Fly Me to the Moon

by Alyson Noel

  I listened to the message again, and then reset my alarm to go off much, much later. I was going to dinner with Max! And I was hoping for another late night.

  When I got to the lobby I found Max thumbing through a magazine, waiting for me. “Am I late?” I asked, taking in his antiqued jeans, untucked striped shirt, and tan suede loafers, feeling relieved that he really was as cute as I remembered.

  “I’m early.” He smiled, leaning in for a brief kiss on the cheek, and leaving me to enjoy the lingering scent of minty fresh breath, recently washed hair, and his own natural, sexy muskiness. And as he led me outside to his car and driver, I slid onto the leather seats and thought how easy it would be to get used to this.

  “Have you been to the Latin Quarter?” he asked as the Mercedes merged into traffic.

  “Many times.” I nodded. “It’s my favorite part of the city.”

  “Well, there’s this little restaurant I saw last time. It’s fairly new, and I haven’t eaten there yet, so I don’t know if it’s any good. In fact, I’m not even sure I can find it again. But I thought I’d have Jean Claude drop us off and then we could go exploring on our own. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I said, gazing into his gorgeous brown eyes and feeling my stomach go all weird when he smiled at me.

  Jean Claude left us on the boulevard Saint-Germain, and Max grabbed my hand as we headed into the maze of narrow, lively streets. “If I’m not mistaken it should be right up here on the left,” he said.

  “Well, if it’s not, then there’s always those sidewalk crepe vendors.” I smiled, thinking how I’d enjoyed a Nutella-filled crepe for dinner on more than one occasion.

  “Sorry, no crepes tonight. It’s right over there.”

  We walked into a small, dim, noisy space that was filled to capacity. And as we sat in a booth along the wall, I thought how very Parisian it was, with the cloth-covered tables, red leather seats, and chalkboard wine list. Not to mention the adorable white terrier at the next table, waiting patiently while his owner enjoyed a leisurely meal.

  “It’s perfect,” I said, lifting my menu and feeling dismayed when I realized I couldn’t understand a word of it. “But I may need a little help with the ordering part. My high school French doesn’t stretch as far as you’d think.”

  “No problem,” Max said, quickly scanning the entrees. “Do you like traditional bistro food?”

  “If you mean steak frites and French onion soup, then the answer is oui.” I smiled.

  When the waiter arrived, Max spent a good deal of time conversing in rapid-fire French that I didn’t even try to follow. And when he left, Max leaned in and smiled. “I hope you’re feeling adventurous.”

  “Escargot? Yes. Monkey brains? Not so much.”

  “Oh well, more for me then.” He shrugged, leaning back in his seat and winking.

  But as our table began to fill with carafes of wine, bowls of mussels, plates of pate frisee salads, and terrines of foie gras, I was relieved to see there were no monkeys, no simians, and no primates anywhere in the vicinity—just an amazing display of food that I couldn’t wait to taste.

  “True bistro cooking is about taking the simplest ingredients and elevating them to excellence through preparation and technique,” he said, spooning some marinated olives onto my plate.

  “You really know your stuff,” I said, taking a bite of caviar on toasted brioche with creme frafche. “Do you cook like this at home?”

  But Max just shook his head sadly. “I can’t even boil water without setting off the smoke alarm,” he said. “I’m strictly a restaurant guy.”

  By the time we finished our dessert of little individual lemon tarts, we were feeling so full we decided to take a leisurely walk through the pedestrian-filled streets. And turning onto the boulevard Saint-Michel, we made our way toward the Seine.

  “I love this city,” I said, gazing at the beautiful old buildings, and the lively corner cafes. “You’re so lucky to spend so much time here.”

  “I am,” he agreed, sliding his arm around my waist and guiding me across the street and over to the Pont Neuf, which despite its name translating to “New Bridge” was actually the oldest in Paris. We walked about halfway, then stopped and leaned against the concrete rail, gazing down at the dark, moody river, the gargoyles of Notre Dame, and the flickering city lights beyond. And just as I leaned into him thinking, Kiss me, he pulled me even closer and pressed his lips against mine.

  Like the last time we’d had dinner together, I’d drunk a fair amount of wine. But the feelings I had when I was wrapped in his arms had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with good old-fashioned lust. The kind I hadn’t experienced for a very long time, and certainly not for the bulk of my relationship with Michael.

  I ran my hands over Max’s body, feeling the taut muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest through the soft cotton of his shirt. And then, gripping me even tighter, he pressed his body hard against mine while his lips drifted down to my neck.

  “Come back to the Ritz with me,” he whispered.

  And I opened my eyes and looked deep into his. “I can’t.”

  “Why?” he asked, nipping at my neck again, which almost succeeded in changing my mind.

  But then, thinking of all the logistics, like us getting to the Ritz, me getting back to the Grand Hotel in time for pickup the next morning, and then having to work the flight home with the nasty crew and little to no sleep, I shook my head and said, “Really, I can’t. I have to fly back in the morning.”

  “But when can I see you again?” he asked, gazing into my eyes.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged, thinking how his real home in Boston was actually just a short plane ride away.

  “Come back to Paris. Tomorrow.”

  “What?” I squinted at him. I mean, was he serious?

  “You land at JFK before the evening flight to Paris takes off, right?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said, with more than a little hesitation.

  “And you fly for free?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “So, you go through customs, turn around, and come right back. You told me over dinner you have the whole week off, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Then it’s perfect. I’ll have Jean Claude pick you up, and you’ll stay with me at the Ritz.”

  “But—what about my clothes? I mean, I won’t have time to go home and repack,” I said, realizing that as far as excuses went, it was pretty lame. But even though I was really tempted to go along with his plan, I was still in need of a little more convincing.

  But he just waved it away. “This is Paris,” he said. “We’ll go shopping.”

  And even though I’d never been one to beg off shopping, I knew I was in no position to buy a new wardrobe. And if Max was planning to pick up the tab, well then, that was awkward too. I mean, I just didn’t know him well enough for that. But just as I was about to decline, he kissed me. And as my lips yielded against his I went over everything he’d just offered: Paris, shopping, the Ritz, and the blatantly unspoken but definitely understood—S-E-X—and most likely the amazing, toe-curling kind.

  I pulled away for a moment, taking in his dark eyes, strong nose, and soft, moist lips. Life was short. So wasn’t it better to regret something you did, rather than something you didn’t dor

  I pressed my mouth hard against his. “Yes,” I told him. “Yes. I’ll do it!”

  The second I got through customs, I ran down to the flight attendant lounge, hoping I could brush my teeth, change my clothes, and try to freshen up a little before I got back on the plane and headed to France.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?” Clay asked, grabbing my sleeve as I rushed past him.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you,” I said, stopping to catch my breath. “I’m headed to Paris for a few days.”

  “I thought you just got back?” He gave me a suspicious look.

  “I did, but it’s a long story and I’m outta time. Ca
n we talk later?” I asked, shifting my purse and looking around nervously.

  “Where you staying?” he asked, knowing something was up and refusing to let it go.

  “The Ritz,” I admitted, feeling myself turn every shade of red.

  “You little vixen!” He smiled. “For how long?”

  I just shrugged.

  “Hey, I just picked up this two-day Amsterdam layover, gets there Friday leaves on Monday. You should meet me there from Paris, and we’ll fly back together.”

  Friday would only give me four days with Max, I thought. Which would either be far too much time together, or not nearly enough, depending on how things went. “I don’t know,” I told him, looking anxiously toward the bathroom. I was running out of time and really needed to get in there.

  “Fine, I’ll call you at the Ritz. Whose room should I ask for? Yours or his?” he teased.

  “Ask for Maxwell Dunne,” I said, giving him a quick hug before I grabbed my bag and ran down the hall.

  The fact that I’d just spent the previous eight hours dishing out food from the same menu I was now being offered meant I was pretty uninterested in any of it. So after ordering a glass of red wine from a flight attendant I’d hung out with on a Prague layover several years before, I retrieved a squashed strawberry-yogurt Zone bar from the bottom of my bag and reminded my thighs how they’d thank me later.

  I was seated at the window in our Business Select cabin, which was a sort of hybrid between a downgraded first class and a marginally better business class. And even though I had a choice of eight movies and four trivia games at my disposal, my goal was to go straight to sleep the second I’d quaffed down my food and drink.

  I glanced at the guy sitting next to me, who was rumpled, unwashed, and looked to be well into his sixties. But he seemed friendly enough as he raised his wineglass high in the air and smiled in a sort of toast to us. Lifting mine as well, I smiled back, took a sip, and then broke out my iPod so he wouldn’t get any ideas about talking to me.

  As I listened to Gwen Stefani singing “It’s My Life,” I tore into the wrapper of my protein bar, taking a bite and marveling at how well that sweet, artificial strawberry taste blended with my wine. And just as I was about to take another, the old guy next to me extended his footrest, removed his socks, and propped up his crusty bare feet for the entire cabin to view.

  The skin on his left foot was yellow in some spots, red in others, and dry and flaky like I’d never seen. And as he reached down to scratch it, I covered my dinner in horror as I imagined the trillions of funky skin particles that were now being driven into the cabin air only to be recycled over and over again as we made our way across the Atlantic.

  Oh sick! It doesn’t get worse than this, I thought, burrowing deeper into my corner. And just as I was shielding myself with my blanket, getting it all tucked in around me, he crossed his right leg over his left, proudly displaying his big toe with the thick, warped yellow nail, the shrunken crooked pinky toe that had no nail, and the big empty space in between, where the other three toes should have been.

  I just sat there staring at that wide blank space as though it were a car wreck I couldn’t turn away from. And as his meal was delivered, he lifted his glass, tapped me on the arm, and said, “Bon appetit!”

  Taking one last glance at his mangled feet, I smiled weakly. “Bon appetit,” I mumbled, then threw the blanket over my head and prayed for tailwinds.

  The blanket trick must have worked, as by the time I was standing in front of the Ritz, gazing at the seemingly never-ending stone facade, I wasn’t feeling the least bit tired. And by the time I got to Max’s suite and took one look at the stone fireplace, gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers, velvet settees, and larger-than-large marble bathroom, I was tempted to jump up and down on the opulent, oversized bed in pure joy.

  But instead, I just stood there, awkwardly fumbling through my purse, looking for something to tip the bellhop with.

  “Mademoiselle, it is not necessary. Monsieur Dunne has taken care of everything. But please ring if you require anything else,” he said as I watched him leave.

  Then I stripped off my clothes, dropped them in a heap in the middle of the floor, and headed for that large luxurious bathroom, looking forward to a nice long bubble bath in the huge marble tub.

  Dressed in the same boot-cut jeans I’d worn to dinner the other night, and a clean(ish) white cotton tank top under a turquoise sweater, I headed out of the Ritz and into the city, wanting to pick up a few things while I enjoyed the day in Paris. And since I was more familiar with the area on the Left Bank, I made my way toward the Seine, intent on visiting some of the little shops I knew of on the other side.

  The day was bright and warm, and the streets were busy with people rushing about, and as I removed my cardigan and tossed it into my black, duty-free, Longchamp tote bag, I thought about how much my life had changed since my birthday, and how I couldn’t help but think there’d be more of this.

  I mean, in just a few short months, I’d finished my manuscript and mailed it out, moved to a Fifth Avenue address (okay, so maybe it wasn’t mine, and it was only temporary, but I was there now and that’s all that mattered), and had started dating the most amazing, sexy, exciting guy I’d ever met in real life.

  Max was perfect. He had everything I’d ever dreamed of, and the fact that he wasn’t married was almost too good to be true. But single he was, since, not content to rely solely on the ring-finger test, I’d come right out and asked him in the middle of our last dinner. I mean, I knew I could fall hard for this guy, and I’d wanted to gather all of the facts before the dessert arrived.

  “Jeez, Max, I fly all the way to Paris to see you, when you’re just a quick forty-minute flight away back home. I mean, you’re not married, are your” I asked, followed by a nervous giggle and a gulp of wine. But he just shook his head, which wasn’t exactly the verbal affirmation I was after. So I pressed a little further. “No wife and five kids, anxiously awaiting your return?” I bit my bottom lip and waited.

  “No wife, no kids, no girlfriend. Look Hailey, I’m always flying back and forth between Paris and Boston, and that can make it pretty tough to sustain a relationship.”

  But not if you’re dating a flight attendant! I’d thought.

  “Of course I’d like to slow down and get married someday.” He shrugged. “Though I’m not so sure about the kid part.”

  Even that was fine with me, since I wasn’t so sure about the kid part either.

  “If you want to meet up in Boston, we can do that. I just thought it would be more fun to explore Paris together,” he’d said, smiling and leaning over to kiss me.

  Yup, Max was perfect. And single. And deserved much better than my frayed, beige Gap bra-and-panty set, I thought as I walked through the doors of Sabbia Rosa, one of the best lingerie stores in Paris.

  “May I help you?” asked a slim older woman who looked incredibly chic in that undone yet totally put-together way the French specialize in.

  “Oh, I’m just browsing,” I said, wishing I didn’t look so blatantly apple-pie American, as just once it would be nice to fool a local, any local.

  “I have a new collection of sets that would go perfect with your coloring. Come,” she said, leading me to the other side of the store, where a row of delicate, elegant, whisper-soft silk underthings hung.

  “Wow,” I said, reaching for a deep apricot-colored bra edged in cream-colored lace. “This is beautiful.” I stroked the soft, filmy fabric while nonchalantly searching for a price tag. Three hundred euros! Are they serious? I smiled faintly and placed it back on the rack, thinking maybe I should try to locate a Victoria’s Secret or at least something more in my airline employee budget.

  “And then there’s this,” she said, thrusting a dark, emerald green nightgown at me.

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous.” I nodded, knowing there was no way I was wearing a nightgown. The logistics of that were just way too complex, requiring me to beeline for the
bathroom immediately after dinner so I could do a quick change, and then reemerge as though I’d been secretly stowing it beneath my sweater and jeans the whole time. And as I flipped over the price tag and saw that it was nine hundred euros, I was glad I’d already vetoed it.

  “I’m not really the nightgown type,” I told her, heading back to the bra and panties, thinking how the apricot set now seemed like a bargain after the negligee. I picked up the matching thong and noticed it was half the price of the bra. But since it consisted of nothing more than a small silk V in the front and a piece of string in the back, you could see why it’d be cheaper.

  But it was beautiful. And it’s not like I was paying rent anymore. Not to mention that I hadn’t brought any nice lingerie with me (probably because I didn’t own any). And Max was special. And I really wanted our night to be special. . . .

  “I’ll just try this on real quick.” I told the saleswoman as I slipped into a dressing room.

  I’d told Max I would meet him at Bar Hemingway for four reasons:

  1. I thought it might be really awkward to meet up in a room that centered around a bed, even if we both knew that’s where we’d end up.

  2. The bar had a strong literary history, with actual photos taken by Ernest Hemingway himself displayed on the walls.

  3. I’d read it was the birthplace of the Bloody Mary—a drink I was quite fond of.

  4. I was kind of hoping for a Pretty Woman moment. You know the part where Richard Gere (who oddly enough bore a slight resemblance to Max) walks into the hotel bar and finds Julia Roberts (who other than being an auburn-haired female bears no resemblance to me) looking radiant in her little black dress. (Let’s just forget the stuff about her being a hooker and him paying her to be there.)

  I sat at a small round table, legs crossed, index finger making nervous laps around the rim of my wineglass, wearing a brand-new, sexy little black dress, a new pair of strappy silver sandals I’d bought to go with it, and of course, the very soft, very expensive lingerie that offered no support whatsoever hiding discreetly underneath. All of it conveniently charged to my Atlas AirMiles Visa card, as I’d convinced myself that not only was I getting an amazing new outfit, but mileage points as well, which would come in handy if Atlas decided to pink slip me.