Read Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Online

Authors: Kimberley Montpetit

Tags: #Teen, #young adult, #Teen romance, #Contemporary, #Romance, #YA Novel

Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel

BOOK: Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel
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Paris Cravings

Copyright © 2014 Kimberley Montpetit

 

This is a work of fiction and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual event or locales, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

 

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

 

Cover by
Phatpuppyart.com

Interior by
Novel Ninjutsu

 

 

 

 

 

For Rusty, the love of my delicious, pastry-filled life!

 

 

 

 

 

Paris in June

 

Dear Diary:

I have a confession to make: I’ve become a total idiot over French pastries.

They’re my new favorite food.

My new-found edible souvenir.

My new favorite sin.

Drizzled chocolate, sugar-dusted raspberries, flaky crusts with perfect crimped edges. I’ll have to run a marathon when I get back home to New York just to burn off my new five pounds. French beignets are the worst temptation. Those yeasty chocolate-filled pastries call to me the way Prada handbags call to my mother from Fifth Avenue.

Dunkin Donuts—so yesterday.

Climbing the Eiffel tower, running through miles of hallways at the Louvre Museum, gourmet lunches on the Seine River . . . yes, those are all must-sees . . . if you don’t mind vertigo-dizzying heights and enough paintings to saturate your brain for the rest of your life.

But once I discovered La Patisserie, the rest of Paris became a mere backdrop for my guilty pleasure. What’s a girl to do?

 

 

 

I close my journal full of sticky scribbling and place it into the pocket of my suitcase with a melancholy sigh. After snapping the locks, I check my wallet and my heart leaps. I’ve got just enough euros left to buy one last box of pastries before we leave France forever.

As I check our hotel room for anything we might have forgotten, I smile as I remember the night my best friend Sera and I ate warm, oozing chocolate crepes for dinner one night while we analyzed and rated French boys from the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

If you’ve heard the expression,
they’re to die for,
well, I’m here to tell you, it’s true. Trust me.

The crepes, I mean. Not necessarily French boys.

I’ve restrained myself from checking out Parisian males because I’m already taken—by Mathew Perotti, the hottest guy at Eleanor Roosevelt High, as voted on by the female population of the student body. Matthew ended up in New York by way of Lubbock, Texas, and I had a suspicion that his southern drawl might have had something to do with swaying the vote.

Darting down to the elevator, Sera and I sneak out of the hotel before Robert, our pain-in-the-
derrière
tour guide, comes downstairs to order the usual breakfast of
café
and
croissants
. In fifteen minutes, I’m wobbling furtively down the sidewalk in my high heels until we reach
La Patisserie.
The bell rings over the door as we enter and then we make a beeline for the beautifully-filled glass cases of fresh pastries.

Sera studies a tray of sugar cookies with perfectly formed, undulating edges and pink whipped frosting, her breath glazing the glass. “Chloe,” she tells me. “You’re crazy to get on the plane with a box of these. They’ll get smashed—or Rodney and that group will steal them.”

I picture éclairs flying across Seat 19F for a game of puff-pastry football. Three points per tart. Sera’s right—it’s insane to buy another box, but I’ve got to get one last chocolate
beignet
. Or two. They’re a work of art. Monet in a white box. The hours spent in the halls of the Louvre weren’t wasted on
me
.

My phone beeps and my stomach jumps a little when I see that Mathew’s sent me a text message.
You need a ride from the airport?
I don’t have to hear his voice to feel that Texas accent tingling.

I text him back, trying to figure out the time difference in New York when we leave.
Sera’s parents are picking us up, but you can come, too. If you want . . .

As I stare at the trays of cakes and tarts, I wonder if he thought I was getting back tomorrow instead of Monday afternoon. It’s nice to be missed, although Mathew didn’t actually
say
he missed me, I realize with a sudden pang in my gut. Maybe he wants to know what time the flight gets in because he has a date . . . I know that’s stupid to even consider because we’re more in love than Romeo and Juliet, but now I regret texting that added jab,
if you want . . .
as if I’m challenging him or daring him.

The truth is—I’m dying for him to prove that he still wants me and loves me as much as ever.

We promised each other we’d talk when I got back from this trip. Even though we’ve been together for eight months, I still worry that I’m not the sort of girl a guy like Mathew usually goes for. But isn’t eight months proof that Mathew and I are perfect for each other? It’s practically a school record. At Roosevelt, hooking up and breaking up is a sport. Even though Eleanor probably turns over in her grave at the thought.

I pause in my pastry selections hoping for another incoming text from Mathew, but the phone is silent. When I glance up, Sera is staring at me.

“You nervous to go home?” she asks, her big brown eyes innocent, even though I know what she’s thinking.

I take a breath and nod, grateful for my best friend who knows what I’ve been through. “Yeah, I guess The Worst Night of My Life is starting to hit me all over again. Being in Paris for a week made it easy to put that night out of my mind. I want to forget about what happened and move on with Mathew like it never happened, but it’s so
hard
.”

Sera touches my arm. “Have you figured out what you’re going to say when you guys have The Talk?”

I give her a weak smile. “I have no idea, but in twenty-four hours I’ll be home and I have to make
decisions
.”

Sera puts on her teacher voice, “As Eleanor Roosevelt used to say, ‘A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.’” Glancing at the clock on the shop wall, she gives a start. “We have to go! Robert’s going to give us hell for being late. The bus is leaving for the Loire Valley in like—”

We glance down at our watches at the same time, and I swallow down a gulp.
Five minutes.


Et plus
?” the bakery woman asks. She’s a mind reader with an empty pastry box.


Mais oui
,” I say, snapping back to reality. “
Je voudrais
—um, the raspberry tart on the second row—
merci
!” My philosophy is why choose just one when you can get an éclair
and
a lemon tart with real whipped cream,
and
a chocolate filled croissant?

“Oh, and I want one of those crepe thingies rolled in powdered sugar,” I add, my words starting to rush. I don’t even care if I look greedy; I want it, and this is my last chance.

“Hurry up, Chloe!” Sera says, darting to the shop door to peek out. Like she can actually spot our French class five blocks away.

“Ssh!” I hiss, trying to figure out the change from my euros and if I have enough to purchase one more. But which pastry? There are so many to choose from! Oh, what would it be like to work in a pastry shop arranging endless rows of divinely delicious tarts and éclairs? I mean, who would have thought you could do so much with a few cups of flour? Pure genius.

Sera begins to hyperventilate. “One minute till drop dead time!” Her face turns a splotchy red like she’s going to burst into tears. “By my calculations, we are
not
going to make it!”

I start to laugh, and she gives me a dirty look. Sera is a walking clock, calendar and secretary rolled into one. She needs to send a resume to the Trump Tower. Seconds matter to her. Like that old guy who counts down to midnight on New Year’s Eve.

BOOK: Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel
13.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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