Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (17 page)

Later, Mathew can tell me all about his secret audition and what, exactly, he’s been doing the past few days every time we’ve missed each other’s call.

He and I have a lot of catching up to do, but my last hours in France are slipping through my fingers and I can’t give them up, or get them back again.

Plus, I’m touring Paris with a fabulously hot escort.

Okay, delete that part.

With a very nice, gentlemanly boy.

Two Weeks Earlier

Mathew called after my shower and a dinner of microwave lasagna. “Hey, babe.” My resolve melted under the sound of his voice. Even when he wasn’t singing behind me in the bass section, or whispering stuff in my ear. He always makes me tremble and weak-kneed.

“Hi,” I said tentatively, suddenly wanting to chew my nails. But there was nothing to be nervous about. He sounded normal, same as always.

“Want to come over and make out?”

“You’re terrible.” I heard myself giggle like I was fifteen, and wanted to gag. “Who’s home?”

“Nobody but me.”

“Can I take a rain check? I did a hundred laps at the center today with thirty screaming kids. But Sera and I get a day off tomorrow.”

“So we’re on for tomorrow night?”

“My house or yours?”

“You come here, Chloe. My parents have tickets to the theatre.”

“You know that’s against the house rules,” I told him, biting my lips. Neither set of parents allowed us to come over when they weren’t home. I usually didn’t try to sneak around the rule, either, because I was always a little worried that things would get out of hand. Technically, we were still in high school, even though graduation was only a week away and college in three months. Mathew could be so persuasive.

“So we’ll break the rules for once. We never have before. Nobody will ever know. We’re already eighteen, adults, and after graduation on Saturday, we’re freshmen in college. Show me you trust me, Chloe. Say yes.”

“Okay,” I relented, and excitement rushed through me along with the guilt because I knew I’d have to lie to my mother. “I’ll come even if your parents aren’t there, but get that neighbor kid Josh to come over to play Monopoly or something.”

Josh was eight and liked to run his remote controlled motorcycle up and down the halls, pretending it was a NASCAR speedway. I’d always liked the times Mathew talked with Josh about his motorcycle and helped him fix the kickstand when it broke.

“I’ll lock him in the closet.”

“You are so bad, Mathew Perotti.”

His voice lowered. “You like bad boys, don’t you?”

Why did that sound like an omen? “Hey,” I said, changing the subject. “We never got to celebrate our anniversary. I’ll bring something special. Maybe something French since I only have a week until my trip.”

“Sounds good, but I know how we can celebrate the real French way. What do you say?”

“Mathew, stop it,” I told him, but a nervous giggle still escaped my throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”

Lord, was he just completely horny?

When I hung up, guilt oozed over me. Here I was flirting with him, making plans for a date, and all the while I had designs for spying on my boyfriend.

When I wake up the next morning, the clock tells me I’ve slept later than I’d planned to. Peeking out the bedroom door, the apartment is quiet. It’s Sunday morning, a day for sleeping in for them, too. As I listen closer, rustlings downstairs let me know that someone is up. Perhaps Madame Dupré making breakfast. Tiptoeing back to bed and snuggling under the covers again, I stare into the corner under the sloping eaves. Where the dressing table mirror sits and the display of large cutout letters, shiny and glittery on the wall, read E-L-I-S-E.

Not even Jean-Paul’s mother mentioned her when she tucked me into this room last night and kissed me on both cheeks, whispering “
Bonne nuit
, Chloe.”

I want to ask Jean-Paul. It’s hard not to blurt out a hundred questions, which is my usual nature, but I don’t want him to think I’m a loud, nosy American.

Getting up again, I go into the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth and there I find my skirt and jacket, hanging up in plastic. They’ve been dry-cleaned! I nearly burst into tears at the Duprés’ kindness.

My foot is nowhere near as sore as yesterday, either. The swelling has gone down dramatically, but after I towel dry I rewrap the thick gauze the doctor gave me at the hospital to prevent it from twisting or accidentally wrenching it again. Hopefully I can do some rolling and twisting and sugaring with a mound of dough before I have to leave for home.

Finally, I get dressed—wearing the jeans and blouse accompanied by the lacy sweater again for when the day cools off. I’d love to wear the dress again because I know I look good in it. I can tell when Jean-Paul looks at me, and I want to see that look in his chocolate brown eyes again. But jeans and sneakers are more practical for sightseeing and climbing the Eiffel Tower later on.

Okay, next thing on my list. I find the telephone book again out in the living room and look up the number to the American Embassy. Thank goodness some of the Embassy’s listings are in English. Getting my cell phone again, I dial the number for lost passports. Obviously they aren’t open yet, but there’s a recorded message in French and English both.

Passport services are available from eight a.m. until twelve noon only. The rest of the recording sinks in. Passport services are closed Sundays, too. Of course. I should have realized that already. It just doesn’t feel like a Sunday.

I’ll have to wait until tomorrow before I can even begin the process. When Mom finds out this little tidbit she’s going to have a meltdown. But there is an emergency number for lost passports. I’ll get Jean-Paul to call for me when he wakes up.

I wonder if I’ll be stuck in Paris longer than another day to replace the passport. If it’s in my luggage, which makes it home without me, Mom could mail it to me. But that would probably take longer than overnight. Hey, another few days or a week here and I’m good.

I know I should be homesick, but I’m not at all. Missing the bus was the best thing that ever happened to me.

The thrill of Paris wraps around me, and a surge of excitement rushes up through my stomach. I feel so good this morning I can’t help bumping my hips back and forth in a little dance move. Humming so I have some background music, I silently promise my mother that I’ll call her twice a day, more if necessary, just to keep her sane.

I give another one-footed hip grind, hanging onto the bookcase so I don’t fall, and just then someone behind me gives a small cough. Stupidly, I whirl around on my good foot.

For a moment, I wonder if it’s déjà-vu or something. Me dancing like an idiot on one foot and Jean-Paul arriving just in time to witness it. He stands at the top of the stairs in a white chef’s apron tied around his waist, a tiny spot of flour on his cheek, watching me dance. As I spin out of control, he reaches out a hand to catch me. Our fingers catch and I stop so suddenly my heart actually skips a beat.

His hand—it is so warm—so perfect—so incredible in mine. I feel zinging, zapping lightning bolts race through my fingers and right up my arms, sizzling the hair on the back of my neck.

What’s happening to me? I’ve never felt anything like this before in my life. I’m thrown off guard and I can only stare at Jean-Paul in astonishment.

Am I totally hopeless? I don’t mean to be having these thoughts or these feelings toward this French guy. Believe me, I’m really not this sort of girl.
Really.

“You’re a good dancer—even for a one-footed girl,” he says with a wink.

I feel a blush reddening my face.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand to lead me downstairs as I try not to swoon again. “
Maman
has croissants and hot chocolate for breakfast. Although it’s almost lunchtime.”

“Did I really sleep that late? I’m embarrassed.”

He shakes his head. “That’s what Sundays are for. Especially after the crazy day yesterday. Not many girls end up in hospital and escaping from taxis while visiting Paris. You’re the first I’ve known.”

I laugh, loving his teasing smile.

Madame Dupré feeds us the delicious promised meal and the caf
é
is cozy and warm and quiet, the shades drawn halfway down over the plate glass windows, blocking out the rest of the world—except for passing high heels and running shoes and various sandal styles.

“Do you bake on Sundays?” I ask, sipping my steaming chocolate and spreading warm butter on my roll.

Jean-Paul shakes his head. “Not until early tomorrow morning before the Monday crowd. We have the entire day to ourselves, Chloe Dillard.”

“I like the sound of that,” I say, feeling bold, feeling the rush of a whole afternoon and evening still ahead of me without a care in the world. Well, almost. I do care about my missing passport and my hysterical mom but there’s nothing I can do about either of those problems right now. I try not to feel guilty though. Guilt is hard to get rid of.

“Are you ready for a day of adventure?” Jean Paul asks with a gleam in his eye.

“Are you serious? We’re going somewhere?”

“Deadly serious,
Mademoiselle
.”

“Tell me, kind sir,” I say with an exaggerated French accent. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a Paris you haven’t seen before. Behind the scenes, as they say.”

My heart goes into a gallop. “That sounds wonderful. My very own local tour guide.”

“
Oui
?” he asks, waiting for an affirmative answer.

“
Oui, oui, oui
!” I say with a laugh.

“We only have today, and the hours are slipping away too fast, so let’s take in as much of the city as we can while you’re here. Now, go get whatever you need for the rest of the day. And find a light jacket in the closet of your bedroom.”

“Is the weather supposed to be cold, then?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’m not bringing you home until after midnight.”

I try not to stare at him. It was almost noon now. That meant twelve whole hours with Jean-Paul. “That sounds perfect—I mean—wow, I’m intrigued as to where we’re going!” I try not to jump up and down like a little kid on Christmas morning.

He smiles, looking up at me from under his messy bangs with those dark brown eyes.

It is turning into the perfect last day in paradise—I mean Paris.

Jean-Paul rents one of those cute, zippy European scooters and all I have to do is hang on to his waist—a little embarrassing at first—while he does all the steering. Turns out, Jean-Paul has worked out a whole schedule for my behind-the-scenes-tour.

“Tell me, tell me,” I demand.

But he won’t even give a hint. “It’s a surprise. One step at a time, American girl.”

I’m so thrilled I can’t stand it, but I try to act very cool and nonchalant. Like I have tours with gorgeous French boys every day of the week.