He wore a slightly rumpled pale yellow button-down Oxford shirt, tan pants, and very crisp white sneakers, without socks.
I swore if I had my copy of The Preppy Handbook, his picture would have been in there. His dark blond hair hung almost to his very high cheekbones unless he pushed it back. The ends brushed his collar in the back.
Angular cheekbones. Check.
Ruddy, prone to blush, pale English skin. Check.
Patrician arrogance. Check.
Mr. Darcy school of charm. Check.
“If the lady insists upon a kiss, then a kiss is what she’ll receive.” He strode closer and kissed my cheek. I froze, holding my breath. Then, slowly, deliberately, his breath brushed across my lips as he moved to kiss the other cheek.
Dumbstruck, I silently blinked at him as he stepped back.
“Kit’s not a prince. He’s not even a baron, poor bastard.” A short, dark haired guy slapped Christopher’s shoulder.
Standing next to me, a wide-eyed Maggie observed the subsequent scuffle and play-fighting between apparent friends. Or blood enemies. I couldn’t tell.
“Who’s Kit?” she whispered. “Is he the one who kissed you?”
“I have no idea, Margaret.” I clasped her elbow. “What’s with the formal names?”
“Maggie and Lizzy sound too American. Our given names are more sophisticated.”
“We sound like Thatcher and the Queen.”
“Or the youngest Dashwood and elder Bennet sister in Miss Jane Austen’s novels.” Christopher interrupted our conversation.
“Dashwood and Bennet could be lady crime fighters. I like it.” Maggie beamed a smile in his direction. I realized I wasn’t the only one of us to notice his arrogant charm.
It had to be the accent. Maybe it was ingrained in us from a young age to find British accents appealing. Our generation had stayed up all night, if we were lucky, to watch Princess Di marry a future king in a real life fairy tale wedding. Even I had the Princess Di haircut in elementary school. Something in our blood must have remembered the old colonial days of British rule. Maybe somewhere deep down, some of us still wanted to be told what to do by a British man.
I thought about my first real crush on a fictional character. It hadn’t been Mr. Darcy or a prince, but Sebastian Flyte and his teddy bear Aloysius in Brideshead Revisited. I could still recall watching the mini-series on PBS with my older sister and parents. We’d been allowed to stay up later than our normal bedtimes to watch classic literature and be educated.
At eleven years old, I’d missed all the homosexual overtones in Sebastian’s sad story. All I saw was dreamy Anthony Andrews. He was a charming blond, too, and the first in a long line of bad boys who stole my heart.
“Come on, let’s help the American girls with their bags.” Christopher pointed to our luggage piled near the bumper.
“Anything else in the boot?” a short freckled redheaded guy asked, tapping the trunk.
“You mean the trunk?” I asked.
He looked at our suitcases. “You have a trunk, too?”
“No, the car’s trunk.”
He regarded me in confused silence.
“The thing your hand is resting on right now?”
“That’s the boot.”
“This is going to be a long year if we can’t communicate while all speaking English, let alone French.” Maggie shrugged her backpack over her shoulder.
“Why are you in this school? Don’t British colleges have their own study abroad programs?” I didn’t mean to sound nosy, but I was curious.
“Study abroad is a thoroughly American idea. Joe and I are here for international business studies and language immersion. Different program, but we share the château for a week of orientation and immersion.” Christopher pointed at the boot-trunk guy.
“And him?” I gestured to the dark haired one.
“He’s Joe’s twin, James. And a complete prat.”
James attempted to trip Christopher by sticking out his foot. Christopher nimbly jumped over the obstacle without breaking his pace.
“Why did he call you Kit?” I followed behind the trio of guys carrying our bags into an enormous mansion.
“Kit’s my old name from nursery days. I prefer Christopher.”
“I prefer Lizzy, if I’m being honest.”
He set my bag down at the bottom of an enormous stone staircase. “Then Lizzy is what I shall call you. Girls’ rooms are upstairs and to the left. Your names should be on the door. Leave your bags here if you don’t want to heft them up the stairs. Someone will bring them up for you later.”
The three of them said good-bye and left us.
“This place is a palace.” Maggie’s voice was hushed like we were in a church. The château dated back to the eighteenth century. Its pale plaster exterior with enormous shutter-flanked windows and long gravel drive were understated compared to the ornate interior.
“I feel like I’m in a fairytale.” She spun around in a small circle, her head tipped back to take in the high ceilings and carved moulding. “This is definitely not Olympia, Washington.”
Watching her face light up for the first time since we woke up yesterday morning restored my faith this would be our greatest adventure yet. “Let’s go find our room. Maybe there will be rows of little twin beds like in Madeline.”
We giggled and raced each other up the stairs like little girls. When we got to the top, something golden below caught my eye. Christopher and his arched eyebrow still stood in the foyer, his face impassive with the exception of the aforementioned eyebrow. I couldn’t tell if it arched in amusement or judgment. I gave him a little wave like I’d seen the Queen of England make to her loyal subjects and another curtsy.
He smiled, shaking his head, but returned the wave with a slight bow. I didn’t know what about him made me want to curtsy, but if he gave me his gorgeous grin again, I’d keep doing it.
“Keep Young and Beautiful” ~ Annie Lennox
OUR ROOM HAD four twin beds lined up in a row along one wall. A mural of a blue sky covered the middle of the ceiling. Fat cherubs holding ribbons decorated the corners of the room. Every single roll of their chub had been carefully detailed, a reminder not to over-indulge in all the amazing buttery, fattening food in France. As much as I wanted to eat everything in sight, I also didn’t want to gain back all the weight I’d fought hard to lose in high school and kept off so far in college.
Maggie and Jo were lucky. They seemed to be able to eat anything and never really work out yet never gained weight. Selah embraced her curves. Hell, she flaunted her breasts like prizes she won at a carnival. Meanwhile, I carefully monitored calories, the scale and how my clothes fit on a daily basis.
The other beds in the room had been claimed. Our two roommates were from different colleges. Tall Amy went to Middlebury and glasses wearing Lara attended Antioch. In an attempt to memorize all the new names, I began assigning physical characteristics to names. Ginger James. Brown Joe. Eyebrow Christopher. I couldn’t forget his name.
The four of us wandered down to the dining room for lunch. My catnap in the car had given me a second wind. Maggie moaned about it being the middle of the night and the wrong time for sandwiches.
The longest dining room table I’d ever seen centered the equally enormous room. Three chandeliers twinkling with crystals hung above it. A buffet lined one wall, filled with tiny sandwiches and cold sides.
“I feel underdressed.” Maggie wore a sundress and sandals. If she felt underdressed my jeans and Chinese Mary Janes were probably some social faux pas.
We followed Amy and Lara through the line and sat across from them at the long polished wood table. I glanced around for the three other familiar faces and spotted them clumped together at the far end. Christopher gave me a small wave, and because I was already sitting and couldn’t curtsy, I bowed my head.
“Are you saying grace?” Amy asked me.
Maggie snorted into her hand.
“Amen,” I
whispered while pinching Maggie’s thigh under the table.
She pinched my hand in retaliation.
I moaned loudly when I bit into what appeared to be a cheese sandwich, but tasted of creaminess and butter surrounded by delicious bread. It probably had a thousand calories, but I didn’t care.
Apparently my moan had been louder than I thought. I lifted my gaze and met the cocked eyebrow of judgment. I didn’t care. Butter!
Madame Picou and an older man in a neckerchief entered the room, calling everyone’s attention to them.
“Is he wearing an ascot?” Maggie whispered to me.
“It’s a neckerchief.”
“I am awed and disturbed you know the proper name for men’s neck fashions.”
“You forget my uncle works in fashion in Miami. He’s educated me on all things having to do with style.”
Madame Picou cleared her throat. “This is Monsieur Laurent. He’s the coordinator of the château and our sister programs in Paris. Please welcome him.”
He spoke in a rapid stream of French and I caught about every third word. Even though it sounded like he said haricot vert, I felt pretty confident his speech didn’t include the topic of green beans.
Everyone chuckled and I joined them, lost in confusion but laughing. My laughter continued after the others stopped. All thirty faces turned to focus on me. I ducked my head, but not before my eye caught the arched eyebrow of judgment.
I focused on folding and refolding my napkin on my lap until the speech ended.
Maggie, sensing my discomfort, summarized the introduction in a way that sounded like she had questions she wanted me to clarify.
I reached under the table and squeezed her hand in thanks.
The Paris program enrolled students from all over the US, whose own colleges didn’t have study abroad campuses. We’d only be roomies for the week of orientation. When we returned to the city for the semester, we’d be assigned to live with a French family. I hoped Maggie and I wouldn’t end up on opposite sides of Paris. Even with the Metro and bicycles, the city sprawled for miles.
The first several weeks of classes were a blur. I had beginner’s level language classes while Maggie took intermediate. Our host families lived about six blocks from each other not far from the Pantheon in the 5th Arrondissement.
Christopher and the twins lived in the same beautiful beaux art apartment building close to Les Invalides in the 7th. Unlike our host families, their situation involved tiny studio apartments and a shared hall bathroom on the top floor. An older grand-mere figure fed them breakfast and dinners in her grand apartment two floors below. Their living arrangement sounded romantic, like struggling American authors and painters who moved to Paris in the early twentieth-century.
My own host family lived in a more modern building without all the character and ghosts of artists past. Julie, Sebastien, and little Olivier were all trés nice.
Quickly, I figured out part of my housing situation would be to tutor Olivier in English while they taught me French. I soon discovered my French was worse than I thought. A precocious five year old regularly beat me on vocabulary tests.
Mags’ family consisted of a single mom, Bernadette, and her daughter. When the daughter went to stay with her father, the mother went out. And typically took us with her. She knew the coolest clubs and jazz bars. Bernadette turned out to be one of the best parts of Paris.
She also knew of a broken payphone along the Seine near Shakespeare and Company, the famous bookstore and gathering place for English language ex-pats and homesick exchange students. The phone wasn’t really broken. It allowed international calls for domestic rates. Knowledge of the phone was top secret, carefully shared, and protected.
The nine hour time difference made calling the West Coast almost impossible. We decided middle of the night our time would be best to reach our friends in Washington.
One night, Maggie and I rode our bikes to the secret phone at one in the morning. Tucked near the fence of a small park on a narrow street, the phone appeared the same as any of the hundreds of others scattered around the city.
We huddled with our heads next to the receiver in order for both of us to talk and hear at the same time. The phone rang and rang before Quinn finally answered. Maggie cried when she heard his voice. I got a little teary, too. He passed us around to Ben and Jo. Selah picked up last and told us Gil was at work. Seeing the disappointment in Maggie’s face at the news, I wrapped my arm around her waist and gave a squeeze.
A short line formed behind us, despite the late hour. I recognized Christopher’s tall form at the end with the twins. He waved at us. I smiled at him.
We promised to call back soon, giddy we could call home on our limited budgets. After hugging, we pulled our bikes from the fence and walked toward our friends.
Christopher greeted Maggie with the standard double-cheek kiss. When it was my turn, I went right instead of left. His lips brushed against mine for a brief second before he corrected himself and kissed my cheek. He held my shoulders still as he repeated the kiss on my other cheek, never acknowledging our kiss faux pas.
My giggle and the heat on my cheeks betrayed my surprise. Was this a first kiss? “I’ll get the double-kiss right eventually.”
His own laugh sounded cocky, confident. “Let me know if you need a practice partner.”
I stepped back and slipped on a cobblestone, righting myself as I laughed nervously.
“Out past your curfew, young ladies?” Christopher tugged on my coat sleeve, drawing my attention back to the conversation.
“I’m staying with Maggie tonight.” Everyone knew about my host family’s strict policies. I felt twelve instead of twenty.
Christopher nodded, looking serious. He brushed his fingers against the cuff of my jacket.
“You don’t seem the type to need discounted international calling.” I prodded. “What brings you out in the middle of the night?”
“We were at a pub down the street that serves proper pints and wanted to try out the magical phone for ourselves.”
“Maybe he thought you’d be here.” James elbowed Christopher and got a headlock in return.
Maggie cleared her throat as the guys scuffled around. Clearly they’d been drinking. “We should go back to the apartment.”
I leaned my bike against my hip. “I’m kind of enjoying the show.”
Somehow Joe had involved himself as well. Two against one, but Kit held his own, ending with both twins in headlocks.
“Sorry about these wankers. They’re pissed,” Christopher apologized, looking embarrassed and flushed.
I twisted a lock of hair around my finger, staring at his handsome face and messy hair.
“Lizzy?” Maggie spoke.
“Hmm?”
“We should get going.”
“You must stay. Kit’s been hoping to run into you all night.” Joe jumped a few feet away from Christopher’s reach.
I studied their faces, trying to see if Joe’s words were true.
“We could go for a ride along the Seine,” Christopher suggested, his voice full of hope.
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
“It’s Paris. The city of lights. You can’t see those lights during the afternoon.” His logic was sound.
“It’s really late.” Maggie yawned, or more likely fake yawned, to make her point.
“Then Lizzy and I’ll go together. I’ll drop her off at your apartment in one piece.” Kit’s expression turned serious and his hand reached for my sleeve again.
I stared at Maggie, weighing my options. Roaming the empty streets of Paris for free long distance was one thing. Riding around in the wee hours with a guy, something else entirely. And completely outside my norm. Both were mad ideas, but the latter felt decidedly more reckless.
Maggie tilted her head and pressed her lips together for a second, telling me it was my decision.
He tugged on my sleeve again.
“Maybe a short ride?”
/>
“Sure. We can meet back here. Margaret can hang out with the boys, who will promise to be perfectly behaved.” He directed his words at the twins, who were occupied with kicking each other.
With a pleading look, I begged Mags to agree.
“I suppose I could call my parents.” She sounded reluctant, but didn’t say no. “Okay. Do you have a bike?”
He brushed his hair back. “A flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan.”
Maggie pushed her bike toward him. “It’s too small for you, but it’ll have to do.”
Sitting on her bicycle with its wicker basket, Christopher looked silly. He lifted the seat to accommodate his long legs. It helped. A little.
“Off we go. Once around the island?” He glanced back at me as he pedaled in the direction of the nearest bridge.
I kicked away from the curb and pedaled after him over the Seine.
He pointed out obvious landmarks any tourist would recognize, gesturing widely with both hands off the handlebars. I laughed, pedaling to keep up with him as he swerved through the empty streets. Reaching the buttresses behind Notre Dame, he slowly coasted. Holding onto my bike with one hand, his shoulder brushed against mine.
He might have been drunk, or at the very least, tipsy, but I liked this carefree version. All too soon, the bridge to return us to our friends came into view. Silently, I begged him to go straight for another lap, but resigned myself when he took the turn. I’d left Maggie for too long already.
We passed the green shuttered book stalls along the river before making the final turn to end our adventure.
Maggie stood at the phone, lost in conversation. The line from earlier had disappeared, leaving only her and the twins. I felt grateful they were with her.
After sliding off the bike, Christopher leaned it against the fence. I slipped down from the seat, resting my feet on the ground, but still straddling my bike. Maggie finished her call and joined us, reclaiming her bicycle from him.
He pulled on my jacket. “A delightful expedition. We should do it again. Meet here in the middle of the night and have an adventure.”
We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) Page 20