The Art of French Kissing

Praise for Kristin Harmel’s books!

THE ART OF FRENCH KISSING

“Overflowing with bubbly fun, filled with delicious romance and madcap adventures, and, toujours, intoxicating with the magic of Paris . . . Like a bottle of champagne . . . You’ll drink it down in one glamorous gulp.”

—Julia Holden, author of
One Dance in Paris

“A sweet, funny tale about losing love and finding yourself. Set against the backdrop of the most romantic city on earth, THE ART OF FRENCH KISSING takes us on an exciting whirlwind of glitz, glamour, and celebrity scandals—with a side order of reinvention.”

—Johanna Edwards, author of
The Next Big Thing

“I’m a big fan of Kristin Harmel, and THE ART OF FRENCH KISSING is my favorite of her novels.”

—Melissa Senate, author of
See Jane Date
and
Love You to Death

“
Très magnifique!
I loved this book and you will, too! . . . A sweet and adorable page-turner that will make you long for the City of Light.”

—Brenda Janowitz, author of
Scot on the Rocks

“A fun, lively story that made me fall in love with Paris all over again.”

—Lynda Curnyn, author of
Bombshell

THE BLONDE THEORY

“Entertaining.”

—
London Free Press

“Rush out and pick this one up. You’ll be glad you did. So entertaining that I won’t be surprised if this one ends up on the big screen.”

—NightsandWeekends.com

“With a smart heroine willing to date as a bona fide ditz, there are plenty of laugh-out-loud moments . . . the true joy comes when Harper drops the silly blonde act and gives the shallow men she meets a piece of her mind.”

—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazin
e

HOW TO SLEEP WITH A MOVIE STAR

“Hilarious.”

—
Cosmopolitan

“Hilarious . . . deliciously entertaining.”

—Sarah Mlynowski, author of
Milkrun
and
Monkey Business

“We recommend
How to Sleep with a Movie Star
.”

—
New York Daily News

“Forget the movie star! For a really good time, take this hilarious book to bed instead.”

—Jennifer O’Connell, author of
Dress Rehearsal
and
Insider Dating

“Kristin Harmel dishes with disarming honesty and delivers a sparkling, delightful story about the push and pull between being average and being a celebrity.”

—Laura Caldwell, author of
The Year of Living Famously
and
The Night I Got Lucky

ALSO BY KRISTIN HARMEL

How to Sleep with a Movie Star

The Blonde Theory

To Lauren Elkin, my Paris roommate, my great friend, and one of the best writers I know.

To those who have brought Europe alive for me, especially Jean-Michel Colin, David Ahern, Dusty Millar, Katharine Vincent, Jean-Marc Denis, and Marco Cassan.

And of course to my wonderful mom, who introduced me to Paris for the first time.

Acknowledgments

A
special thank-you to Lauren Elkin, my wonderful friend who first lured me to Paris and has let me sleep on her futon each time I’ve been tempted to return. She’s also a great writer, and I was fortunate enough to have her give me early feedback on this book. Thanks as well to Amy Tangerine (extremely talented superstar designer and fantastic friend), who is a great cheerleader and one of the people whose opinion I trust wholeheartedly on early drafts. A thousand thank-yous to Gillian Zucker, my trusted friend whom I admire greatly as both a person and a professional (and who lets me call her second bedroom home when I’m in LA!). I owe you a drink (or several dozen) at Katsuya!

Thanks, as always, to Mom, Dave, Karen, Dad, and the rest of my fantastic family. I truly think I’m related to some of the warmest, most wonderful people in the world.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my fabulous editors Karen Kosztolnyik and Rebecca Isenberg for helping beat this novel into shape, and to my wonderful agent Jenny Bent (and her assistant, Victoria Horn) for listening to me ramble about all the ideas that pop into my head. Thanks also to my film agent, Andy Cohen, whom I’m happy to call my friend; to all the folks at Hachette, especially Elly Weisenberg (congratulations!!!), Emily Griffin, Caryn Karmatz Rudy, Brigid Pearson, Laura Jorstod, Celia Johnson, and Mari Okuda; and to my UK editor, Cat Cobain. And as always, thanks to my first editor, Amy Einhorn.

I’m also fortunate enough to have met some of the nicest writers in the entire world. Thanks especially to Sarah Mlynowski for being so generous with her time and advice; to Alison Pace for giving me a New York couch to sleep on and taking me on walks with the fabulous Carlie; and to Sarah, Alison, Lynda Curnyn, and Melissa Senate, for the friendship and support you’ve all provided. Thanks also to the wonderful writers (and wonderful women) Jane Porter, Laura Caldwell, Brenda Janowitz, Johanna Edwards, Megan Crane, and Liza Palmer.

Thanks to my many wonderful, amazing friends, especially Kristen Milan, Kara Brown, Kendra Williams, Wendy Jo Moyer, Megan Combs, Amber Draus, Lisa Wilkes, Ashley Tedder, Don Clemence, Michelle Tauber, Willow Shambeck, Melixa Carbonell, Josh Yang, Courtney Jaye, Marc Mugnos, Ryan Dean, Wendy Chioji, Brendan Bergen, Ben Bledsoe, Jamie Tabor, Andrea Jackson, Lana Cabrera, Joe Cabrera, Pat Cash, Adam Evans, Courtney Harmel, Janine Harmel, Steve Helling, Emma Helling, and Cap’n. Thanks also to my Mediabistro.com students.

And thanks to you, the reader, for coming along on this journey with me! I love your e-mails, so keep ’em coming!
Mille fois merci!

Chapter One

O
ur wedding was supposed to be in September.

I’d already been to my final dress fitting. I’d chosen my bridesmaids, picked out my flowers, and booked a caterer. The invitations were printed up and all ready to be mailed. We’d chosen a band. We’d talked about what we would name the kids we’d have someday. I’d filled pages and pages with scribbles:
Mr. and Mrs. Brett Landstrom. Brett and Emma Landstrom. Brett Landstrom and his wife, Emma Sullivan-Landstrom. The Landstroms.
I could already envision the future we’d have together.

And then one day, it all fell apart.

It was a hot, muggy Tuesday evening in April, and I’d left work at three so that I could make a special dinner for Brett to celebrate our one-year anniversary of moving in together. I cleaned off our patio table, bought fresh flowers, and cooked his favorite meal—grilled chicken stuffed with artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, and caprino cheese, served over angel-hair pasta with homemade marinara sauce.
Perfect
, I thought as I poured a glass of Chianti for each of us.

“Looks good,” Brett said, strolling out through the sliding glass doors to the patio at six o’clock. As he stepped outside, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, which of course made him look even sexier than usual, in a haphazard way. It was a good sign, I thought, that I found him just as attractive as I had the day I’d met him. I hoped he felt the same way.

I beamed at him. “Happy anniversary,” I said.

Brett looked baffled. “Anniversary?” He raked a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Anniversary of what?”

My smile faltered a bit. “Moving in together,” I said.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, happy anniversary to you, too.” He folded his six-foot-two frame into the chair closest to the sliding glass door and took a sip of wine. He swished it around in his mouth for a moment, nodded approvingly, and swallowed.

I smiled, sat down across from him, and passed him the salad bowl, which was full of chopped lettuce, olives, pepperoncinis, tomatoes, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and feta cheese. He sniffed it approvingly before spooning some onto his plate. “Greek,” he said, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Your favorite.”

I was determined that I’d be better at this—cooking, cleaning, and basically being a domestic goddess—after we were married. Brett’s mother (who, mind you, didn’t work and employed both a cook and a maid) had already reminded me several times, with a stiff smile on her face, that her son was accustomed to having dinner on the table when he got home from work and a house that was neat, tidy, and virtually spotless. I knew the subliminal message was that I wasn’t quite up to par.

Evidently, I was supposed to be a full-time housekeeper and a full-time cook at the same time I balanced my full-time job.

“So,” I said after a few minutes of dead air between us. Brett had begun eating already and was making
mmmmm
noises as he chewed. I hesitated for a moment. “Have you had a chance to work on your invitation list yet?”

All I needed from Brett was a list of the names and addresses of the family members he wanted to invite, and I’d already asked him four times. I knew he hated planning things and looked at our wedding prep as a burden, but considering that I had booked the minister and the band, gone to all the caterer tastings, met five times with the wedding planner, and picked out the invitations all by myself, I didn’t think I was being too demanding.

“Not yet,” Brett mumbled, his mouth full of chicken.

“Okay,” I said slowly. I tried to remind myself that he was busy at work. He had just started on a big case, and he put in longer hours than I did. I forced a smile. “Do you think maybe you can get it to me by Sunday?” I asked sweetly, trying not to sound like I was nagging. “We really have to get those invitations in the mail.”

“About that,” Brett said. He ran his fork around the edges of his plate, picking up the last strands of pasta and taking one last big bite before pushing the plate toward the center of the table. He took another long sip from his wineglass, draining it. “I think we need to talk.”

“About the invitation list?” I asked. I thought we had already agreed that we would include everyone we wanted to invite. After all, my father had promised to pitch in as much money as he could, and Brett’s parents were, to put it mildly, loaded. They lived just fifteen minutes from us in Windermere, the Orlando suburb where Tiger Woods and some of the
^*
NSYNC guys owned sprawling mansions. The Landstrom estate was just as grand, and they had already announced that money was no object in planning the perfect wedding for their only child.

“Not about the list,” Brett said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “About the wedding.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t totally surprised. Brett and I had been through some minor disagreements over things like whether we’d have the ceremony on the beach in St. Petersburg or in his parents’ huge backyard (I had deferred to him, and we were planning a garden wedding), and whether we were going to have a traditional vanilla cake or a cake with a different flavor in every layer (we’d gone with plain vanilla, which Brett’s mother had practically insisted on).

“What is it?” I asked. “Is it the seating? We can go with the plush folding chairs if you want. It’s not really a big deal.” I’d been partial to white wooden benches, which I thought would look beautiful in his parents’ rose garden. But it wasn’t about the location or the cake or the seating, was it? What was important was that I was going to spend my life with Brett.

“No.” He shook his head. “The benches are fine, Emma.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat stunned. It was the first time he had deferred to my opinion without an argument. “That’s great. So what did you want to talk about, then?”

He glanced away from me. “I think we should call the wedding off,” he said.

I was sure, at first, that I’d heard him wrong. After all, he’d said the words nonchalantly, as if he just as easily could have been telling me that the stock market was down or that there was rain expected in the forecast the next day. And after dropping his bombshell, he simply reached for the wine bottle, refilled his glass, and glanced inside at the TV, which had been strategically turned so that he could see the Braves game through the sliding glass door while we ate.

“What?” I asked. I shook my head and forced an uncomfortable laugh. “That’s so weird. I could have sworn you just said we should call the wedding off.”

“I did,” Brett said, glancing at me and then looking away again, back to the Braves. He took another sip of his wine and didn’t elaborate. I felt the blood drain from my face, and my throat went dry. I gulped a few times and wondered why all of the air had suddenly been sucked out of the space around me.

“You did?” I finally asked, my voice squeaking a bit as it rose an octave.

“No offense or anything, Emma, but I don’t think I love you anymore,” he said casually. “I mean I love you, of course, but I don’t know if I’m
in
love with you. I think maybe we should go our separate ways.”

My jaw dropped. I mean, it actually felt like it came unhinged and fell open on its own.

“Whaaaa . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t seem to get my mouth to cooperate with me. I was so shocked that I could hardly form words. “What?” I finally managed. “Why?”

“Emma,” Brett began, shaking his head in that condescending manner he seemed to have adopted when talking to me lately (it was the same way his father often talked to his mother, I’d noticed). “It’s not like I can explain why I feel the way I do about things. Feelings change, you know? I’m sorry, but I can’t control that.”

“But . . . ,” I began. My voice trailed off again because I hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. A thousand things were racing through my mind, and I couldn’t seem to get a handle on any of them. How could he have stopped loving me? Had our whole relationship been a lie? How would I tell my parents that the wedding was off ? What was I supposed to do now?

After an uncomfortable moment, Brett filled the silence. “You know, Emma, it’s for the best, really. You didn’t want to stay in Orlando anyhow.”

My jaw dropped farther. “But I
did
stay in Orlando!” A little flash of anger exploded inside me all of a sudden. “I turned down that job offer. For
you
!”

Just three months earlier, I’d been offered the job of my dreams—as the head of PR for a new alternative rock label under the Columbia Records umbrella in New York. I’d talked it over with Brett, and he’d told me in no uncertain terms that he would never consider moving; his life always had been—and always would be—here in Orlando. So I’d reluctantly turned down the job (after all, I was engaged, and my fiancé should come first, right?), and as a result, I was still working the same less-than-fulfilling job as a PR coordinator for Boy Bandz, the thriving Orlando-based record label whose latest creation, the boy band 407, had just landed at number four on the
Billboard
Pop Charts with their song “I Love You Like I Love My Xbox 360.”

“Well, Emma, that was your choice,” Brett said, shaking his head and smiling slightly, as if I’d said something childish. “You can’t really blame me for choices you’ve made in your life.”

“But I made the choice for
you
,” I protested. My head felt like it was spinning. This couldn’t be happening.

“And I’m supposed to marry you out of a sense of obligation?” he asked. He stared at me. “Come on, Emma. That’s not reasonable. We make our own choices in life.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

“That’s what it
sounds
like you’re saying,” he said. He looked almost smug. “And that’s not fair.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “So that’s it, then?” I managed to say. “After three years?”

“It’s for the best,” he continued smoothly. “And don’t worry; you can take as long as you want to move out. I’m going to go stay with my parents to give you some time.”

I gaped at him. I hadn’t even considered that I’d have to move out. But of course I would. That’s what happens when people break up, isn’t it? “But where will I go?” I asked in a small voice, hating how desperate and unsure I sounded.

Brett shrugged. “I don’t know. Your sister’s?”

I shook my head once, quickly, pressing my lips tightly together. No way. I couldn’t stand the thought of having to slink up to Jeannie’s door and admit that I’d lost Brett. Eight years my senior, she was married to the passive, mousy Robert, and they had a three-year-old son who was the most spoiled child I’d ever seen. I couldn’t bear to think what she’d smugly say about Brett leaving me.
Failure
, she would call it.
Another failure for Emma Sullivan.

“Well, I don’t know, Emma,” Brett said, sounding exasperated. He raked a hand distractedly through his hair, which was starting to grow too long.
He needs a haircut
, I thought abstractly for a millisecond, before I realized that it would no longer be my responsibility to remind him of such things. “You could go stay with one of your friends,” he said. “Lesley or Anne or Amanda or someone.”

Hearing their names—the names of three of the girls who were meant to be my bridesmaids—sent a jolt through me.

Brett blinked at me a few times and looked away. “Obviously you understand why you need to move out.”

I felt sick. I couldn’t believe he was doing this.

“Because it’s
your
place,” I said through gritted teeth. I could feel my eyes narrow. It had been a point of contention between us for the past year. Brett, with his bigger salary, had made the down payment on our MetroWest Orlando house. Each month, we split the mortgage payment, but Brett was the only one with his name on the deed. The few times I’d complained that the arrangement didn’t seem fair to me—after all, I was paying half the mortgage but earning no equity—Brett had smiled and reminded me that once we were married, all of our assets would be shared anyhow, so what was the point in worrying about something so inconsequential now?

It had all sounded so reasonable at the time.

“Right,” Brett responded, not even having the decency to look embarrassed. “We’ll figure something out about the mortgage, Em. I’m sure I owe you some money since you’ve made some contributions over the last year. I’ll talk to my father and see what we can do.”

I gaped some more.
Contributions?

“Anyhow, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Brett continued. “This is really hard for me, too, you know. But in all honesty, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry.”

I almost laughed. Really. And perhaps I would have if I wasn’t currently absorbed in fantasizing about stabbing him with the knife I’d used to cut the bread.

“You’ll be okay?” Brett asked after a moment of silence.

“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled, suddenly furious that he would even ask, as if he cared at all.

I hadn’t known what else to do the next morning when I awoke alone in an empty, king-size bed that was no longer half mine. I was numb; I felt like I was in the middle of a bad dream.

So I did what I did every morning: I got up, I showered, I blew my hair dry, I put on my makeup, I picked out a sensible outfit, and I went to work. At least there was solace in routine.

The offices of Boy Bandz Records were in a converted old train station in downtown Orlando, just a block from Brett’s law firm. Sometimes we would run into each other on Church Street as he went to get lunch at Kres with a colleague or I went to pick up a greasy slice of pizza from Lorenzo’s. I prayed that I wouldn’t run into him today. I didn’t think I could handle it.

I sat down at my desk just before eight thirty and stared numbly at my computer screen. It was as if I had lost all ability to function. I had a million things to do today—a press release about the 407 boys, a CD mailing for O-Girlz (the girl band our company’s president, boy-band impresario Max Hedgefield, had just launched), several media calls to return—but I couldn’t imagine doing something as banal as work when my life had just fallen apart.