Disarranged

 “You know how serious she is about this!” Lee exclaims. “Please, Rose, I know it sounds extreme, and, okay, a little crazy, but Kiera will stop at nothing to keep us apart. Nothing.”

“Then why are you with her? I thought – I thought you –”

“You thought wrong.” Lee steps into me, tilting my head up as if to kiss me. His hands are cold, but beneath the chilly skin I can feel the warm flow of his blood. My body tingles, an electric wire being dragged across my every nerve.

DISARRANGED

Book 2 of the Arranged Series

A novel by SARA WOLF

Sara Wolf

ARRANGED

Copyright ©2013 by Sara Wolf

All rights reserved. This work or any portion thereof may not be utilized or reproduced in any way, with exception of review purposes, without the written consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real persons, events, names, or locations are coincidental and a product of the author’s imagination.

For questions, concerns, or comments, please contact the author at
[email protected]

Chapter One

In Which Rose Jensen Wants to Fall

I look out the window of the airplane and try to imagine what it’d be like to fall through the puffy sea of clouds.

Not that I want to die – no, I’m not
that
depressed. I just envy the birds. I also envy the other people on this plane who don’t have to sit next to an overweight man snoring and mashing his pudgy arm into mine. He takes up two and a half seats, at least.  

I sigh and huddle against the window, pulling the thin blanket over me. The flight attendants walk the aisles and collect trash, speaking in low, gentle French. A year ago, I never would’ve thought I’d be on a plane to France – the one place in the world I’d dreamed about visiting since I was in high school. Then again, a year ago I never thought my heart would be broken. Or that I’d ever be able to say ‘I had a boyfriend’.

But now I can say that. I had a boyfriend, once upon a time.

I shake my head to get rid of the depressing thoughts and concentrate on the clouds. The morning sun peeks over the steely Atlantic Ocean. I’ll be jetlagged for days – the flights from L.A. to New York and then New York to Paris are killer-long. But even the jetlag can’t contain my excitement. I feel more alive and happier than I have in a long time. I’m visiting
France
! France, the home of the world’s best cafes and pastry chefs! Not to mention the scenery – parks and vineyards and the Eiffel Tower. My inner cheesy tourist is excited as hell.     

When Grace first tried to convince me to come to France for spring break, I argued against it. I gave excuses like ‘too far’ and ‘too expensive’. She’s on a photoshoot there in the Alps at a ski resort. A place like that is way too fancy for me, but she wore me down with her constant nagging. She even paid for the ticket, claiming it was cheaper if she bought two instead of one.

She’d been nothing but gentle after she learned what happened with Lee and I. The night he announced his engagement to Kiera, she and Jen were the first ones I called. They came to my dorm, gave me cocoa and manicures and tried to talk me through it. Jen was outraged, and kept threatening to beat Lee up. Grace was quiet, a deadly quiet with a terrifyingly serious look on her face. I later learned she confronted Lee about what happened back at the apartment, but he packed his things and left without a word. She hadn’t heard from him since.

Neither had I. When I asked after him at the office, they said he left UCLA. Transferred out. But they wouldn’t tell me where.

I shake my head harder.
No.
I’m not going to think about him. Even if Grace is his sister, she’s my friend, too. I’m here for
her
. I’m here for a
vacation
. Exams had been tough, and Pierre hadn’t let me take extra shifts anymore at Bistro Miel. He said I was working too much. But that was impossible. If I was working too much, my heart wouldn’t ache constantly, would it? I would be distracted. I wouldn’t catch myself thinking about how life would’ve been different if I’d marched up to the stage that night and snatched Lee’s hand away from hers. Sometimes it keeps me up at night – could I have stopped them even if I confronted them? Or was marrying Kiera what Lee really wanted? She
is
beautiful. And smart. She’s experienced and fashionable, all the things I’m not. All the things guys are supposed to like.

It’s okay. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
‘It’s okay’
. When I feel the pressure on my chest I say ‘
it’s okay’
. When my lungs and heart are burning with regret, I say ‘
it’s okay’
. Sometimes I have dreams about that night in the hotel, the Christmas lights flickering in my eyes and the crowd of well-dressed people clapping and cheering. Lee and Kiera are on the stage, holding hands. And I dream about what would happen if I’d been a different person.

If I was braver, I would’ve stormed up to the stage and grabbed Lee, punched Kiera, and never looked back. But I’m not brave. How could I be, when I saw how Lee looked at her? He looked so sincere, so happy. I couldn’t ruin that, even if it ruined me.

I shouldn’t think about him. I’m on my way to France, to have fun and try to put everything behind me. No studying. No thinking about aching wounds. Just lots of good food and sleep and seeing museums and shops and parks. Grace talked about ‘French boys’, but I can’t think about boys without thinking about Lee, his lips, his voice. It’s impossible for me to even consider dating, or even hooking up, at this point.  

When the plane finally lands, I feel horribly groggy and probably look worse, but Grace just smiles when she sees me come out of the gate. It’s a brilliant smile – I don’t realize until that moment how much I missed seeing her and her stunning beauty. Her hair’s in a loose ponytail and she’s wearing a cheap sundress, but she makes it look worth hundreds. She’s skinnier than I remember, but her hug is strong.

“You look great,” I try to match her smile. She takes one of my bags.

“So do you! Who told you to get prettier while I was gone?”

“I’m not really that –”

“Oh spare me your crippling modesty for one day, please,” She huffs. “You’re adorable. Just wait until you see the things French water can do for your skin. And the air is so clean up there you won’t believe it – much better than L.A’s smog.”

The airport doesn’t look any different than the ones back home, except the signs are in French, and there’s a Starbucks every two feet, and everyone seems to move exceptionally fast – like they have some place to be. Grace pulls my suitcase and I take the bags, and she ushers me into a black SUV with a driver. She says something in French and we drive through tunnels and narrow roads, Grace pointing out each shop and café like she knows them intimately.

“That’s right,” I say. “Lee said –”

Grace watches me carefully. I haven’t said his name out loud in front of her for a while. Or anyone, for that matter. This is a vacation. Vacation. No more thinking about sad things. He wouldn’t want you to be sad, Rose. I shake my head and force a smile.

“You spent time here in Paris, right? When you were younger.”

Her dark eyes soften. “Yes. My first year with my agency, they sent me here. I like L.A the most, but Paris is a close second. They’re very alike in strange, unexpected ways.”

“How so?”

“The people are pushy in the same way. And the boys are the same,” She winks. “Very cute but very stupid.”

I laugh and cut off when Grace frantically leans over me to roll down my window.

“Look! Over there!”

My mouth nearly falls open – the Eiffel Tower is on our left. I scrabble for my phone and take a picture to send back to Mom and Dad and Riley. Grace asks the driver to pull over and grabs my hand.

“C’mon! Let’s take some close-ups.”

There’s a large swathe of grass in front of the tower, where couples and other tourists gather. Grace laughs as I strike silly poses and pretend to squish the tower with my fingers. Even her silly poses look model-esque, and her smile is to die for. Grace asks a passing woman to take a picture of us in front of the tower. We huddle close and give our best smiles.

I send the picture to Jen, who texts me back.

‘Try not to hog all the French boys to yourself, hot stuff. And tell Grace to eat more.’

Grace rolls her eyes when I show her. “I’m eating just fine. It’s all the exercise – we have to trek out in the snow at five in the morning for some of the shoots.”

As we get back in the car, I work up the courage to ask; “How are you two doing? Um, romance-wise?”

“As well as we can be when I’m six thousand miles away from her. She gets paranoid whenever I go to Europe. She thinks some European girl will sweep me off my feet and I’ll leave her.”

“Aren’t
you
a European girl?”

Grace’s eyes flash with amusement. “Good point. I suppose it’ll be me doing the seducing.” She motions around us to the tourists. “Which naïve American girl should I corrupt first?”

I laugh harder than I have in months. Back in the car, Grace leans her head on my shoulder.

“Thank you for coming,” She murmurs. “I was lonely.”

We pass through a tunnel, the darkness calming. The jetlag hits me, catches up and bludgeons me over the head with exhaustion. I pat her hand and lean my head against hers.

“So was I.”

                        ***

French cars are smaller, cuter, painted in shades of sky blue and rust red. The roads are narrow, but once we get out of the city the highway is just as wide as the ones back home – except everyone is driving on the opposite side. The highway gives to a winding mountain road, trees on every side and the white-capped purple ridge of the Alps in the distance. After hours of being in the air without sleeping, I nestle into the seat and pass out. When I wake up again, Grace is shaking me.

“Rose, we’re here! C’mon!”

The car door is open, and it’s white as far as I can see – a parking lot surrounded by snow. The air coming through the open door is cold and biting. The view of the mountain forest from up here is breathtaking. I get out on shaky legs and stretch. Grace is making a snowball.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn.

“What, afraid of a little snow, L.A. girl?” She smirks. I duck her snowball and scoop some up and form a ball. She shrieks as I throw it at her butt. The driver gets out and starts getting our bags. He rolls them along the sidewalk to the ski lodge I hadn’t noticed before. I was so entranced by the snow I didn’t look behind me, to where the massive, homey wooden lodge is lit with warm lights. Snow packs on the roof like frosting on a gingerbread house. It’s almost like a fairytale. Grace chucks another snowball at me, but I’m already trotting towards the lodge. The driver stops in the doorway.

“Thank you for helping with the bags,” I say. “I’ve got it from here.”

He tips his hat and leaves. Grace flounces up from behind me and suddenly I feel something cold and wet slide down my shirt. I yelp.

“That’s what you get for running from a fight!” She laughs.

I shake snow out of my jeans and grumble threats at her back as I follow her in. A giant fireplace greets us first, the smell of burning wood and clean mountain air mixing nicely. Other tourists gather on the plush chairs, some decked out in ski-gear. While Grace talks to the receptionist in hesitant French, I go over to the huge windows facing the slopes. There’s snow as far as I can see, pine trees heavy with drifts and skiers and snowboarders maneuvering down hills. A ski lift towers over all, shuttling people to and fro from the top of the ridge. Grace grabbing my arm jolts me out of my staring.

“C’mon, our room is on the third floor.”

The elevators are packed with tourists speaking languages I barely recognize. Our room is at the end of the hall. It isn’t fancy, but it’s certainly warm, with rich rugs and wooden walls. Gas lamps and a fireplace heat everything up. Two beds are covered in quilts and throw pillows. Grace’s luggage is strewn on her side. I throw my stuff on the other bed.

Grace picks up a brochure and tosses it at me. “Check it out and see if there’s anything you want to do. They’ve got massage, yoga, and of course, skiing and snowboarding. You probably don’t know how, but there’s free classes.”

“Totally free?” I quirk a brow.

“The agency signed me up for a few, but I already know how to ski. It’s all yours.” She walks over to the mini-fridge and opens it up. “And look! All the booze intact. I stocked up just before you came.”

“Do I look like I need to get drunk that badly?” I laugh nervously.