journalist? And this was supposed to make me feel
better
? I wanted to shrink into my seat and disappear.

“Oh, really?” Katie prompted, leaning forward with some interest.

“Yes,” Guillaume said, the sheepish expression across his face.

“Please stop talking,” I muttered under my breath. “Please stop talking.” But Guillaume apparently wasn’t listening to me. The only one who seemed to respond to my words was the Texan, who finally scooted an inch or two away from me and gave me a look as if he was afraid I was insane.

Onstage, Guillaume continued, undeterred by the
please shut up
mental messages I was furiously sending him. “See the thing is, I’ve been basically trying to screw with Gabe for the last thirty years,” he said.

Wait. What? Thirty years? What was he talking about?

“I’m a bit of a jerk,” Guillaume continued. “But the thing is, this time, it actually mattered. It wasn’t just harmless. I actually effed things up with Emma and Gabe.”

“Why is it you’ve been trying to screw things up with this Gabe for the last thirty years?” Katie prompted.
Good question, Katie,
I thought.

Guillaume shrugged, a mischievous expression playing across his perfect features. “Ah, it’s silly really,” he said. “It’s our stupid brotherly rivalry.”

I gasped. “Huh?” I said aloud. I couldn’t understand what Guillaume was talking about.

“See, he’s my half brother,” Guillaume continued onstage.

“What?”
I breathed.

Beside me, the Texan was staring at me with alarm. “You crazy or something, lady?” he asked. He scooted even closer to his wife. I barely noticed.

“But he grew up in the United States with his mom,” Guillaume continued. “He’s a year and a half older than me. So when he’d come spend summers with our dad and me, all the girls went for him since he was bigger, stronger—and half American. Even all those summers he spent teaching me to speak better English, I was still just the boring French kid next door.”

Guillaume paused and grinned. “It’s why I had to join a band,” he quipped. “It’s the only way I was ever going to get laid with Gabe around every summer.”

The audience laughed at his joke, but all I could do was stare, my jaw hanging open. “They’re
brothers
?” I whispered to myself. How could it be? How had Gabe never mentioned any of this to me? But it certainly explained a lot—like how Gabe knew so much about Guillaume’s background, how he always seemed to know what Guillaume was doing, and how he was the only one who seemed to effortlessly see through my lies about Guillaume’s odd behavior.

I thought about it for a moment. Although I never would have put two and two together, it made so much sense. They
did
look alike. But while Guillaume wore his dark hair spiky and sexy, Gabe wore his combed and professional. Guillaume’s green eyes were framed by thick, dark eyelashes, Gabe’s were hidden behind his omnipresent wire-rimmed glasses, but they were more similar than I’d ever realized. Where Guillaume flaunted his body in curve-hugging rock-star wear, Gabe tended to be more professional and reserved, but I suspected that their builds were more similar under those clothes than I had considered. Even their accents when speaking English were identical, although Guillaume’s was thicker. Obviously, this could be explained by the fact that they shared a father and that much of Guillaume’s English had come from Gabe’s tutelage.

Katie was talking as I tuned back in, still riveted by the revelation. “So,” she was saying, “I hear from producers that this brother of yours is actually here backstage right now. Can we bring him out?”

I could feel my eyes widen as Gabe, looking even more handsome than I remembered, came striding reluctantly out from stage left, looking embarrassed. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that actually showed off contours of his arms and chest I’d never noticed before under his stiff, button-down shirts. He had never looked better to me.

A producer guided him to the chair beside Guillaume’s and quickly clipped a little microphone on his collar before scurrying away.

“Hi, big brother,” Guillaume said. Gabe just glared at him. “Gabe, I’m so sorry. I really am.”

I held my breath as the cameras zoomed in on Gabe’s face. Overhead on the monitors, I could see his jaw set. His eyes darted nervously around. I knew he didn’t like being the center of attention, and he was obviously uncomfortable on the stage.

“It’s fine,” Gabe muttered.

“No, Gabe, it’s not,” Guillaume said. The cameras zoomed in on his face, and he looked genuinely upset, although I wouldn’t have put it past him to have practiced his remorseful face in the mirror for hours before his TV appearance. “Emma’s a great girl. And I screwed it up for you, before you even had a chance to make a move on her.”

“Yeah, thanks for telling the world that I didn’t make a move,” Gabe said, rolling his eyes.

The audience laughed a bit, and Gabe’s face reddened. I felt terrible for him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was largely my fault.

Guillaume grinned devilishly. “Speaking of that, Gabe, you have to learn to stop being so shy and actually ask out the women you like.”

The studio audience laughed again, and Gabe blushed as deeply as I suspected I was currently doing myself. I felt suddenly short of breath.

Gabe grimaced. “You’re not helping your case here, Guillaume.” He looked down at his lap, a grimace playing across his features.

Guillaume shrugged. “Look, I just wanted to apologize to you. You won’t take my calls, so this was my last resort. Listen, no matter how it looked, nothing happened between me and Emma. She was actually in my room talking about
you
when I leaned over and kissed her. It was my fault, not hers.”