“Excuse me,” Ginny says.
There’s no response to her polite request.
“Hey, we’re trying to get on,” I say more forcefully.
Still no response.
As the elevator doors start to close, I hurl my stack of magazines in their direction. That finally gets their attention. They shuffle over a few steps, still glued together, and Ginny and I manage to squeeze in behind them.
“Give us some sugar, my little petunia,” the guy says, leaning down to kiss his bride.
“Petunia?” She giggles. At least I think it’s a giggle. The sound reminds me of my childhood pet guinea pig when he was demanding a carrot.
“You don’t like petunia?” He pulls her closer to him. “Okay, how about my little mother of dragons?”
She giggles again as he nuzzles her neck.
I groan. They’ve completely ruined Game of Thrones for me. How can I ever watch that again without thinking of squeaky guinea pigs engaging in way too much PDA?
“My little banana muffin?” he suggests, turning his body so that we have a close-up view of their lips locking. “My little baby cake?”
I gag while saying a prayer to the elevator gods. Please, please don’t let the elevator break down. Someone is going to get hurt if I’m stuck in here with these two.
Finally, we reach our floor and the doors open.
After I help Ginny out, I turn to them. “If you want my opinion, I think you should go with ‘my little guinea pig.’”
“Oh, that’s cute,” the girl squeaks.
As the doors shut behind us, I look at Ginny. “Some people just don’t seem to get sarcasm.”
She looks at me quizzically.
“I’ll explain later,” I say. “First, let’s get you to the clinic.”
While we wait for the doctor, Ginny chews on her lip as she scrolls through old texts from her ex-boyfriend.
“Why do you keep torturing yourself?” I ask. “You need to forget about him.”
“Easier said than done.” She shoves her phone back into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “It seems like everywhere I look there are reminders of him. My mom thinks I should start dating again. Casual dates with nice guys to help take my mind off what happened.”
“Hmm . . . I’m not sure that works. My friends are constantly trying to set me up, but I feel like I’m wasting my time. All guys are the same—focused on money.”
“How so?”
“They’re either rich already—you know, stuck-up country club types—or they’re obsessed with climbing the career ladder so that they can buy a big house and expensive car. They can’t understand how I can be happy working at a tattoo parlor and why I’d rather talk about art than designer purses. Even worse, most of them have sweaty hands.”
“Sounds like you’re not dating the right kind of guys. Maybe you should go for something different. Someone who doesn’t have a corporate job. What about that waiter you were flirting with earlier?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Flirting? Me? No way. Never.”
Ginny rubs her ankle and smiles. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. I’m not one of those girls who bats her eyelashes, makes gooey eyes at a guy, or, worse yet, giggles when he calls her a silly pet name.”
The nurse interrupts us. “The doctor is ready for you now.”
“You sure about those gooey eyes?” Ginny says over her shoulder as she limps into the doctor’s office. “I saw how you were looking at that waiter—positively gooey.”
“Was not,” I mutter at her retreating back.
* * *
While I wait for Ginny, I pass the time reading magazines. They’re full of ridiculous articles—like how to sculpt your glutes while mopping the floor, melting down crayons to make the ultimate hostess gifts, and decorating your hamster’s cage for Halloween. It’s a relief when Ginny finally appears in the reception area, leaning on a cane.
I jump up to help her. “What did the doctor say?”
“He thinks I just twisted it. Should be okay in a day or two with some rest. I need to ice it to bring down the swelling.”
“Let’s get you back to your cabin.”
As we walk toward the elevators, Isabelle rushes up to us.
“Are you okay, Ginny? I had no idea you were hurt until Pierre told me.”
“Who’s Pierre?” I ask.
“You know Pierre.” Isabelle turns and points at a guy standing at the end of the hallway.
“Hey, it’s the winking waiter,” Ginny says under her breath, giving me a sideways glance.
Pierre gives Isabelle a small wave. She motions him toward us. “Don’t be shy. Come join us.”
Ginny grins. “Shy? He’s not shy. At least not with Mia.”
“Shush,” I say, giving her a nudge.
As Pierre approaches us, he smiles at me, his eyes twinkling. Worried that this twinkle might turn into a wink, I avert my eyes and carefully study the carpeted floor. It’s not helpful. The plaid pattern is made up of slate blue, dark green, and deep brown colors—the exact hues in Pierre’s hazel eyes. Why couldn’t the cruise line have picked something in pinks and purples instead?
“How is your ankle, mademoiselle?” I hear Pierre asking Ginny.
“It’s okay. Mia’s helping me back to my cabin so that I can elevate my leg.”
I look up sharply. Why did she have to tell him my name?
“May I be of any assistance?” he offers.
Ginny gives me a mischievous glance, then says brightly, “Maybe you can walk with us and make sure we get there okay?”
“I think we can find our way back by ourselves,” I say. “It’s not like we need help pushing elevator buttons.”
“Oh, I’m an excellent button pusher,” Pierre says. “I would be happy to escort you ladies.”
“Great,” Ginny says.
She and Isabelle take the lead, with Pierre and I trailing behind. When we reach the elevator bank, I bite back a smile as Pierre dramatically presses the button.
“How do you girls know each other?” he asks while we wait for the elevator car.
“Mia and I have been friends forever,” Isabelle says. “We met at the—”
I hold up my hand and give her a warning look. “I’m sure he doesn’t want all the details.”
“I can’t believe you’re still embarrassed about what happened,” she says to me. Before I can protest, she continues. “Anyway, never mind how we met. The important thing is that she saved me from making a fool out of myself. She’s always been there for me. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
My first instinct is to roll my eyes at Isabelle’s sappiness. But when she puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a sideways hug, I get misty-eyed.
Thankfully, the elevator arrives, and everyone is distracted while I dab my eyes.
“It’s pretty full,” Isabelle says. “Should we wait for the next one?”
Ginny shakes her head. “Nah. We’ll take this one. Pierre and Mia can grab the next one.”
“Good idea,” Isabelle chimes in.
For someone with a twisted ankle, Ginny seems pretty spry as she hops into the elevator car before I can. She and Isabelle give us a cheeky wave as the doors close, pleased with their scheme to stick me with Pierre.
I scowl at them, then study the carpet again. For some unknown reason, the stupid hazel-colored plaid reminds me of what Pierre said to me on the first night of the cruise. Studiously avoiding eye contact with him, I casually ask, “That night at the buffet, what did you mean when you said you had been looking for an excuse to meet me? At least that’s what I think you said. My French is pretty rusty.”
“No, you got it right. That’s what I said.”
“Uh, okay, but what did you mean by it?”
“Oh, it was your Star Wars backpack. I wanted to know where you got it.”
I give Pierre a sideways glance. “You’re a Star Wars fan?”
“Guilty.”
I look b
ack down at the carpet, feeling oddly conflicted. On one hand, I’m glad the only reason he wanted to meet me was to geek out about Star Wars. But, on the other hand, I’m kind of disappointed that it was my backpack he was interested in . . . not me.
After a few moments, Pierre suggests that we take the stairs. “The elevators are busy this time of day.”
I shrug. “I can find my own way. You probably need to go do waiter stuff.”
“It’s no problem. I’m off duty.” He cups my elbow with his hand and guides me toward the stairwell. “Besides, it’s a good chance for me to get you alone.”
My stomach flutters. “Alone?”
“Uh-huh. Isabelle told me that you’re a tattoo artist. I want to get your opinion on a tattoo I’m thinking of getting.”
When I realize that it’s my professional opinion he wants, the stomach-fluttering stops. “The tribal one from the magazine? I thought you couldn’t have one on your wrist?”
He holds the door to the stairwell open for me. “No, this would be on my back. Easier to hide.”
As I walk down the stairs, I say over my shoulder, “I guess you can’t take your shirt off then if you want to keep it a secret.”
He doesn’t respond until we reach the landing. “I suppose I can take my shirt off in front of people who can keep a secret,” he says softly, his breath warm against the back of my neck. “Can you keep a secret, Mia?”
I spin around to face him. “Uh, sure. Secrets. Great at them.”
“Good to hear. Is that why you’re trying to unbutton my shirt?”
“Huh?”
“Your hands,” he says simply.
Somehow, my hands are pressed against his chest, my fingers toying with the buttons on his crisp, white shirt. The crisp, white shirt covering a hard, muscular chest. A chest that would look amazing with a tattoo on it . . . Whoa. What is going on here? Why am I thinking about Pierre’s chest? Why am I thinking about tattoos on his chest?
I pull my hands away. “Um, I gotta go. I forgot something at the doctor’s office.”
As I dart up the stairs, Pierre calls out, “I’ll catch you later, okay? I still want to get your opinion on that tattoo.”
I mutter something non-committal, continuing to run up the stairs. Isabelle would be proud of the pace I’m setting.
When I reach the next level, I slump on the floor and put my head in my hands. Then I cringe. My hands are covered in sweat. Me, of all people, with gross, sweaty hands. I groan as I grapple with two horrifying questions—Did I leave sweat prints all over Pierre’s shirt? And what is it about this guy that caused me to break out into a nervous sweat?
3
Cornettos vs. Croissants
A week later, Isabelle and I are sipping cappuccinos in Italy. This was not the original plan, as Isabelle likes to remind me.
When the cruise ship docked in near Rome, we had planned to make our way directly to Germany. But we had been having so much fun with Ginny on the transatlantic crossing to Europe, I suggested that we join her in Ravenna, a quaint city near the Adriatic Sea. While Ginny was in cooking school during the day, Isabelle and I could explore the city. Then, in the evenings, we’d all hang out and eat delicious Italian food.
After a quick search online, I snagged a last-minute deal on an adorable vacation rental in the heart of the city, and we hopped on the train with Ginny. Now here we are, sitting in a picturesque courtyard, surrounded by terracotta planters overflowing with flowers, and listening to the sound of water bubbling in a marble fountain.
“Admit it,” I say to Isabelle. “Spending a week in Italy was a great idea of mine.”
She furrows her brow. “Well, I suppose.”
“You’re just upset because you didn’t have time to do hours and hours of extensive research, make a detailed itinerary, and—”
Isabelle holds up her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with being organized.”
“There’s organized, then there’s organized. No wonder you loved being in the Air Force so much. All that structure. You knew exactly what you were supposed to do every minute of the day.” I shudder. “I couldn’t have ever handled it.”
Isabelle laughs so hard, she almost snorts coffee out of her nose. “No kidding. You wouldn’t have lasted a minute in the military.” Then her face grows serious. “Actually, that’s one of the things I love about you—you’re so impetuous.”
“Impetuous?” I ask. “Is that one of your Scrabble words?”
“You have Star Wars. I have Scrabble,” she says with a smile.
I shrug. “I guess they both start with the letter ‘S.’”
“You know what I mean. You’re carefree. You make decisions on the spur of the moment. You’re not afraid to try new things.”
I squeeze her hand. “You’re perfect as you are. And besides, we make a good team.”
“Yeah, kind of like The Odd Couple.”
“Which one was that one again?”
“We just saw it on the cruise ship. How is it that you can only remember movies that have Bruce Willis in them or are part of the Star Wars franchise?” Isabelle rolls her eyes. “It was the one starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau as Felix and Oscar. You’re Oscar, the fun-loving slob—”
“Oh, yeah, I remember now. You’re Felix, the neurotic control freak.”
“I don’t know about freak,” she says with a smile. Then her expression sobers. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too, but you’ll meet lots of fun people at your new job.”
She fidgets with her bracelet. “You know how much I hate meeting new people. I get so shy.”
“But you did great making friends with Ginny and Celeste on the cruise. In fact, you were the one who introduced yourself to Ginny.”
“That was hard, but I’m trying to force myself out of my comfort zone. Working with my new therapist has made me realize that I need to take more chances.” She gulps. “But I may have gone too far accepting this job in Germany.”
Before I can reassure her that everything is going to be okay, a baritone voice behind me says, “Buongiorno, signore.”
I turn and see Lorenzo, the owner of the apartment we’re renting. He sets a pastry box on the wrought-iron table, then leans down and greets us European-style with kisses on our cheeks.
“I brought some Italian delicacies for you to try.” He looks around the courtyard. “Where is your bellissimo friend, Ginny?”
“She’s at her cooking class,” Isabelle says.
Lorenzo’s shoulders slump. “That is a shame.”
“But she’ll be back here tonight,” Isabelle says. “She’s going to meet us for dinner.”
His face brightens. “Good. Perhaps I will see her then.”
I smile, wondering if I should warn Ginny that Lorenzo has the hots for her. First, there was that American guy on the train who kept flirting with her. Now there’s this Italian dude who appears to be after her.
“Try one of these,” Lorenzo says, placing a crescent-shaped pastry in front of me.
“It looks like a croissant.”
“A croissant?” The horrified expression on his face reminds me of the look on my mother’s face when I came home from high school one day with a purple mohawk. “Croissants are French . . . how do you say it . . . they are ripugnante.”
Even though I don’t speak Italian, I can tell that ripugnante is not something one should aspire to be. Especially if one is a pastry.
Lorenzo continues, “This is a cornetto. It means ‘little horn’ in English. Try it. It is delicious. Far superior to a croissant.”
Isabelle takes a delicate bite of hers and murmurs appreciatively. I take a much larger bite, and groan with pleasure. Inside the soft, eggy dough is a rich custard cream. I quickly devour the rest of it.
Lorenzo smiles and hands me another one. “It is good to see a woman that has a healthy appetite.”
My phone buzzes. As I lick cream off my fingers and reach for it, Isabell
e says, “Is that Pierre again?”
“What do you mean again?”
“He’s texted you a million times since we got off the cruise ship.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I say.
“Really. Count them up for me. I’ll bet there’s at least a hundred.”
“Sure, but you’re going to lose.” Scrolling through my texts, I lose count after the thirtieth. “Okay, maybe there were a few from him,” I admit.
“Who is Pierre?” Lorenzo asks. “That is a French name.”
“He’s Mia’s boyfriend,” Isabelle jokes.
“No, he’s not. He’s just a friend.”
“Good,” Lorenzo says. “The French do not understand pastry.”
I laugh and take a selfie of myself eating a cornetto. I send it to Pierre along with the message, Cornettos – 1, Croissants – 0.
He responds immediately. You need to get out of Italy. They’re brainwashing you with inferior pastries.
They don’t taste inferior to me.
That’s the brainwashing talking. Come to France so we can deprogram you.
But these have cream inside.
Wait until you try our pain au chocolat. Croissants filled with chocolate.
I smile mischievously as I type my reply. I don’t like chocolate.
WHAT? I thought all girls liked chocolate.
But I’m not like other girls.
He sends a GIF of Princess Leia that says, “She’s royalty.”
Hardly, I type back. I’m a commoner.
There’s nothing common about you.
I roll my eyes at his cheesiness, then text him a bunch of cheese emojis.
Are you saying you want a cheese croissant? That can be arranged.
I decide it’s time to set the record straight. Confession: I love chocolate.
Phew. I don’t have to return the box of chocolates I bought you.
You bought me chocolate?
To celebrate.
Celebrate what?
Your new job! Check your email.
I munch on a third cornetto while I check my inbox. These are delicious. I’m afraid Pierre’s croissants are up against some stiff competition. As I read through the email Pierre sent me, I almost drop my pastry in shock.
Smitten with Croissants Page 3