French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  Alexa laughed, rolling her eyes. Now she got it. Of course sheltered little Holly Jacobson would be turned off by suave, worldly Xavier Pascal. She’d probably been appalled by his stubble. “Hello, he’s French,” Alexa explained, her impatience mounting. “That’s how guys are here—”

  “Not Pierre,” Holly interrupted, blushing. She felt herself start to tremble.

  “Oh, please,” Alexa snapped. “Grow up, Holly. Pierre is not as innocent as he seems.” Or maybe you’ve failed to notice that he’d like to voulez-vous you himself, she thought venomously.

  “Well, neither am I,” Holly shot back, feeling a burst of fury as Alexa continued to smirk. Holly thought back to Xavier’s earlier assessment of her, and realized she was fed up with being regarded as a five-year-old. And no matter how much she despised confrontations, Holly couldn’t stand to let Alexa St. Laurent condescend to her for the zillionth time in their friendship.

  “I know you think I’m naive, Alexa, but I’m not stupid,” Holly went on, determined to get her point across. “There’s just something…something about Xavier I don’t trust.” Holly couldn’t pinpoint where this distrust came from, but she’d felt it in her gut, like a stomachache, from the instant she’d seen Xavier on the doorstep. And even though bullheaded Alexa was being infuriating, Holly still wanted more than anything to look out for her oldest friend.

  Studying Holly’s earnest expression, Alexa felt the smallest tremor of doubt; maybe she’d been so swept off her espadrilles by Xavier that she hadn’t stopped to wonder if he might be playing her. Then Alexa brushed the suspicion away. She knew how to read guys—she was a freaking expert on them—and if that kiss from yesterday was any indication, then Xavier was as into her as she was into him. And even if Xavier could be sort of sketchy, Alexa realized with a wry smile, that was exactly what made him so irresistible. Alexa was done with playing it safe. Who wanted some squeaky-clean Mama’s boy like…well, like Tyler Davis?

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Hol,” Alexa said coldly. “But that’s why I’m with Xavier, and you’re with your boyfriend—if you can call him that,” Alexa added. “I mean, have you guys even had sex yet?” Alexa saw Holly’s face flush at these words. She knew how intensely private Holly was about that stuff, and felt mildly guilty that she’d gone there.

  But she was kind of curious.

  Does she know? Holly wondered, her stomach clenching as she stared back at Alexa. Does she know that Tyler doesn’t want me the way he wanted her? Holly felt the warm, salty threat of tears, and she swallowed hard. “Can we leave Tyler out of this?” she whispered, her bottom lip quivering.

  Alexa’s knee-jerk reaction was to comfort a clearly shaken-up Holly—she hadn’t meant for this to erupt into a real fight—until she realized something glaringly obvious. How had she not seen it before?

  “But, in the end, this is all about Tyler, isn’t it?” Alexa asked softly, flicking her eyes over her friend’s confused face. “It’s about Tyler, and Diego, and every other boy that’s ever come between us.”

  “You’re not making sense, Alexa,” Holly sniffled, dabbing at her eyes. What did she care about Diego anymore?

  “Yes, I am,” Alexa replied steadily. “You’re jealous of me, Holly Jacobson. You always have been. And this time, you’re jealous of what I have with Xavier—and that’s why you’re flipping out about him.” Satisfied with her logical conclusion, Alexa folded her arms across her chest, waiting for Holly to admit that Alexa was right, that she was terribly sorry, and that Alexa should have an amazing time on her date.

  “Okay,” Holly burst out, catching Alexa off guard with the force of her response. She no longer looked like she wanted to cry, but like she wanted to kick something—hard. “I admit it—I was crazy-jealous of you and Diego last year. And maybe I am currently jealous of what you had with Tyler—whom, by the way, I tried to go all the way with, but he turned me down—” She paused for a breath while Alexa felt her jaw drop. “But,” Holly continued, jerking her thumb toward the shuttered living room windows, which looked out onto the street below, “you can elope with Xavier for all I care. I wouldn’t go near him if you paid me a billion euros.”

  On cue, both girls heard the revving of a moped’s engine from the street. Alexa hesitated; she was dying to ask Holly to elaborate on her insane Tyler comment, but Xavier was waiting downstairs, and Alexa was too angry right then to have a heart-to-heart with her similarly seething friend.

  “I know this may come as a shock,” Alexa said coolly, turning to leave. “But I never asked for—and I certainly don’t need—your approval, Holly. On anything.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have dragged me here from England!” Holly retorted, taking a step closer to Alexa. Holly knew, deep down, that she’d come to Paris pretty much on her own terms, but suddenly, she felt like laying the blame on Alexa. “Do you even care that I could get kicked off the track team or, I don’t know, expelled, if they find out what I did?” Expelled. As she spoke, Holly’s breath caught in fear; how had she not realized the full consequences of her actions before? “I didn’t even really have to come,” she went on shakily. “You just wanted someone here to stroke your ego!” Then Holly paused and put a hand to her mouth, shocked by her own words. She hadn’t intended to be so cruel—or to admit that truth about Tyler earlier. Something about arguing with Alexa always unleashed Holly’s hidden temper.

  Alexa rested her hand on the doorknob, feeling her chest tighten with hurt. Was Holly implying that she was a user? That was absurd; Holly had been more than ready to leave England herself. And Alexa didn’t want to lose another second of her romantic night with Xavier on this immature quarrel. “Then you shouldn’t have come,” Alexa said simply, turning to go. If her hair hadn’t been pinned up, she would have tossed it, for dramatic effect. Instead, she added, over her shoulder, “So now why don’t you go back to your safe little world, and have a blast at your fabulous…track meet.”

  With those withering last words, Alexa cast a glance back at Holly’s expression—a mix of pain, astonishment, and anger that Alexa knew would bother her all night—and slammed out of the apartment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Voulez-Vous?

  Trying to regain her composure, Alexa maneuvered carefully down the winding staircase in her high-heeled boots. Her face felt hot and splotchy, so with trembling fingers, she reached into her purple satin clutch and removed her Nars compact. Checking her reflection, Alexa stepped out onto the street—and instantly collided with Pierre, who was drifting toward the entrance. Her cousin’s bright blue eyes were hopeful, and he seemed as distracted as Alexa herself was feeling. The two cousins, each clearly in their own worlds, brushed by each other with barely a “Ça va.”

  The cool evening air felt like balm against Alexa’s skin. She sighed, tilting her head back to gaze at the pale mauve sweep of sky, where a few bold, sparkling stars were making their early debut. Then she looked across the street to see Xavier sitting on his sleek, dark blue Vespa, flexing the handlebars and grinning at her in the most inviting way imaginable. Her heels clattering against the cobblestones, Alexa hurried over to him, swung one long leg over the moped, and eased herself onto the small seat. It was her first time on a moped, and she felt a thrill race through her, dispelling any leftover negativity.

  “Do you have a helmet for me?” Alexa whispered in Xavier’s ear as she wrapped her arms tight around his body, her bare knees squeezing against his sides. Xavier himself wasn’t wearing a helmet; his thick auburn hair blew into his eyes as he glanced back at her.

  “What would be the fun in that?” Xavier responded, his voice low but his eyes dancing.

  Oh, boy. Alexa inhaled sharply, and then returned Xavier’s mischievous smile. “You’re so bad,” she told him softly. Without meaning to, she heard Holly’s voice in her head—there’s something I don’t trust—but then flung the thought away.

  Xavier leaned in until his forehead touched Alexa’s. “Merci,” he whispered.
Then he faced forward to rev the engine, and the Vespa shot away from the corner, careening down the street.

  The wind lashed at Alexa’s face, and she hugged her arms as tight as she could around Xavier. I’m going to die, Alexa thought as Xavier zipped at breakneck speed around the next corner. I’m going to die with Holly mad at me and—A Citroen sped past them, and Xavier narrowly missed swerving into the small car. Alexa screamed, burying her face in his worn leather jacket, but Xavier only laughed, yelling into the wind that she should loosen up and have a good time.

  And as they zoomed through the city, with the sky darkening above them and the Eiffel Tower glimmering overhead, Alexa let herself surrender to both the wind that was savaging her hair and the wild sensation of flying forward at a million miles a minute. By the time she and Xavier reached rue Oberkampf, with its brightly lit bar signs and hopping ethnic restaurants, Alexa was wide-eyed and breathless, and her spirits were as high as they’d ever been on a night out in Paris.

  After trying in vain to pat her upswept hairdo back into place, Alexa swung her legs off the moped, took Xavier’s hand, and let him lead her into a place called Café Mercerie. They stopped at the grungy bar to get two bottles of dark amber beer—from a sullen bartender with an eyebrow ring who asked for Xavier’s autograph—and proceeded into a tiny, dimly lit back room lined with long sofas, where a DJ was spinning French hip-hop. There they were greeted by a cluster of artsy guys and girls—all wearing black-framed glasses, vintage band T-shirts, cuffed jeans, and tortured expressions—who, Xavier explained to Alexa, were his closest friends. Alexa felt a dash of disappointment; he hadn’t said anything about meeting up with friends, so Alexa, naturally, had assumed they’d be spending some serious time alone.

  But, she reminded herself, the night is still deliciously young.

  As Xavier went over to dole out cheek-kisses, his friends gazed critically up at Alexa through a veil of cigarette smoke—most of them not bothering to hide their smirks. Alexa began fiddling with her hair again, hoping it didn’t look too awful. Suddenly, even though she’d never had the experience, Alexa felt like a shy girl standing in front of the popular table at lunchtime. Holly popped into her head, but then Alexa dismissed all thoughts of her friend entirely.

  When Xavier returned to her side, hooked an arm around her waist and, in his low, laughing voice, introduced Alexa to the group as “ma copine,” Alexa felt her usual confidence bloom back up, and she grinned. Even if he’d been joking, Xavier Pascal had still called her his girlfriend—a title Alexa hadn’t even dared hope for. Best of all, none of his hipster buddies seemed to guess that Alexa was American—though one of them did comment that she resembled Kate Bosworth (Alexa felt slightly offended; the look she’d been going for was much more Sienna Miller).

  While his friends resumed their drinking and chatting, Alexa and Xavier nestled close together on one corner of a sofa, holding hands and sipping their beers. Next to them was a beanpole-skinny guy with a chipped front tooth named Etienne who, Xavier whispered to Alexa, was well-known across France for dipping himself in paint and then rolling across blank canvases. Alexa nodded, her pulse quickening at the realization that she was in the heart of Paris’s sizzling art scene. This is where I belong, she thought contentedly, resting her head in the crook of Xavier’s musky neck and feeling utterly at peace in this smoky, seedy bar. Alexa knew then, with utmost certainty, that she couldn’t fly back to New Jersey on Sunday. Leaving Xavier—and his fascinating world—seemed unfathomable.

  As if reading her mind, Xavier glanced down at her, his face breaking into a smile of such tenderness that Alexa wondered how she—or Holly—could have ever second-guessed him.

  “My little angel,” Xavier murmured in French, and Alexa realized it was the first time she’d ever been called that; after all, apart from her looks, Alexa was anything but angelic. But she relished hearing Xavier speak the words. Then he bent his head and gave her a soft, tantalizing kiss on the lips. Alexa let out a sigh of pleasure, savoring the feel of Xavier’s hand as it slid up her knee and along her thigh. Alexa wasn’t shy about PDA to begin with, and she adored that Xavier was caressing her in front of all his friends; it made their relationship somehow real—official.

  Her head still on Xavier’s shoulder, Alexa closed her eyes, feeling light and floaty as the alcohol—and his touch—went to her head all at once. To her delight, Xavier kept his hand on her leg as he began talking to Etienne about some museum or another. The boys’ art world banter drifted over Alexa, meaningless, until she heard Etienne ask Xavier about his gallery opening on Friday night. Snapping to attention, Alexa lifted her head off Xavier’s shoulder and sat up straighter, assuming now would be when he’d invite her to his big bash.

  But before Xavier could do any such thing, a girl with a scarlet-red bob sitting on Etienne’s other side announced to the group at large that Café Mercerie was “over” and they needed to move on to Le Scherkhan, another spot on rue Oberkampf. Alexa scowled at the scarlet-haired girl; not only had she unintentionally broken up Alexa’s electric moment with Xavier, but she’d usurped what was usually Alexa’s role—the one who decided when it was time to check out the next happening bar or club.

  Before Alexa could protest, everyone—Xavier included—was polishing off their drinks and standing up. Reminding herself that she had always wanted to go on a Parisian bar crawl, Alexa followed suit, and soon the whole pack was heading out of Café Mercerie, with Alexa and Xavier bringing up the rear. The minute she and Xavier stepped out onto the street, two middle-aged men wielding chunky cameras sprang into their path. Certain they were bandits, Alexa shrieked and clung to Xavier’s arm. But instead of grabbing her bag, the men began snapping pictures and shouting “Xavier! Monsieur Pascal! Un photo pour Le Soleil!”

  As Alexa blinked against the pop and glare of the cameras, she finally grasped who the two men were. Paparazzi! Real, actual paparazzi, from Le Soleil, the French gossip rag masquerading as a newspaper, which Alexa’s uncle Julien often made fun of. So Xavier had been right; the tabloids were always on his tail. But even as Alexa sensed Xavier tensing up beside her, she couldn’t help feeling a rush of raw excitement. So this was what it was like to be truly A-list—to have your privacy invaded, to be blinded by camera flashes, to see grown men clamoring like little kids for one precious shot of you.

  It was fantastic.

  And in the split second before Xavier lashed out in fury at the photo snappers, Alexa tossed them her most dazzling smile and posed, one hand on her hip, the other on Xavier’s arm. As the cameras clicked away, Alexa felt that this was a moment she’d been traveling toward all her life—she’d always secretly believed that she was destined for some sort of fame.

  Plus, she couldn’t wait for Holly Jacobson, along with Portia, Maeve, and everyone back home, to gnash their teeth in envy when Alexa’s face ended up all over international newsstands.

  Xavier, though, quickly put an end to Alexa’s fantasizing. Muttering an impressive string of curses, he shrugged out of Alexa’s grasp and charged toward the two men, jaw set and fists at the ready. Alexa gasped, wondering if she should run over and stop him, but she felt another current of excitement that kept her rooted to the spot. Xavier’s friends, on the other hand, started to scatter; Alexa heard one of them groan “Not again” and another remark that she wanted to be gone before the cops showed up.

  Clearly, Xavier vs. the paparazzi was a ridiculously common occurrence.

  “Back off, assholes,” Xavier threatened, and gave one of the men a hard shove. Alexa’s heart slammed against her ribs, her apprehension mingling with anticipation. Was there going to be a fight? She’d never witnessed a brawl on the street—needless to say, that didn’t happen all too often in tree-lined Oakridge, New Jersey. Holding her breath, Alexa watched as the paparazzo staggered backwards, almost dropping his camera. His partner in crime advanced toward Xavier, but Xavier shoved him as well, and the two men, clearly cowed, promptly scampered away into the
night.

  Xavier spun around to face Alexa, breathing hard, his smoke-colored eyes fiery and his mouth twisted in triumph.

  To Alexa, he’d never looked hotter.

  They rushed toward each other, and Alexa threw her arms around him in a “my hero!” gesture—even though, come to think of it, Xavier hadn’t really rescued her from anything. But when the guy in question was this sexy, who cared?

  Xavier scooped Alexa up, cupping her butt in his hands as she wrapped her legs around his hips, and there, in the middle of rue Oberkampf, they kissed—long and hungry and deep. Everything, everything—from the blur of the city lights to the roughness of Xavier’s stubble to the memory of that scandalous near-fight—turned Alexa on like crazy.

  She wrapped herself tighter around Xavier, aching for even more of him, but he ended the kiss and glanced over Alexa’s shoulder, his brow furrowing. “Did my friends leave?” he murmured, sounding only vaguely concerned.

  “I think so,” Alexa replied, as Xavier slowly released her and she dropped back to the ground. “They must have gone on to Le Scherkhan.” Suddenly, the last thing Alexa wanted to do was follow them; the world seemed to have boiled down to two bare essentials—her and Xavier.

  Xavier was right on her wavelength. He fixed his eyes back on Alexa’s face, his lips tilting up once again in a half-smile. “Good,” he whispered. “Let them go.” Then he reached down and grabbed both of Alexa’s hands, his expression suddenly serious. “Alexa, come with me. I want you to see my studio,” he declared. “It’s not far from here.” He nodded toward where he’d parked his moped.

  “Your studio?” Alexa echoed in giddy disbelief. Her cheeks were still flushed from the kiss, but they now burned even deeper. Though Alexa considered herself rather artistic, she’d never been in a real painter’s studio. And now she was being invited to Xavier Pascal’s. It was almost too much to absorb.