Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel (5 page)

An hour later, we’re in the Paris Metro as the underground railway zooms us back to the pastry shop. Paris is huge and confusing, but probably not much more than New York. The morning commute is over now so the Metro is half empty. New York subways are always crowded, except at midnight, but then nobody I know rides the subway at midnight. Not if you want to live to talk about it.

“What are you thinking?” Jean-Paul asks, stretching out his legs and looking completely relaxed, hair falling into his brown eyes.

“What am I thinking?” I repeat, sitting on my hands so I can resist the urge to fix his hair. I’m still self-conscious from the hospital so I’ve been trying to avoid eye contact, even though he’s sitting directly across from me. “Um, nothing.” My voice comes out in a squeak, and I’m hoping he won’t guess that I’ve been thinking about him. I feel guilty, like Jean-Paul has caught me doing something illicit.

I’m sure Mathew would be so hurt if he knew. I suddenly wonder about Mathew’s private thoughts. Which brings me back to The Worst Night of My Life. Does he compare me to Parvati? Is she prettier or smarter? She’s certainly a better singer than I am. And she can dance her juttis off all over the streets of Bombay. (Jutti = beaded slippers from India, and very cute. Parvati gave me a pair for a Christmas gift.) She also manages to stay in the top two percentage of our class. Life is so not fair.

My stomach clenches in that familiar way it’s been doing the last few months. Long before I left for Paris. As Parvati and I became better friends, I got this nagging feeling every time Mathew was around us. Like some secret chemistry sizzled between the two of them. Mathew always brushed it off and told me all he wanted was me. Sera warned me over and over again. I ignored the signs. I feel so stupid now.

I know what Mathew has been wanting from me for months, but while I’ve been in Paris I didn’t have to worry about it or think about that problem for nine days. The relief surprised me, caught me off-guard. It feels like being tied to a chair for an obscenely long time and finally discovering how to loosen the ropes and launch myself out the door.

I dreamed that once. That Mathew sneaked into my bedroom one night dressed like a burglar. He tied me in a chair then kissed me hard and furiously until I couldn’t breathe. I was stuck in that chair all night. The dream made me feel jumpy and tense the whole next day.

When I told Mathew about it, he laughed and pulled me against his chest. “I guess I know what fantasies you’ve been having.”

“It was
not
a fantasy, Mathew. I was scared. It felt like I was suffocating. What do you think it means? They say your dreams mean something.”

He rolled his eyes and told me to forget about it. “It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a stupid dream, Chloe.”

The train slows and stops at the next station and I grip the crutches in my fists like I’m going to crack the handles in half. Doctor LaCroix insists I use them at least until I get back to the shop. Staring at my bandaged foot, I realize that crutches do not show off legs to their best advantage.

Jean-Paul’s expression is thoughtful. “Your face—it is—how do you say?” He pauses. “I don’t know the right word.”

Can Jean-Paul actually read my thoughts now? I study the empty space below my seat wondering if I’ll have to crawl under my chair from sheer embarrassment.

“Will this help?” I dig around in my bag and hand him the pocket dictionary.

His eyes light up as he takes the book and dives in like I just saved his life. My heart melts. Dear Lord, get me out of here, I pray. This guy is way too close. He smells way too good. Those chocolate brown eyes—I want to pour them in a cup and start guzzling.

Jean-Paul flips through the pages like an expert while I look out the opposite window for a different view, but the older woman with the canvas shopping bag next to me glares so I whip my face forward again, wondering where I can safely direct my eyes without getting into trouble.

“Expressive!” Jean-Paul says, nodding emphatically. “Your face, that is what it is! When I was watching you—you have a way of many expressions crossing your face. Your eyes move, your mouth does this thing—
c’est interesante
—” he breaks off. “That is why I ask, what are you thinking about? There are many thoughts zooming around in your head.”

How am I supposed to reply—that my thoughts about
you
are behaving wickedly? Or that I’ve just realized I might be a teensy bit afraid of my boyfriend holding me captive in a chair all my life? I mean all
night
.

“Um, my brain was blank,” I tell him. “Really. I wasn’t thinking about anything.” Do I come across as lame as I sound to myself?

Jean-Paul places the dictionary into my hands. “I understand you do not want to say.”

What is with this guy? How does he know that? Jean-Paul is inside my head, without me even inviting him in. He’s smart and intuitive, and asks about me, studies me, as if he really wants to know. All the things girls complain about most guys—that all they do is talk about themselves and don’t care what a girl’s opinion is or ask about her feelings.

I realize with a funny feeling that Mathew has never noticed my “expressive” face before. Desperately, I change the subject before Jean-Paul can recite my thoughts word for word. “How did you learn English so well? You’re very fluent.”

He shrugs and I notice that he has a small dimple on the left side of his mouth. It’s boyish and completely endearing. “We begin learning in school when we’re only five or six years old. How long have you known French?”

“A whopping nine months. I thought I was doing so good until I heard you.”

“Oh, but you are! The longer you stay, the better your French will become. And,” he smiles, the dimple deepening. “I have a few years on you.”

“Actually, I’m leaving France soon—sooner than I’d like,” I tell him. “No more practice for me. Unless I sign up for French again next fall.”

“Leave Paris? But why?”

“Because my school tour is ending, silly,” I tell him, smiling up into his face and trying not to stare. “Actually, our flight leaves Monday morning—after we spend Sunday in the Loire Valley touring. Well, we come back to the airport here in Paris sort of in the middle of the night. You know, when it’s after midnight, but usually you’re asleep then.”

“Your shoe—the fall—you missed your bus,” Jean Paul says, turning serious. “I need to help you find your tour. That is next on the list, right, Chloe?”

I give a little shrug, smiling weakly at the way he says my name. I suppose connecting with my teacher and the tour group should be my next chore. If Jean-Paul insists. But do I really have to? At the moment, hanging out with Jean-Paul is much more fun. I’ve never known a pastry chef before. Or a French boy. Or anyone who looks and acts quite like him. He could have just put me in a taxi to take me to the hospital. Or sent me with Dr. LaCroix, and gone on with his own life. Instead, he accompanied me every single moment and made sure I wasn’t scared or nervous.

I try to picture Mathew doing this for a stranger—and I simply cannot. As I lean against the crutches, all of a sudden I feel depressed. The problems at home are looming closer and closer.

“This is our stop,” Jean-Paul says, putting a hand under my elbow to help me rise to my feet. My broken high-heeled sandals are at the pastry shop and I’m still wearing the hospital’s fashionable paper slippers.

“Um, I think I can walk.” I want to throw away the ugly crutches. My ankle is sore, but I can walk, even though I’m slow.

Jean-Paul laughs at my pouting face. “Doctor’s orders. You can get rid of them later.”

See what I mean? He practically parrots my thoughts. Is my face that transparent? “How many hours must I endure this torture, Doctor Dupré?” I say, as if we’re in an old black and white movie with dramatic music blasting in the background.

He gives me a grin and holds the Metro door open with his shoulder so it won’t close before I can get out. “At least one or two agonizing hours, but I’ll have to check the patient’s progress first. I suggest a pack of ice first,
Mademoiselle
Dillard.”

A shiver runs down my arms, thinking about what I would do if I had landed on some unknown street all by myself, lost and alone. I was lucky to get stuck inside
La Patisserie
with nice people. I could be wandering the streets without any money and a dead phone, my ID stuck in my carry-on bag on the bus and my passport who knew where. I barely have change for one call at a pay phone. It’s hard not to think of Jean-Paul as my knight in shining armor. Or my hot guy in jeans and a forest green shirt.

Correction there, brain. Not
my
hot guy, just
a
hot guy.

It doesn’t take long before the crutches are biting at my armpits.

“Around this corner, and we’re home,” Jean-Paul says. “Sorry the Metro stop wasn’t closer.”

“No problemo.”

“Do you speak Espanol?”

“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “Just a dumb expression in America—to match the ones on my face.”

“
Non, non, non
!” he exclaims. “Your face is open for the world to see. It’s honest, not like the girl who changes her personality depending on who she’s with.” He gives a sudden grunt of consternation, and I glance up at him through my bangs. “I think I am making no sense.”

“Nope, it’s perfect sense,” I tell him. “I do know what you mean, exactly. And thank you.” A warm feeling spreads up my neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a sincere compliment.”

His eyes flick away from mine. “Well, that’s what I meant to say on the Metro.”

I glance away, too, because his gaze is making me shiver. It’s probably safer if I just keep my head down. We fall silent and now I wonder what
he’s
thinking, but I have no talent for mind reading.

La Patisserie
comes into sight, and my arms are definitely grateful. It’s lunchtime now and the streets are more crowded, patrons coming in and out of the shops, French bursting all around me, the smell of something spicy and exotic cooking at the Middle Eastern restaurant on the corner.

“On this tour—did you get to see the Eiffel Tower at night?” Jean-Paul asks as he holds the door open for me. “The lights that come on at midnight are really something—as you Americans say.”

“It’s not on the schedule, people,” I tell him, mimicking Robert. “Eiffel Tower ten a.m. Wednesday morning, and be glad you get to see it at all.’”

“Before you leave Paris, I will take you myself. The lights are a
must-see
,” Jean-Paul says, speaking in a pompous voice just like Robert the tour guide.

I laugh with him, feeling a friendly closeness. And yet I’ve only just met Jean-Paul Dupré—what—a few hours ago? Maybe it’s the romantic city of Paris, and him taking care of me, but it’s like Jean-Paul and I are old friends already. I let out my breath and realize that I’m starting to relax. He’s easy to be with, easy to talk to, and I like the way he gives me direct, interested looks as if our conversation is more important than anything else at that moment.

I’d heard of meeting someone and becoming instant friends, but I never believed it could really happen. It sounds good in books or movies. I always thought I was much more practical, even if I do like to read Jane Austen and Julia Quinn and secretly wish my boyfriend was my knight in shining armor.

Of course, I can see any girl swooning instantly over Jean-Paul Dupré and thinking love at first sight. His bone structure alone and those chocolate-flavored eyes stop me in my tracks, but there’s something bigger and deeper underneath Jean-Paul’s perfect profile. I want to find out what it is, but I’ll never have a chance. Not when I’ll probably be leaving in just a few hours from now.

I suddenly realize that in just a little while I’ll never see him again. He can’t be my friend. End of story. Close the book, return to library—or New York as the case may be.

I shake my head, feeling weirdly nostalgic, but wanting to cry a little bit, too. I’m sure it’s just the whole emotional thing of injuring myself and getting stuck in a foreign country. Jean-Paul is someone I’ll forget as soon as I see Mathew again, but the thought of seeing Mathew soon completely unnerves me. I’m not sure I’m ready. The dark recesses of my brain are muddy with indecision and I’m scared.

“There you go again,” Jean-Paul says, watching me as if I’m a rare biology specimen.

I place my hand on the plate glass window to keep my balance as he closes the glass door to the shop. “What am I doing now?”

“Your thoughts are playing tag across your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. I just wish I knew what you were thinking.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I tell him, clamping my mouth shut. “I’ll stop thinking right this instant.”

He laughs at my childish statement. All I need is to stamp my foot now. I laugh along with him and give myself a warning to quit thinking. Besides, what’s Jean-Paul doing studying me like this? I’m merely his unfortunate duty to patch up and find my tour group so he can be rid of me. But Mathew has never paid this kind of attention to my feelings, at least not for a long time. And Jean-Paul doesn’t even know me.

“I imagine it’s breathtaking,” I say, trying to come up with new conversation.

He dips his head toward mine, puzzled at what I’m referring to. “What is breathtaking?”

Inwardly I squirm; I can be so stupid around boys. “The Eiffel Tower,” I add quickly. “At night with the lights. Remember? Oh, forget it.”

I hurry into the shop, hoping my face isn’t flaming as red as it feels. I’m sure Jean-Paul is thinking that any “normal” cells I might have possessed dropped out of my brain when I fell on the floor.

Madame Dupré is behind the counter rearranging trays. She and her son rattle away in French, their words tumbling over each other in a poetic nonsense sort of way.

Jean-Paul turns to me. “Some people from the tour company came into the shop.
Maman
told them that
oui
, there had been an American girl who got hurt. She told them that a doctor took you to hospital for a broken ankle.”