French kiss (16 page)

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Alexa guessed was his cell phone number. Alexa reflected that there couldn't be a more tantalizing boy's name than Xavier; though it was pronounced "zahv-YAY"-- with a Z- having the secret A in there made it all the, well, sexier.

When Xavier was finished writing, he gave the pen back to Alexa with a teasing grin. Then, ever so slowly, he slid his hands down from Alexa's waist and into the back pockets of her jeans, a move that made Alexa's whole body tingle. "I'm very glad you took my picture today," Xavier told her softly in French. Then, at long last, he slanted his mouth down over hers in a hot, ravenous kiss.

Alexa closed her eyes, wonderfully dizzy, as their tongues met. It was funny that she'd had her first kiss in Paris at seven; now it seemed she was
truly
being kissed for the first time, as if none of her other experiences with boys -- not even Diego -- counted. Alexa clung tighter to Xavier, relishing the feel of his lean, ropy body against hers.

And his lips -- as she'd predicted the first time she'd seen him -- tasted of Gauloises and cheap beer.

Later, when Alexa floated into the apartment -- her lips swollen and her legs shaky -- she was surprised, and disappointed, not to find Holly there; Alexa had

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been dying to dish about Xavier with her friend.
She's probably still out with Pierre,
Alexa thought, mildly miffed.

But really, too delirious to care.

She was heading down the hall toward the guest room, thinking about the fact that she'd never wash her hand again, when she bumped into Raphaëlle, who'd just emerged from the bathroom. Raphi was wearing plastic hoop earrings, a flowy yellow blouse over low-rise dark pink bell-bottoms, and flat, strappy silver Grecian sandals. Naturally, since it was Raphi, the insane outfit looked smashing.

"Alexa, you scared me!" Raphi gasped in English, shaking out her thick black curls. "But hey, you look great in my top," she added, giving an approving nod toward Alexa's ensemble.

"Thanks," Alexa mumbled, glancing down at herself. She'd forgotten she'd even borrowed the sweater. And now that it smelled like Xavier, she didn't ever want to return it.

"I thought you'd be with Pierre and Holly," Raphi added, studying Alexa curiously.

"I don't know
where
they are," Alexa replied, with a note of bitterness. She still felt wobbly, so she leaned against the wall for support.

"Ooh, they're alone?" Raphi giggled, her dark eyes

158

dancing.
"Mais c'est
cool! I think my brother has a crush,'" she added, echoing Alexa's sentiment from that morning.

Typically, Alexa would have been all over Holly -and-Pierre gossip, but now she had other things on her mind.

"
I
have a crush," she whispered, grinning. "On Xavier Pascal."

Raphi snorted, rolling her eyes. "Join the club. You and every other girl in France. Ever since
Le Figaro
did that piece on him last month, when he exhibited at the Centre Pompidou, everyone's been
drooling --"

"So he
is
famous?" Alexa interrupted. Even though people on the street and in the café had stared at Xavier today, she still hadn't fully believed his celeb status.

Raphaëlle squinted at Alexa, clearly confused. "Of course. Didn't you say -- how else do you know him, then?"

"I spent the day with him," Alexa burst out, her cheeks coloring as she flashed the back of her hand to Raphi. "And he gave me his number." She giggled in a very un-Alexa-ish manner.

Raphi's mouth dropped open. "Alexandria St. Laurent, are you lying to me?" She grabbed Alexa's

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hand and studied it, her almond-shaped eyes widening in shock. "You're --
dating
Xavier Pascal?"

"I guess," Alexa laughed, realizing that her timeout from boys had fallen by the wayside. It seemed she'd actually met the one guy she
couldn't
turn down.

Minutes later, Alexa had described the whole magical encounter, and she and her cousin were curled up in Raphaëlle's bedroom like a couple of teeny-boppers, going through Raphi's stack of magazines and squealing over each new discovery of Xavier. Raphi showed Alexa the article in
Le Figaro
that came complete with a spread of Xavier's paintings abstract geometric shapes -- and a blown-up photo of Xavier himself, in all his smoldering glory.

"I can't believe it's really him," Alexa sighed, falling back on Raphi's bed and clutching the magazine to her chest.

"And look at this," Raphi said, flopping down beside Alexa with a copy of the latest
Pariscope,
which listed all the city's film, music, and arts events for the coming week. She tapped a page on the arts section. "He's having a big fancy gallery opening on the place des Vosges this Friday."

Alexa propped her chin in her hands and stared dazedly down at the information on the opening. Xavier hadn't mentioned the splashy party to her, but

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maybe he planned to invite her to it when they met up tomorrow -- Thursday night.

With a sigh of longing, Alexa wondered what she and Xavier would do tomorrow -- and thought about that kiss in the park again. Anticipation warmed her skin; if Xavier Pascal could reduce Alexa St. Laurent to molten lava with just one kiss, she couldn't
imagine
what several more kisses might lead to.

But she also couldn't wait to find out.

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chapter nInE

Between Two Boys

"Tell the truth, 'Oily," Pierre instructed as he handed Holly a hunk of fresh bread topped with Camembert cheese. "You are having fun with me today?"

Holly set her cup of sparkling water down on the park bench, returning Pierre's grin as she accepted his treat. "You can say that," she answered, biting into the crusty-warm bread and buttery-soft cheese. Then she closed her eyes and tilted her face up toward the mild afternoon sun, breathing in the scent of tulips that filled the Tuileries gardens.

Of course, the
real
truth was that Holly Jacobson was in bliss.

That morning, she and Pierre had kicked off their grand tour of Paris in the Latin Quarter. Pierre, looking adorably studious in wire-frame glasses, had had

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to drop off a paper at the Sorbonne, so afterward, he'd given Holly a tour of the funky, student-centric neighborhood. The place de la Sorbonne -- the tree-lined square where cooler-than-thou college kids chilled over coffee and cigarettes instantly captivated Holly. She pictured herself as a French university student -- clad in a black turtleneck, miniskirt, and flats, à la Audrey Hepburn -- scurrying down the rue des Ecoles with her books in her arms, shopping for flirty little dresses at Naf-Naf, or meeting Pierre for a study date at a cozy bar on the cute rue Mignon.

Somehow, sporty Tyler Davis did not fit into the bohemian picture.

In a café hung with red-fringed lamps on the rue St-André-des-Arts, Holly and Pierre met some of Pierre's friends -- brilliant, bespectacled Christophe; wisecracking, red-haired Sebastien; and friendly, willowy Nathalie for crêpes. It was Holly's first time trying the paper-thin pancakes, and at Nathalie's urging, she ordered hers smeared with Nutella and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Holly decided it was the most ambrosial snack she'd ever had, and she could have stayed in that café all morning, munching crêpes and answering Pierre's friends' enthusiastic questions about teenage life in America ("What is this thing --
'omecoming?"
Sebastian had demanded, cracking Holly up).

But their next activity was even better: a

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Bateau-Mouche ride along the Seine. Their elbows lightly brushing, Holly and Pierre stood side by side on the open sundeck, the wind at their backs, the banks of Paris on either side of them. As they glided past the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, Pierre sweetly explained the layout of the city.

"I know that you dislike snails," he began, flashing her a quick grin (Holly, blushing over her dinnertime blunder, swatted his arm in response). "But Paris, she is
like
a snail," Pierre continued, making a circular shape with his hand. "Everything starts from the first
arrondissement
-- neighborhood -- and, how you say, spirals out from there." He then described how the Seine split the city into Left and Right banks, and how the bridges connected each side. Holly nodded, fascinated both by Pierre's descriptions and the way his black curls kept falling into his eyes.

When they sailed under the Pont-Neuf -- "Paris's oldest bridge," Pierre-the-tour-guide pointed out, putting his hand on Holly's shoulder -- Holly, for one crazy instant, could have sworn that she saw Alexa up on that bridge, arguing with some guy. The girl's long golden ponytail certainly looked like it belonged to Alexa, although, Holly reasoned, her friend would probably never wear that baby-blue sweater. As the boat slid onward, Holly felt a pinch of remorse over breaking her plans with Alexa that day.

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Holly managed to forget all about Alexa and her lingering Wimbledon worries -- when she and Pierre arrived at their next destination: the Arc de Triomphe. In full-on tourist mode, Holly threw her head back, admiring the soaring, moon-colored arch, and Pierre waited patiently while she snapped photos with her disposable camera.

" 'Oily, if you please, I will take one of you?" Pierre offered, motioning for her to hand him the camera.

Whenever she posed for pictures, Holly became supremely self-conscious. Standing on the Champs-Elysées, with the arch behind her, she put her hands behind her back and tried to smile naturally as Pierre aimed the camera at her. Holly fleetingly imagined showing Tyler the photo when she was back in Oakridge, and her boyfriend asking her who had taken it.

Oh, no one. Just some guy I spent a perfect day with.

Slowly, Pierre lowered the camera, suddenly serious as he regarded Holly.
"Comme tu es belle"
he said quietly.

Holly wasn't sure what it was Pierre had said, but she did know that
belle
meant, well,
beautiful.
Trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly, Holly took the camera back from Pierre and they started down the wide, sweeping Champs-Elysées. They strolled past the avenue's shops and outdoor cafés until they reached the breathtaking place de la Concorde. This time, Holly

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asked
Pierre
to pose for a photo in front of the tall Egyptian obelisk, figuring she'd hide that picture from Tyler if she had to.

By then, their stomachs were rumbling, so Pierre suggested putting together a picnic. They bought two baguettes, a variety of cheeses, juicy tomatoes, and a bottle of sparkling water from Monoprix and carried everything to the manicured gardens of the Tuileries, where they now lounged on a bench.

"Alors,
what do you think of Paris so far?" Pierre asked Holly, once they'd established that she was having fun. He shaded his eyes from the sun as he turned to look at her.

Holly brushed her bangs off her forehead, gazing across the park at the huge palace that was the Louvre. "It's not what I expected," she replied thoughtfully. "I mean, the whole stereotype of the French being rude -- that's not true. Your friends are so great --"

"Merci,"
Pierre said graciously, pouring himself more Perrier.

"But then there's the dog poo," Holly added, shooting Pierre a mischievous grin.

"Quoi?"
Pierre asked, the bottle pausing in midair. He shook his head and laughed.

"You know," Holly giggled, feeling strangely carefree. She leaped off the bench and began pantomiming the frantic side-stepping they had been doing all day.

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Holly had quickly realized that
everybody
in this city seemed to have dogs but nobody seemed to clean up after their pets. As a result, one had to walk around Paris with a careful eye toward the ground. Back home, Holly was obsessive about picking up after her yellow Lab, Mia.

" 'Oily, you are so funny," Pierre said. Holly tried not to notice the tenderness in his voice -- or in the way he was studying her. Then, to her surprise, Pierre put down his plastic cup and also jumped to his feet. He came close to her, and for a crazy split second Holly wondered --
no! yes! --
if he was going to kiss her.

Instead, Pierre poked her in the ribs, his naughty smile once again reminding her of a rakish pirate. Holly shoved him away; she was insanely ticklish, and once she'd been attacked, she couldn't stop laughing. Pierre, clearly picking up on that weakness, jabbed Holly in her side again, so she shrieked, darting away.

"Don't -- you dare!" she told him, scurrying across the grass. Leaving their food for the time being, Pierre chased her, but even with a semi-injured ankle, Holly Jacobson was not an easy girl to catch.

Hair flying behind her, she sprinted through the Tuileries, down the long walkway that was flanked by trees, with Pierre on her heels, as an old woman reading a book on a bench shot them a scowl. The pain in her