by S. L. Scott
“Stay. I just ordered for us.”
“You did?” He nods once while his eyes stay directed on me, seeming to see through my lie. I ease down again, relaxing back into the chair again. “I want to see the Eiffel Tower.”
“Ahhh, the elusive Tour Eiffel.”
I laugh. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“Just a wee bit.”
“Don’t mock me. I’ve waited my whole life to be here. I plan to do the touristy thing. I need to see it all.”
“I could show you a few sites.”
The waiter arrives with wine, a baguette and butter before I think too deep into the offer. He fills our glasses then leaves again.
“Wine? Are you trying to get me drunk in the afternoon?”
He laughs. “Will a few glasses of wine get you drunk?”
“Probably.”
“Bottoms up.” Holding up his glass, he says, “À la vôtre.”
Tapping mine against his, I say, “À la vôtre.”
* * *
One bottle leads to two and I’m toast. All the bread in Paris can’t stop the world from spinning. With Olivier’s arm around my waist and my arm over his shoulder, together we stumble back to the hostel before the sun sets. It’s innocent enough, though I find my body leaning on him more than I probably needed to.
The redhead waiting in the lobby for him is not as amused by our laughter or that we’re touching, much less draped on each other…even if platonically. She yells at Olivier in French as he smiles, dropping his arm from me to go to her. As he speaks, his voice is calm and I can just make out that he’s telling her we are only friends. Even with a cloudy mind, it sounds more like placating if I’m judging, which I am. The redhead slaps Olivier across the face and pushes between us to exit.
When the door slams closed, I turn to him, wide-eyed and in shock as he rubs his cheek. His lids grow heavy again as if that was merely a disruption and he offers his hand out to me. When I take it, he starts walking and says, “We must sleep together.”
Stopping instantly, I shake my head. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. No.”
“Whoa?” he questions, confusion coloring his expression.
“We can’t sleep together.” My voice gets pitchy and my words come out faster. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
His words slur, the wine winning. “Kanndeeese, sleep,” he says, closing his eyes, but not releasing my hand in a half-attempt to show me what he means. When he opens them again, a big smile appears. “Sleep. Comprendre?”
Nodding, I reply, “Sleep. Oui.”
My heartbeat picks up speeding past our pace as we take each step of the four flights. His hand remains warm as I feel my body begin to freeze up from nerves. It’s been months since I had a date much less held hands or ‘slept’ with someone. With a quick glance over his shoulder, our eyes meeting in the moment, he smiles—confident, but comforting. The door is opened and our hands fall apart. I walk past him and go to my case to dig out my toothbrush, paste, and pajamas as he silently takes his jacket off. Holding the brush and toothpaste in the air, I say, “I’ll be back,” as if I need to explain to him why I’m leaving.
I hurry out of the room and into the hallway while rolling my eyes at myself. The awkwardness I was dreading when we came up here takes over my body. Walking down the hall, I go inside the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Leaning against the hollow wood door, I look in the mirror. Maybe it’s the drunk goggles I’m looking through, but I don’t look as bad as I thought I would.
After brushing my teeth and finishing up in the bathroom, I enter the room again. Closing the door softly behind me, I wait in the dimly lit room, unsure if Olivier is still awake. When my eyes adjust to the low light, I tiptoe forward. His body is still as he lays on the lower bunk bed. With just the little nightstand lamp on, I see him turn. The energy we had earlier alters into something else causing my breath to slow like my pace. My gulp is hard, but I hope he doesn’t hear. I tuck my toiletries back into the bag on top of my suitcase.
“Come here,” he says, watching my every move.
Going against all my typical instincts, I walk closer and sit down on the bed near his feet. He takes my hand and says, “Trust me. Sleep. That’s all.”
There’s a saying that you shouldn’t trust people who say trust me. As my mind runs over all the reasons I shouldn’t climb into bed next to him, my body is already going against the rationale. He lifts the covers as I lift my legs and slip under the sheet. I try not to think about how many people have slept in this bed or used this pillow or the thin, scratchy blanket, and I definitely don’t want to think about the redhead who slapped him. Instead I lay here, the top of my head leaning against the side of his. His fingers intertwine with mine. His skin is a little rough, something I hadn’t noticed on our walk home, but I like it.
He clears his throat, then whispers, “Are you tired?”
“No,” I whisper back.
While staring up at the bottom of the top bed, I feel his breath before I feel his forehead against my cheek. I stay still. His lips press lightly to my skin, alighting every nerve in my body. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the subtle touch right before it disappears. I keep my eyes closed a moment longer so I don’t seem desperate.
“Bon soir, my Américain Rayon de Soleil.”
I exhale a shaky breath as quietly as I can, and reply, “Bon soir.”
The lamp is turned off and we lay there in the dark, wide awake, trying to regulate our breathing to sound normal. Judging by my racing heart, I’m anything but normal right now. Every sound in the room and noise from the street below is magnified until he squeezes my hand. The gesture is reassuring and I settle down, closing my eyes again.
My first day in Paris and I’m falling asleep next to one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen and he’s French. I swoony-sigh, then eventually fall asleep next to Olivier.
Chapter 3
The bed dips and I feel cold. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.
I was wide awake at three in the morning. Just after five I fell asleep again. I never moved from my spot. It felt too good in the nook of Olivier’s arm, pressed against his body, so I stayed.
The door shuts and I stare at the back of it. While he’s gone down the hall, I quickly cup my hand in front of my mouth and huff, smelling my breath. Fortunately it’s not bad. Phew! I pull my t-shirt down to cover my waist just as the door reopens, startling me.
“You’re awake,” Olivier says. He stops just inside the room and looks past me toward the window. “I need to go. I have work. D’accord? Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his shaggy morning hair. “Okay?”
I look at him, but remain lying down and pull the covers up to my neck, suddenly feeling too exposed and vulnerable in the light of the new day. “Okay.”
He walks to a chair and grabs the shirt he wore last night. As he pulls it over his head, I admire his body. His stomach is more defined than any of the guys I’ve dated before. I can tell he’s more into how he looks, and puts effort into it, staying in shape more than my last boyfriend who was a bio-chem major.
As he tugs at the long sleeves of the blue Henley, I ask, “What do you do? For work?”
“Odd jobs for cash. Today, I’m working down at a flower shop on La Rive Gauche.” With socks and shoes in hand, he sits on the end of the bed and asks, “What about you, Kandace?”
“I’m in school. University.”
With a nod, he looks back down and finishes getting dressed. He stands up. “What university?”
“Barnard College.”
“Ahhh, New York City.”
“Yes, how did you know that?”
He laughs, but I’m not in on the inside joke. Grabbing his jacket that hangs from the corner of the bed frame, he says, “I hope you get to see le Tour Eiffel. Au revoir.” Leaving the room before I have a chance to say goodbye, I’m left totally confused by him. But confusion over men is nothing new. I’ve spent time on my future. Men have always come second
ary or even third or fourth. Most days they don’t make my list of priorities at all if I’m completely honest. I’m looking for love that sweeps me off my feet.
Tired of analyzing my dating situation, I flip the covers from my body and get out of bed. I lay my suitcase on the floor and open it, getting my stuff for the day out of it because Paris awaits.
* * *
I stop into a bakery for a croissant, feeling more like a local just having the French pastry in my hands. Walking along the narrow street, I turn a corner and look in all directions. I’m not sure where I am exactly, but I know where I want to go. Sitting down on a nearby bench, I pull my small map out of my purse and try to get my bearings without being obvious that I’m using a map to do so. I wish my phone worked over here. I could GPS it so easily, but I don’t have it, so old school it is.
When I figure out which direction I want to go, I walk with purpose.
* * *
The Louvre is even more beautiful than I ever imagined. I take the long route and wander the halls, losing hours to the beauty of art and design. Extra time is spent with the Venus de Milo statue—the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, admiring her beauty and seeking her strength.
I leave the museum when the sun is low in the sky. I’m not sure how I’m getting back to the hostel, but considering it took me so long to walk here, I can’t do the same walk back. Tucking my camera into my bag, I head to the nearest side street away from the chaos of the Louvre crowds and hail a cab.
The cabbie looks at me in the mirror as I slide inside, “Where you going?”
“You speak English,” I ask, surprised.
The cab driver rests his arm on the back of his seat, turning toward me. “Here’s a little tip for you. Most French speak English. They just choose not to let you in on their secret.” He turns back and laughs. Looking at me in the rearview mirror, he asks again, “Where to?”
I show him the piece of paper with the address written on it. He doesn’t say anything, but takes off so fast that I fall back in my seat. Fifteen minutes later, I exhale loudly, relieved we’re alive. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the driving here.
After paying, I enter the hostel. “Kandeese,” the guy who checked me in greets me with a wide smile. A different girl from yesterday sits on his lap on the green sofa. He physically picks the girl up and sets her down next to him before standing. “We did not officially meet yesterday.” With his hand out, he says, “I’m Stefan.” When I take his hand to shake, he immediately turns it, bringing it to his lips. If I’m not mistaken, I feel his tongue touch my skin… and I’m totally grossed out. “Enchante,” he adds.
“Bonjour,” I manage to say just as the door to my right opens. We turn and see Olivier enter. He looks tired. His eyes go from Stefan’s and my adjoined hands, then we make eye contact but he doesn’t say anything. He walks past us, the door hitting the wall after he opens it, and he goes upstairs.
Pulling my hand and wiping it down my skirt, the girl on the couch says something. It sounds a lot like she’s upset with Stefan. She stands and walks to the door, Stefan immediately following with his hands in the air in frustration as he gripes back at her.
Not wanting to stay for the rest of their show, I head upstairs. I stop on the third flight, my feet still throbbing from dressing for style instead of comfort while walking the large museum today. The door is cracked open. The room is lit by the lamp instead of the overhead light. Feeling like I’m interrupting the silence, I walk in slowly, then shut the door behind me. “Hi,” I whisper.
“Bonjour,” Olivier responds quietly. He lies on the bed, his legs sprawled out, his shoes still on.
Not sure what to do—check on him, go to dinner and give him some time alone, ignore it all and go to bed, I go to my suitcase and pretend to busy myself. Considering I just got here yesterday, this is already feeling too heavy. I get my sneakers out, then slip them on. Grabbing my purse and a sweater, I’m about to head for the door to leave, when he calls me. “Kandace?”
Standing at the end of the bunk beds, I look over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
The springs of the mattress protest as he gets up, coming closer. He stops right in front of me. He leans in so close, his lips almost to mine. I stop breathing and close my eyes. I hear shuffling as he reaches past me. I open my eyes. He’s holding his jacket that was hanging behind me and he asks, “Do you have plans tonight?”
I exhale louder than I mean, my breath coming out as a sigh. “No. I’m hungry, so I thought I’d go out and find a restaurant nearby.”
With a firm smirk in place, he asks, “Can I come with you?”
His sexy ways are gonna be the death of me, but he’s totally irresistible, so I reply, “Yes.”
With my heart still racing with a million and one different emotions, I grip my sweater and purse tighter as he slips his jacket on and we walk out the door together. The small lobby is empty and we leave, silence holding us together.
Once outside, I put my sweater on and let him lead since he knows Paris. With my hands tucked in my sweater pockets, I ask, “Why are you here?”
“I like you. I wanted to spend more time with you. It’s easy to be with you.”
“I’ll take the compliment, but I meant Paris staying in a hostel. Are you not from Paris,” I say, nudging him with my elbow playfully.
“Why does anyone end up in Paris—debt, a girl, bad guys, parent problems, the draw of the big city.”
“That’s a lot of reasons.”
He replies with a laugh, but it’s tethered to deeper emotions. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I stop walking and gasp, shocked by the question. With my hands on my hips, I ask, “Do you think I would have slept with you if I had a boyfriend?”
This time his laugh is hardy and loud, causing me to look around to verify we’re not making a scene on the street. Stepping closer, Olivier takes my hands from my hips fighting the resistance on my part. When my body finally slacks, he holds my hands in his and smiles at me. “I don’t think anything bad about you. I do think you’re ehhh, how do you say, virginal, not deflowered.”
My mouth drops open. “Oh my God, we can just stop with this conversation right now.”
He’s even more charming than usual when he seems so concerned about me. “I make you uncomfortable?”
“You make me uncomfortable. Yes.” I pull my sweater tight as I cross my arms over my chest and begin walking again.
Jogging to catch up, he bumps into me. “Kandace, I’m sorry.” His accent seems to thicken through the sincerity of his words. “I do not mean to make you feel this way. I only meant, I do not think you are slutty.”
“Ugh. Just stop already. It’s getting worse, not better. I think there’s a language barrier or this whole conversation is lost in translation. It’s best if we just end it and get some food.” I walk away hoping he joins me though I’m still a little frustrated being called a virgin by him. How would he know anything about my sexual history? I’ve had sex and I don’t have to prove otherwise to him. If I don’t come off easy, that’s not a bad thing in my book.
This time he moves in front of me, forcing me to stop and face him. His eyes roam my heated face and I involuntarily lick my lips when his blues focus on them. There’s no assured smile that follows. Instead, he looks me in the eyes and says, “I meant no offense.” His accent is so light that I don’t notice it at all. I realize in twenty-four hours I’m already getting used to him. He’s become a part of my Paris world so much so that no matter how out of sorts I momentarily feel, being around him also brings me comfort. “I’m sorry.”
“Merci,” I reply, trying to get us back on track and get myself back in the spirit of the country I’m visiting. After eyeing the bistro up ahead, I smile, feeling better already. “How about this place?”
“Très bien.” And like that, the captivating Frenchman has wooed me back into his good graces.
Chapter 4
“Vous êtes vingt et un?” he a
sks. Bizarrely, this is one of the phrases I remember from the class for some reason.
“I’ll be twenty-two in two days.”
“Birthday in Paris. Sounds planned.”
“Very much so.”
We paid our check already, but have half the bottle left to finish. He leans forward, the bottle of sparkling wine and two plates with no food left on them remain on the table between us. Resting his head on his hand, he looks me over again. I blush, still not used to how intensely he stares at me. “Why are you alone in Paris on your birthday?”
I turn the champagne glass around on top of the small wooden table. “Because I couldn’t find anyone to come with me.”
Sitting back, he scans the bistro. When I look around, I notice it’s crowded, more so now than when we arrived. Couples surround us, their love evident by how they speak to each other in whispers and body language. I ask, “Who was that girl yesterday?”
By how his eyes stay focused on his lap, I determine this might be a touchy subject, but the slap is a bigger indicator than that. Topping off my glass, he says, “An ex-girlfriend.”
“When did you break it off with the ex?”
Waving his finger, affirming my point, he replies, “I might have forgotten that step.”
With a laugh, I pick up my glass, and say, “It’s an important step.” I take a couple of sips and set the glass back down.
Olivier rubs his cheek as if he can still feel the burn. “I have learned that lesson.”
“The hard way.” When he looks at me curiously, I quickly add, “That’s just a phrase. You got slapped. That’s the hard way to learn a lesson.”
“The more painful way.”
“Yes.”
“And you? Are there exes in your past?”
Shyly, I look back at the bubbles in my glass. “One or two.”
“No more than that?”
“I study. A lot.”