French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  But glimpsing Model Boy in the flesh was much, much nicer.

  They started dancing, his hands on her waist, her free hand on his shoulder as she held on to her drink. Their bodies moved sinuously together. Alexa threw her head back, her hair rippling down to her waist, and she laughed as Model Boy leaned in to touch his lips to her neck. Diego could take his Princeton girls and move to Barcelona for all she cared. She’d done it—she’d snagged the most beautiful guy in all of Eurotrash.

  Model Boy took Alexa’s head in his hands and tilted her back up so they were eye to eye. “I’m Sven,” he whispered, giving her a big-toothed smile. “Parlez-vous—uh, anglais?” Over the music, Alexa could make out a trace of a Swedish accent.

  Alexa’s heart leaped; so Sven assumed she was French! Who said male models were dumb? Beaming, Alexa slid her arms around Sven’s neck, slipping her free hand beneath the collar of his sheer, fitted black shirt. Alexa reflected that, in the States, no straight boy would be caught dead in what Sven was wearing. But she knew, from the way he was gripping her hips, that Sven couldn’t be gay—he was just European. By now, Alexa had learned to spot the difference.

  “Alexa,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes so her lips touched Sven’s perfect earlobe. “And I do speak English. But we won’t be talking much, will we?”

  Taking her cue—he’s practically a genius! Alexa thought—Sven lowered his face and kissed her, soft and deep. Delighting in the feel of his lips on hers, Alexa moved her hand to the back of Sven’s head, intensifying the kiss. A second later, though, some of Sven’s hair got into her mouth, so Alexa pulled back, giggling and wiping her lips. The perils of kissing a longhaired boy. Normally, when fooling around, Alexa liked to be the one with the hair dramatically spilling everywhere. Maybe a guy with a shaved head would actually have been better.

  “Watch it,” Sven chided her, shaking his luscious locks back into place.

  Alexa couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but, more turned off by the second, she watched as Sven reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handheld mirror. Frowning into it, he fussed with his hair, making sure each golden strand was back in place. Then Sven ran a discerning finger over one of his arched eyebrows and puckered his lips at the mirror, as if he’d rather be kissing it than Alexa.

  Oh my God, Alexa realized, her stomach plummeting in disbelief. He’s even more vain than…me.

  When Sven was finally finished examining his stunning self, he tucked the mirror away and pulled Alexa in for another long kiss. But this time, Alexa didn’t move her lips in response, so Sven pulled back and flashed her a pinup-worthy grin.

  “Oh, I get it, Vanessa,” he said, tossing his hair as if he were in a shampoo commercial. “You are, ah, afraid you’ll get too carried away by kissing me.”

  “It’s Alexa,” Alexa replied, through gritted teeth.

  “So come back to my place,” Sven continued obliviously. “I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton. I have a photo shoot in the Bois du Boulogne early tomorrow morning, but we can still party all night.” Then he fluttered his lashes at her—which, Alexa realized, was her signature come-hither move. This was all wrong.

  Alexa wasn’t sure if it was all the champagne she’d had at dinner, the vodka she was drinking now, or the fact that Sven was Narcissus come to life, but suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. A year ago, Alexa knew she would have jumped at the chance to spend the night at the Ritz-Carlton with a Swedish supermodel. But now, the thought of a one-night stand with Sven wasn’t sitting right with her at all. Maybe I’m more mature than I was back then, Alexa thought, removing her arms from around Sven’s neck and rattling the cubes in her glass of Stoli.

  Or maybe she just couldn’t bring herself to hook up with a boy who was prettier than she was.

  Alexa told Sven she had other plans, flipped her blonde hair over one shoulder, and sauntered off into the crowd. As she made her way to where Holly and Pierre were sitting, Alexa imagined Holly’s reaction to the ridiculous Sven story. Knowing levelheaded Holly, she’d probably tell Alexa that a “revenge” hookup was pointless anyway, and that Alexa should take a timeout from all boys until she’d healed completely from Diego.

  And she’d be absolutely correct, Alexa realized with a resigned sigh. Alexa had many times before tried to swear off boys for a spell, but she’d always wound up surrendering to someone seductive; last year, for instance, it had been Diego. This week, though, she’d have to stand strong. She would simply shop and hang out with Holly, not seek out boys, and not let herself be tempted. In the middle of Eurotrash, with the strobe lights swirling around her, Alexa made up her mind: There wasn’t a single guy in Paris who’d be able to seduce her. After all, if she could turn down an actual male model, then she could turn down anyone.

  Right?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  X Marks the Spot

  “Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” Holly asked Alexa as they were getting dressed the next morning. Outside their shuttered windows, the day had dawned sunny but brisk, and white-aproned men from the pâtisserie next door were whistling as they washed the cobblestone street with buckets of soapy water.

  “Whatever, Hol,” Alexa sighed, tugging on her hip-hugging Chip & Peppers. “If you want to go traipsing around the city like some tacky tourist, I certainly can’t stop you.” She buttoned the jeans over her flat belly and rolled her eyes. She hadn’t believed it when Holly had told her that she was blowing off their shopping trip to prance around with Pierre. Hadn’t Holly busted out of Wimbledon so the two of them could have quality bonding time?

  Plus, Alexa’s head hurt from the toxic champagne-and-vodka combination she’d drunk last night, she was miffed that Sven’s hair had looked better than hers at Eurotrash, and deciding to take a breather from boys always put her in a grouchy mood.

  “I know you think sightseeing is lame,” Holly spoke quietly from her bed, lacing her Adidas. It was a point Alexa had been bringing up all morning, despite the fact that Holly had never been to Paris before and was well within her rights to act like a tacky tourist. “But Pierre offered, and—”

  “And because you have a huge crush on him, you couldn’t say no,” Alexa snapped, regretting her words a second later. When she’d come upon them at Eurotrash last night, Holly and Pierre had been cuddled so close on the sofa they’d practically been making out. But it was clear that Holly was also in major denial over their chemistry.

  “Hold up.” Holly got to her feet, her cheeks hot. “Alexa, I do not have a crush on Pierre.” Her voice came out trembly when she spoke his name, which killed Holly. She was glad the door was closed; she knew Pierre was making coffee in the kitchen. “I’m with Tyler, remember?” Holly added defensively. “My boyfriend?” Who you haven’t heard from in four days, a little voice singsonged in her head.

  “Are you?” Alexa retorted, turning to face Holly. “Then why have you not talked about him even once since you’ve been here?” Alexa couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that Holly had some drama going down with Tyler and, for no good reason, was keeping it from her. Holly could be annoyingly secretive sometimes.

  Holly averted her eyes, scooping up her tote bag. Here, again, was her chance to spill the Tyler saga to Alexa. But Holly wasn’t about to bare her soul now, especially after Alexa had flung that ludicrous Pierre accusation at her. Plus, Holly herself was on edge that morning; her parents had awoken her at six A.M. with a chirpy call, wanting to know how the running was going. Holly, who detested lying—and sucked at it—had hurriedly rattled off an unconvincing “Oh-Mom-and-Dad-England’s-great-but-I’m-so-busy” speech before clicking off. Now, she was plagued by the fear that her parents might discover the truth before she made it back to Wimbledon.

  “Pierre’s waiting,” she told Alexa, straightening the hem of her forest-green sweater. “So…I guess we’ll meet up with you at some point?” she added softly. As miffed as she was, Holly hated to leave with things so sour between herself and Alex
a.

  “I suppose,” Alexa sighed, slicking her hair back into a long ponytail. She’d call Holly’s cell later that afternoon, once she’d cooled off.

  Holly nodded and, without looking back, strode out of the guest room. Alexa heard Holly and Pierre exchanging flirtatious good mornings—God, she thought, would those two just get it over with and hook up already?—and then the creak and slam of the front door as they headed out.

  In a way, it was peaceful to be alone in the apartment; Raphaëlle had long since left for work. As Alexa slid on her burgundy Lia Sophia ring, a crisp breeze, smelling of hyacinths, blew into the room. She shivered in her chocolate-colored tank, realizing she’d be cold going out in just that. But besides her sparkly shrug—which was so wrong for daytime—all her cover-ups had been stolen. She could probably pilfer something from Holly’s duffel bag, but Alexa was still feeling sore toward her friend and didn’t want to be seen on the ritzy avenue Montaigne in one of Holly’s fleeces.

  Then Alexa remembered that when she’d arrived on her cousins’ doorstep in tears Monday night, Raphaëlle had said she could borrow whatever she might need from her closet without even asking. Free handbags, free clothes…Alexa realized she’d been a fool to turn down her cousin’s generosity.

  Besides, Raphi’s hippie-retro style was starting to grow on her.

  Feeling like a naughty little sister, Alexa sneaked into Raphaëlle’s bedroom, which smelled of incense and patchouli and was strewn with wrinkled baby-doll dresses, white patent-leather boots, slouchy metallic clutches, and piles of French magazines. The walls were covered in framed snapshots of Raphi with various hot guys. Alexa knew, from their conversation over dinner last night, that her cousin was juggling about twenty different boys at once—a feat Alexa had always aspired to. As Alexa flung open the doors to Raphi’s bursting closet, she was wowed by her cousin’s effortless Parisian cool. If I’d stayed in France, and never moved to New Jersey, Alexa wondered, reaching for a turquoise-studded belt on the top shelf, would I have ended up more like Raphi? Would I be less into labels and more into vintage?

  She wasn’t sure.

  But she was sure that she loved the baby-blue sweater with the shiny round buttons that was staring out at her from the messy closet. When Alexa slipped it on, the fabric seemed to soothe her skin, so she admired herself in Raphi’s mirror, scrawled her cousin a Merci! note, and returned to her room to grab her Chloé bag. Alexa was starting for the door when, at the last minute, she remembered her camera. What with the Diego disaster and Holly’s arrival, Alexa hadn’t had a free moment for her beloved photography. She figured she could snap some shots of the city today, in between boutique-hopping.

  Maybe all that couture would inspire her.

  However, after Alexa had shimmied into dozens of Lolita Lempicka slip dresses, strapped on a slew of Louis Vuitton sandals, and even auditioned a spangly Gaultier bustier, she was feeling more drained than inspired. She did buy a yellow silk Lucien Pellat-Finet shift at Colette—how could she resist?—and a pale pink Chanel wallet to replace her stolen one. But as she ambled down the rue de Rivoli with her shiny shopping bags, Alexa felt—for possibly the first time in her eighteen trendsetting years—designered out. She guessed it had to do with her eye-opening experience in Raphaëlle’s bedroom; suddenly, Alexa felt that there might be more to fashion than name-dropping. Maybe she could even check out the vintage shops Raphi frequented in Le Marais instead.

  Besides, Alexa reasoned as she wandered along the quai du Louvre, her mother was a buyer for Henri Bendel in New York, so Alexa could get her share of designer goodies back home.

  The satiny waves of the Seine glinted in the afternoon sun. Forgetting about clothes entirely, Alexa-the-artiste reached spellbound into her bag, taking out the professional Nikon camera her dad had given her for Christmas. Aiming the lens at the river, she zoomed in on the glorious bridges that arched, like a graceful row of dancers’ arms, across the water.

  The nearest bridge was the romantic Pont-Neuf, which stretched to the Ile de la Cité. Alexa had had her first kiss on that bridge, when she was seven, with a green-eyed classmate named Henri. One afternoon, she and Henri had been throwing pebbles into the water when Henri had suddenly leaned in and kissed Alexa clumsily on the lips. She, of course, had kissed him right back. Alexa smiled at the sweet memory as she focused her camera on the Pont-Neuf.

  Through her lens, she made out a lone figure leaning against a lamppost in the middle of the bridge: A pale, thin guy in a dark sweater and jeans, smoking a cigarette and brooding, as the wind whipped his auburn hair. It was such the perfect Parisian shot that Alexa decided to get closer; she liked to sneak candid photos of people. It made her feel like the great French photographer Robert Doisneau—one of Alexa’s idols.

  Alexa walked onto the bridge with her camera in hand, grateful now that she had the day to herself; Holly thought snapping artsy pictures was completely boring. And though Diego had once admired Alexa’s passion for photography, his interest in it had dwindled after a year. Alexa’s throat tightened as she zoomed in on Cigarette Boy. No one understands me, she thought, feeling tragically poetic.

  As the camera clicked, the guy—who’d been gazing out at the river—turned abruptly toward Alexa. She froze when she saw the look on his face—pure, scorching anger. His lips were curled into a snarl, and his hands were balled into fists.

  As an aspiring photographer, Alexa knew that some people despised being caught off guard by a camera. But she’d never seen someone get this furious. Monsieur Bastard flung his cigarette into the water and, scowling, stormed over to her, muttering French curses under his breath. Instinctively, Alexa hugged her camera to her chest and took a fearful step back, bumping into one of the round stone benches that curved out of the bridge.

  “Casse-toi,” Cigarette Boy spat and, to Alexa’s horror, clamped his hand around her wrist and wrested the camera out of her grasp. She noticed, in the brief moment that their hands touched, that his fingers were stained with paint.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in French, grabbing for her camera, but he fended her off. Was she getting mugged again? Her palms were clammy and her heart was hammering; she and Cigarette Boy were the only people on the bridge. Beneath them, a Bateau-Mouche tour boat slid across the glittering water, but Alexa knew no one on board would hear her if she screamed. “I’m going to call the police!” Alexa threatened, her voice cracking, as she looked around helplessly for a pay phone. Why did she keep running into psychotic French guys whenever she was alone?

  “Go ahead—they’re as sick of you stupid paparazzi as the rest of us,” Cigarette Boy retorted, in machine-gun-fire French. He was opening the camera and yanking out her precious strips of amber-colored film. “If I end up in the tabloids once more—”

  “Oh my God—stop!” Alexa cried in French, swiping at his hand, which now contained the crumpled roll of film. She couldn’t believe it. This first-class ass was going to pay—big-time. “First of all, I’m not with the paparazzi,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. Insulting much? Alexa had always imagined that she would one day have her photograph snapped on the red carpet—never the other way around. “And you’d better reimburse me for that film,” she added. If you can, she thought, sizing up his scuffed boots, paint-splattered jeans, and stubbly jawline. Clearly, Cigarette Boy was some broke slacker.

  Slowly, his eyes swept over Alexa’s face, and his features softened. “So you don’t—you don’t know who I am?” he asked quietly. Then, after a moment, he held the camera for Alexa to take back, but kept the film.

  Alexa accepted the camera, confused. Something else Cigarette Boy had said now registered: If I end up in the tabloids once more. Alexa felt a chill rake through her. Could this scruffy young guy be…famous? No way. Alexa read French Vogue every month and considered herself very plugged in to Parisian pop culture. If Cigarette Boy was truly someone, she’d have recognized him, right?

  Alexa studied his fa
ce: the cat-shaped, slate-gray eyes that were the same color as the water below the bridge; the tousled reddish-brown hair; the small jagged scar above his upper lip. He did seem achingly familiar, though, unlike Sven, he wasn’t model-gorgeous enough to be on a billboard. But he’s definitely sexy, Alexa thought, before she could stop herself. A rare blush warmed her cheeks.

  “Who are you?” Alexa finally asked, still in French, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Cigarette Boy looked down modestly, kicking a pebble with the toe of his dirty boot, sticking his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Xavier Pascal,” he murmured in his deep, slightly raspy voice. “You know…the painter?”

  Alexa shook her head as her blush spread along her neck. She didn’t know. It was true that in Europe, an up-and-coming young painter could garner as much flashbulb attention as a hot actor, but since Alexa no longer lived in Paris, she wasn’t aware of any new art-world stars. Alexa felt a pang of humility; so much for fancying herself an expert on all things French. Xavier Pascal. She made a mental note of the name and decided to Google him at an Internet café or check his credentials with Raphi that evening.

  Xavier glanced back up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “You are American, oui?” he asked, suddenly switching to heavily accented, but undeniably charming, English.

  Alexa gasped, almost dropping her camera. How had he guessed? She was confident that her French was more or less as flawless as it had been when she’d lived here. Was it only because she hadn’t recognized his name? Talk about arrogant.