We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (36 page)

“Stop.” Breathing had become difficult. A wheeze rattled in my chest whenever I stopped laughing long enough to take a breath.

He set me down gently. “You sound like a pensioner with a chest cold.”

I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic to him, but the French students swarmed him, slapping him on the back. Who knew a Brit jitterbug dancing like a fool would be the thing to mend the centuries old rift between the two countries?

Rather than fight for his attention, I slipped away to the little refreshment table in the corner. Rows of small glasses of red wine and sparkling water lined the surface. No red solo cups or cans of cheap beer here.

Maggie stood in the corner near the table, arguing loudly in French with a cute guy. I admired how well she’d picked up the language.

He gestured wildly with his hands. Fire burned in his eyes and manly sexual energy rolled off him like waves on hot sand in the desert. Not super tall, he made up for it with his handsome face and full lips. With his dark hair and dark eyes, he definitely seemed like Maggie’s type.

I was curious over his evident passion. I grabbed two extra glasses of wine and walked over to them with my peace offering.

“Oh, good! I need a drink.” Maggie took both glasses from me, but didn’t offer either to her new friend. Or enemy. It wasn’t clear where he stood at the moment.

With his eyes, he shot imaginary arrows at the extra glass of wine in her hand, mumbling in French about rude Americans.

“Did you want a glass of wine?” she asked him in English.

He scowled at her, but took the glass. After swallowing most of it in one long sip, he noticed me. “
Merci
.”

“
De nada
.” I covered my mouth. “That was Spanish.
De rien.
”

“
Pas de problème
.” He finished his wine.

Feeling very much a stupid American, I changed the subject. “What were you two arguing about?”

“Cheese.” Maggie briefly focused on the ceiling.

“Cheese?” My voice rose two octaves. “But you were shouting and arguing.”

She finished rolling her eyes. “Over
le
fromage
, yes.”

Staring at both of them like I was watching the French Open, I waited for further explanation. Cheese itself wasn’t enough for what could have been mistaken for a passionate lover’s quarrel.

“She thinks those little squares wrapped in plastic you eat qualify as cheese.”

“They do. The word cheese is in the name. American Cheese. You can’t call something cheese if it isn’t cheese.” She gulped her wine in exasperation.

He glowered at her. It was all sorts of sexy. “You can if you are American.”

“How do you even know about cheese slices? Have you been to the States?” I attempted to diffuse the tension.

“No. I have seen this
cheese
on your television shows.” He sneered.

I didn’t need to ask what he thought of those shows because his frown was the very caricature of disgust.

“Oh, stop it. You told me you loved
Family Ties
not more than twenty minutes ago.” Maggie huffed, and this time her eyes made a complete circle when she rolled them.

“Fine. Some of the shows are not terrible.” His “terrible” sounded more like “tear-e-blah.” The emphasis clearly on the blah.

Christopher joined our little circle, draping his arm over my shoulders. “What are we discussing?”

“Terrible American cheese and television shows.”

He lifted his hands and took a couple of steps away from the group.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Anywhere but this conversation.” He spun around in a circle, seeking a reasonable escape. “Oh, look, it’s a . . .” His unfinished sentence hung in the air as he raced to the opposite side of the room. He literally ran away.

Maggie whispered something in French to Le Fromage, and he stopped frowning. When not making faces like someone nearby him farted, he was handsome. Surprisingly good looking, especially when he smiled.

He politely asked if we’d like more wine before leaving to refill our glasses.

“He’s rather passionate,” I whispered to Magpie.

“He’s insane.”

“Is he this passionate about subjects not involving dairy products?”

“I don’t know. We met tonight. He’s here with a friend.”

Le Fromage returned with three glasses of wine. A short guy with a very long nose followed along behind him. What he lacked in overall height, he made up for in impressive nose cartilage.

“This is my friend, Oscar.” He pronounced it less like Oscar the Grouch and more like NASCAR with an “O.”

Uh oh. This was the friend. My focus flicked to Maggie. A set-up brewed and I needed an escape plan.

“
Bon soir
.” I managed to not butcher the words.

A stream of French flew out of Oscar’s mouth like a flock of pigeons flapping around my head. I had no idea what he said. His thick accent thwarted any attempt on my part to decipher his words. I nodded, hesitantly, hoping I wasn’t agreeing to anything nefarious or sexual.

Seeing my blank expression, Maggie translated, “He said your dancing was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before in person or in the cinema. I mean, movies.”

I smiled. “
Merci.
” I had no idea if he paid me a compliment or insulted me. After the cheese conversation, insult seemed more likely.

“I am sorry for your friend’s rudeness for not introducing us.” Le Fromage extended his hand. “I am Julien Armand.”

Maggie’s eyes bugged out. “You didn’t really give me a chance. You went from bashing my country’s food to insulting our culture.” This time she spoke in English.

Oscar looked on in confusion. His English was probably as good as my French.

Julien huffed and swore a string of expletives in his native tongue. I caught a few of the more colorful expressions. I couldn’t conjugate in subjunctive tense to save my life, but the swear words were seared on my brain.

Oscar handed me another glass of wine. I held my existing glass up to show him but he gestured for me to drink mine first, and quickly. While our mutual friends continued to argue about
fromage
and hamburgers, Oscar and I silently drank red wine.

Without preamble, their arguing turned into kissing. The passion Julien had for defending the sanctity of dairy products paled next to his zest for kissing my best friend.

“
Zut alors!
” Oscar gulped down his wine.

I thought only Pepe Le Pew said those expressions. Oscar stared and bounced on his toes, not unlike the little cartoon skunk.

Zut alors indeed
!

Avoiding the PDA in front of me, I scanned the room, telling myself I wasn’t searching for Christopher.

Very few men in attendance at this little fête stood anywhere near as tall or as blond as my new friend. He shouldn’t have been difficult to spot.

Unless he’d gone. Maybe he thought I’d left. I wished I had. Instead, I found myself stuck in a corner with Oscar, Julien the Grouch, a flustered Maggie, and my wine.

“Scanning the room for suitors?” A warm breath hit the back of my neck along with the crisp British accent.

“No, as a matter of fact I was searching for you.” I spun to face him. The wine heated my cheeks. Or perhaps it was his close proximity.

His laughter rumbled in his chest, rich and throaty. “If only I believed you.”

“Dance with me.”

“To this?” He jerked his head toward the dance floor.

Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made for Walking” played on the speakers.

“Sure.” I pulled him by his shirt cuff to the floor. I knew all the words and sang them loudly while I danced a weird shimmy-twist.

He pretended to be shocked, but his smile lit up his entire face as he laughed at me.

Finally, my charms wore him down and he joined my dancing. Jerking his fists over his head, he stomped around in a circle.

The uptight, proper British private school educated boy disappeared as he let himself be ridiculous. I suspected this was a very rare moment for Kit Liddell, not a baron by birth order.

We giggled ourselves silly, attempting to outdo each other with archaic dance movements. I held my nose and pretended to sink to the floor. He followed with an impressive Charleston. When he lifted me over his shoulder for a spin, tears ran down my face.

“I can’t breathe!” I slapped at his back. “Put me down.”

Instead, he carried me off the floor and set me on my feet by a chair in the corner.

“Where did you learn to dance?” I rubbed the back of my hand across my damp brow, hoping he didn’t notice.

Along his hairline, sweat darkened his hair. He pushed it back and ran his fingers through it a couple of times to get it to stay in place. “My grandmother loves to dance. She taught me so she’d have someone to dance with.”

“Not your grandfather?” I sat and patted the empty chair next to me.

Slouching down on the chair, sadness passed behind his eyes. “No. Not for a very long time. He died when my father was a young man. I never met him.”

“I’m sorry.”

He acknowledged my apology with a small nod of his head. “No need for you to be sorry.” I swore I even saw his upper lip stiffen. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

“My father is in sales. My mother is a school nurse.”

“Very respectable.”

“Very middle class you mean.”

“We can’t control who our parents are.” He sounded resigned.

“No, but we can create our own lives, follow our dreams.”

“That’s very American of you. Pluckish optimism.” His tone didn’t infer his words as a compliment.

“We’re in Paris. The city of light. The city of love. Even you can’t be immune to its charms.”

“The English have a love-hate relationship with the French. It’s in our blood.”

“Is it really hate?”

“More like envy.”

“For the food?”

“No, the passion.” He threaded his fingers through his hair, leaving it more tousled.

“Maybe you should take a French woman as a lover.”

He choked on nothing. “That’s not the kind of passion I meant.”

“Oh.” I blushed.

“Everything in my life is planned out for me. Even more so for my brother, who will inherit the estate and title. Months like these are small holidays from reality and responsibility.”

“Kind of like your very own Rumspringa?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“The Amish? Like the movie
Witness
?”

“With Harrison Ford?”

“Aha, you have seen some American movies.” I bumped his shoulder. “Yes, the one and the same. The Amish have this thing where at a certain age, teenagers are allowed to leave their society and explore the modern world.”

“Oh, like our gap year.”

“Yes. What did you do on your gap year?”

“Nothing. My father thought it would be a waste of time. I went straight to uni.” He drummed his fingers on his knees and stared at the floor.

I couldn’t help but think of how young and resigned he seemed.

No grand adventures loomed on the horizon for him.

“Whatever Will Be, Will Be” ~ Doris Day

I REACHED INTO
my bag and touched a thin paper cylinder. With the tips of my fingers, I traced its familiar shape and texture.