When my taxi pulls up to the curb and lets me out in front of my stop on campus, I’m still trying to shake off my encounter with Will. The last and only other time a boy tried to kiss me was in second grade at my birthday pool party. His name was Michael, and I pushed him into the pool and ran away. And this time, I merely jumped in a cab and ran away. I’m starting to wonder if this is how I will always react to male attention — immediately jump into extreme evasive maneuvers. It’s becoming my trademark move.
It’s about one in the afternoon now and the exhaustion of flying and then dragging my luggage around the city all morning is getting to me. But it’s my first day in France — the first time I’ve ever left America! — and I am not going to let jet lag nor a weird sexual advance get me down! The instructions I have pulled up on my phone in an email from Pavlenko inform me that I’m supposed to be meeting my roommate in a courtyard on campus at half past one. So I’m just barely going to make it on time. I hurry down the beautiful, historical, arched hallways and rush out into the lazy afternoon sunshine to meet the girl I’m going to share a place with. I’m incredibly nervous and a little bit self-conscious, afraid that something will go wrong.
What if she doesn’t like me? What if we don’t get along?
I wonder if she’ll be from a small town like me or if she’ll already be acquainted with city life. I can’t decide which would be better. If she’s also a small-town girl, then maybe she’ll understand me. But if she’s used to taking public transportation, dodging in and out of traffic, following the hustle and bustle of the city… well, then maybe she can help me adjust.
I cross the courtyard, pulling my wheeled suitcase behind me, looking around for someone who looks like they’re waiting for me. Most of the people I see here look distinctly French — sleek black clothing, effortless style. Then I see her.
There’s a girl who looks to be about my age, standing in the center of the courtyard. She’s glancing around nervously, her hands fidgeting in front of her. She is much taller than me, and maybe even slimmer. This girl looks to be the very epitome of the gymnast image. Her straight auburn hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and she’s wearing jeans and a pink tank top with a green cardigan over it. She stands out in the sea of dark, probably designer duds. She has to be the one, for sure.
I hurry toward her and she finally looks my way, her hazel eyes going wide and round.
“Are you —?” she begins, her voice sweet but a little shrill.
“Olivia Greenwood,” I greet, holding out my hand to shake hers. “I’m assuming you’re waiting for a roommate? For the gymnastics program?”
She nods, somehow looking both relieved and anxious at the same time. “Yes, hi. My name is Margaret-Ann Mason, but I go by Maggie, please.”
“You can call me Liv,” I add, giving her a smile to try and ease her anxiety. She seems a little stiff, like she’s still uncertain of me. I hope it’s not something I’ve done wrong.
“Have you been by the flat yet?” she asks, then takes notice of my luggage and blushes. “Oh, I guess probably not since you’re still pulling a suitcase around. Duh.”
I relaxed a little, realizing that her aloofness probably has less to do with judging me and more to do with her own insecurity. She seems sweet, but I can already pick up on the fact that she’s a little too hard on herself. A lot of gymnasts are. We’re forced to compete within such strict guidelines that some of us develop complexes about it. Just like my short stature marks me as an outsider, I can imagine that Maggie’s height and awkwardness set her apart, too.
“Yeah, I just kind of spent the morning, uh, looking around.”
“Well, I can take you to the apartment, if you like,” Maggie offers, brightening up. “My parents sent me here a week early to get accustomed to the city, and I’ve visited Paris a bunch of times before, so I know my way around pretty well!” She immediately blushed, probably feeling like she’s rambled too much. But I like people who talk a lot. My parents were always chattering back and forth while I just listened contentedly. It was comforting to me.
“That would be awesome,” I assure her. “I’m totally new here.”
“Okay,” she says, biting her lip. She still looks nervous, but there’s a sparkle in her eye. Maggie leads me across the large campus and out to the street. Instead of hailing a cab — which is how I always assumed everyone in big cities got around — she just started walking, with me trailing slightly behind.
“Is the apartment close to here?” I pipe up, my shorter legs struggling to keep up with this Amazonian new acquaintance.
“Oh, yes! It’s within walking distance of the university. The training studio isn’t far from here, either,” she explains. We walk for a while longer down the wide, busy streets, and then we turn a corner and Maggie points upward at a gorgeous old building with black, wrought-iron balconies jutting out from its stony face. “Home sweet home!” she exclaims, beaming.
“Wow,” I breathe, tilting my head back to gaze up at the many stories. I had no idea we would be staying in such a gorgeous place. This looks like a movie set, like a postcard. I’m expecting a Juliet to appear on a balcony and call out for her Romeo at any moment.
“I’m sure you’re tired of lugging that thing around,” Maggie comments, gesturing toward my suitcase. “Wanna go inside? I’ll show you our flat!”
She leads me through a giant set of carved wooden doors and we climb several flights of shining marble stairs, my suitcase clunking along behind us. I’m nearly out of breath by the time we reach the sixth floor.
“Yeah, the walk-up is a bit of a hike. But just wait until you see the inside!” Maggie remarks. We walk down a long hallway to room 608, where she takes out a key and opens the door to a spacious, airy apartment. My jaw drops instantly.
Everything is decorated in stark, clean whites and pale powder blues, with quaint little fixtures and floral designs on the molding. The ceilings are surprisingly high, and as I walk into the main living area, I am stunned nearly to tears by the sight of a massive, wall-to-wall set of windows. I rush over and look down to see that our apartment overlooks the street below, as well as a blooming green park across from us. Thin, gauzy white curtains are draped at either side of the wall of windows, pulled back to let in the lovely sunshine. I spin around and gawk at Maggie, who is also beaming excitedly.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she says, clasping her hands in front of her.
I nod vigorously, still at a loss for words. There’s a soft white sofa and two straight-backed blue armchairs with carved wooden legs. I can see the tiny kitchen area back toward the entrance, a line of gleaming white counters and minimalist appliances recessed in a smartly-lit alcove.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask, and Maggie guides me to a little room off to the right. It’s a bit tight, with two twin beds pushed against opposing walls, but it’s very cute. Just like the rest of the flat, the walls are a milky white and the floors a deep, natural hardwood. We both have white bedspreads with blue quilts folded on them — and here I realize that I’m rooming with a girl who actually makes her own bed every morning instead of leaving it a mass of tangled sheets like I do.
The bathroom is connected to our room through a door with a crystal-blue novelty doorknob. It’s fairly standard, with a pedestal sink and a shower stall. The floors are bright white marble, however, and so highly polished that I can nearly see my reflection.
“This is amazing,” I gasp, turning back to Maggie. She toys with the end of her flouncy ponytail, looking nervous once again.
“I —I’ve never had a roommate before. In fact, I’ve never really had a lot of friends,” she admits, her eyes riveted to the floor bashfully. “Oh, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“No, no,” I assure her. She’s blushing furiously, her cheeks patchy with rosy splotches.
“It’s not that I don’t like other people or anything. I’ve just always been so busy with gymnastics, of course, and then there’s the
homeschooling thing…”
Ah, there it is. That explains everything.
“I understand,” I tell her, walking over to pat her on the arm. “I’ve only had a few close friends, my whole life, and they were gymnasts, too. It’s hard to get out and meet people when you’re so focused on the future.”
“Exactly,” she says, looking a little relieved. She seems to soften instantly, her stiff edges melting away.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never had a roommate either. I’ve only ever lived at home with my parents. This is totally new for me,” I go on, walking over to my bed and sitting down. Maggie follows suit, perching on the edge of her bed.
“Me, too. I have to confess that my parents are a little, um, overbearing,” she describes, twirling the tip of her ponytail. “I love them and I know they have my best interests at heart, but they’ve never really let me do my own thing. This is the first time they haven’t been right behind me telling me what to do every minute of the day.”
“How does it feel? Having all this sudden freedom?” I ask, pulling my legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed.
Maggie chews her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then replies, “It’s a little scary. I mean, I’ve been to Paris before, but never on my own. My parents only just left yesterday to go back to Chicago. I thought they’d never leave…” she trails off.
I laugh, “Yeah, mine aren’t that bad, but it’s still kind of liberating to be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Or at least I assume it will be.”
“I’ve only had less than twenty-four hours of freedom but I haven’t done much with it yet,” Maggie sighs. “I spent the whole morning being too afraid to leave the apartment alone until I finally worked up the courage to go to campus and meet up with you.”
Suddenly, my cell phone chirps, alerting me to a new email. It’s a message from Pavlenko, informing me that my training will start first thing tomorrow. My heart sinks momentarily. I was hoping to get a little more time to settle in and see the city before jumping right back into the wham-bam schedule of training, studying, and more training. I have no illusions about what this career will mean for me: constant exertion, single-minded focus, and no time or energy for much else. And I’ve accepted that, since I have to.
But damn, I was hoping to at least see the Eiffel Tower first.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks.
I sigh and slump back onto my bed. “Looks like my training picks up tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah, they don’t give you a lot of time.”
“Yea... Are you with Monsieur Pavlenko as well?”
She nods her head, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch.
“He’s... a hard man, isn’t he?” I say, testing the waters and avoiding what I really want to say.
“Yea, I heard he was like... raised really strict or something. But that’s what gets results, right?”
“I guess. It’s just... when I first met him...” I trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence. Do I tell her how sexy I thought he was, and then how disappointed I was when I realized how cold and professional he treated me? But then, isn’t that just how teachers have to treat their students at this level? Just thinking about his gorgeous eyes, though, sends a flush through my body. He’s totally different from every other man I’ve known, and thinking about the childish and brutish attempt at seduction that Will tried on me, I know that Monsieur Pavlenko would be far more suave.
“When you first met him...?” Maggie prods, and I realize I’ve drifted off in thought, and I shake my head, embarrassed. There’s no way I can tell her any of that.
“I just got here,” I murmur, trying to change the subject. “I just wish I had a chance to experience Paris and settle in before I get shoved into a gymnastics studio twenty-four-seven.” Even if that does mean long hours trying to please my new instructor.
There’s a long pause. Then Maggie bounds over and jumps onto my bed beside me, surprising me with her sudden display of enthusiasm. She struck me as the kind of girl who was always prim and proper, keeping a polite distance between herself and everyone else. But maybe, just maybe, that’s only due to her parents’ overprotection. Maybe the real Maggie is going to break free now that she’s got an ounce of freedom.
I kind of hope so. It’ll be interesting to see someone so straight-laced spread her wings a little bit. She nudges my shoulder excitedly.
“Hey, we still have the rest of the afternoon and the evening!” she exclaims. “We could totally explore the city and still be back in time for you to get a good night’s sleep to be ready for tomorrow. Don’t you think?”
I sit up and give her a quizzical expression. I know I’ve only just met her, but nothing about her so far has indicated a streak of spontaneity. Still, I have to admit that the offer is tempting, even if I am pretty exhausted.
“You know what? Hell yeah. Let’s do this. I’m in Paris, damn it! I can sleep when I’m dead!” I say, jumping up and starting to unzip my suitcase. If I’m going to see this beautiful city, I am sure as hell not doing it in my jeans and a sweatshirt!
Maybe I show up tomorrow for practice exhausted. Big deal. What can go wrong?
4
Liv
“Okay, open your eyes!” giggles Maggie, who has led me by the arm for the past few minutes of walking, after a short cab ride. “Open and look up!”
My eyes have been shut tightly, as per her instructions, ever since we got into the cab off the Champs-Élysées. But now I slowly open them and tilt my head upward, my stomach immediately twisting into excited knots. I’m staring up at the powerful, criss-crossing metal beams of the Eiffel Tower! My mouth falls open to admit a long, awestruck exhale.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Maggie says, nudging my shoulder.
I nod, feeling like I’ve been abducted by aliens and set back down gently in some kind of fever dreamscape. How in the world did I manage to end up here, standing underneath this magnificent structure, surrounded by the sights and smells of such a legendary city?
“It’s… so much bigger than I expected,” I breathe, my chest swelling with emotion. When I was in middle school, the desktop background on my old hand-me-down laptop was a black and white photo of the Eiffel Tower. I used to close out of my homework assignments sometimes just to gaze at the picture, pretending that I was there.
And now… here I am. I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. This has to be a dream that I’m going to wake up from. Any second now my alarm clock will go off and I’ll open my eyes to see my old bedroom back in North Carolina.
“Wanna go up?” Maggie asks enthusiastically, in a way that suggests there is only one correct answer: yes, yes, yes!
“Obviously!” I laugh, leaning into her as we both grin and run for the entrance. She pays for our way in, since she’s already got her dollars converted into euro. Maggie’s been paying for me left and right today, and at first I balked, too proud to let her just buy me things. But once she explained, in a surprisingly matter-of-fact manner, that her parents are very wealthy and they’re giving her a hefty monthly stipend — I backed down. In fact, the very first stop on our miniature tour of Paris a couple hours ago was the Triangle d’Or, a fancy boutique spot. I was fully prepared to simply window shop, but Maggie marched straight in and out of Dior, Givenchy, and Chanel like she belonged there. And once I saw her drop several hundred euro on a soft black hat at Hermès on a whim, I realized that she truly did belong there. She wasn’t homeschooled for some religious reason or because her parents were suspicious of the educational system. It was because they spent so much time traveling the world that they required a tutor who could travel with them.
I’ve landed myself a rich, generous roommate with a bottomless pocketbook and a newfound taste for freedom. But for all her (as the French might say) bourgeois privileges, I have to give it to her; Maggie has none of the snobby condescension I’ve come to expect from what kids back home pejoratively dubbed “city slickers.” So fa
r, she’s been incredibly open and kind to me, treating me like an equal rather than a charity case. Granted, I’ve only known her for a few hours now, but I can already tell she and I are going to become fast friends. It’s a huge relief, knowing that I’ve found at least one friend in the city. Things are definitely looking up for Liv Greenwood.
Especially now that we’re about to ascend the 704 steps of the Eiffel Tower! Wait… are we really going to walk up 704 steps right now? I know we’re both athletes, but…
“Where are you going, silly?” Maggie laughs, waving me over away from the entrance to the stairway. “We’re taking the lift!”
“Oh, thank god,” I gasp in relief. “I was about to say, you must be in way better shape than I am to wanna take the stairs!”
“No, no, training doesn’t start till tomorrow, remember? Today we’re lazy,” she giggles, pulling me into the lift alongside a group of elderly tourists arguing in Portuguese. I’ve never been around so many different languages and accents, the foreign words colliding with my own English train of thought like a calamitous wreck. But I love it. I love having my entire worldview shaken and crumbled to the ground. I can feel the pieces of my old, sheltered self falling by the wayside, stepping out of the way to make room for a new, worldly Liv. Maggie and I wriggle through the little crowd, muttering excusez-moi as we go.
Staring down breathlessly at the earth pulling away beneath our feet, I almost feel like I’ve left an old part of myself down there on the ground, the fresh, new version of myself ascending into the Parisian evening sky. When we reach the top, Maggie takes my hand and pulls me out onto the landing. We lean into the railing and gawk open-mouthed at the panoramic view of Paris below us, the old buildings mingling alongside the new, twinkling lights dotting the darkening air all around us in every direction.
“I can’t believe I’m really here right now,” I murmur, finally permitting the sting of elated tears in my eyes. “This is like a dream.”
Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0) Page 55