We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (35 page)

“I’m staying with Maggie tonight.” Everyone knew about my host family’s strict policies. I felt twelve instead of twenty.

Christopher nodded, looking serious. He brushed his fingers against the cuff of my jacket.

“You don’t seem the type to need discounted international calling.” I prodded. “What brings you out in the middle of the night?”

“We were at a pub down the street that serves proper pints and wanted to try out the magical phone for ourselves.”

“Maybe he thought you’d be here.” James elbowed Christopher and got a headlock in return.

Maggie cleared her throat as the guys scuffled around. Clearly they’d been drinking. “We should go back to the apartment.”

I leaned my bike against my hip. “I’m kind of enjoying the show.”

Somehow Joe had involved himself as well. Two against one, but Kit held his own, ending with both twins in headlocks.

“Sorry about these wankers. They’re pissed,” Christopher apologized, looking embarrassed and flushed.

I twisted a lock of hair around my finger, staring at his handsome face and messy hair.

“Lizzy?” Maggie spoke.

“Hmm?”

“We should get going.”

“You must stay. Kit’s been hoping to run into you all night.” Joe jumped a few feet away from Christopher’s reach.

I studied their faces, trying to see if Joe’s words were true.

“We could go for a ride along the Seine,” Christopher suggested, his voice full of hope.

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

“It’s Paris. The city of lights. You can’t see those lights during the afternoon.” His logic was sound.

“It’s really late.” Maggie yawned, or more likely fake yawned, to make her point.

“Then Lizzy and I’ll go together. I’ll drop her off at your apartment in one piece.” Kit’s expression turned serious and his hand reached for my sleeve again.

I stared at Maggie, weighing my options. Roaming the empty streets of Paris for free long distance was one thing. Riding around in the wee hours with a guy, something else entirely. And completely outside my norm. Both were mad ideas, but the latter felt decidedly more reckless.

Maggie tilted her head and pressed her lips together for a second, telling me it was my decision.

He tugged on my sleeve again.

“Maybe a short ride?”

“Sure. We can meet back here. Margaret can hang out with the boys, who will promise to be perfectly behaved.” He directed his words at the twins, who were occupied with kicking each other.

With a pleading look, I begged Mags to agree.

“I suppose I could call my parents.” She sounded reluctant, but didn’t say no. “Okay. Do you have a bike?”

He brushed his hair back. “A flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan.”

Maggie pushed her bike toward him. “It’s too small for you, but it’ll have to do.”

Sitting on her bicycle with its wicker basket, Christopher looked silly. He lifted the seat to accommodate his long legs. It helped. A little.

“Off we go. Once around the island?” He glanced back at me as he pedaled in the direction of the nearest bridge.

I kicked away from the curb and pedaled after him over the Seine.

He pointed out obvious landmarks any tourist would recognize, gesturing widely with both hands off the handlebars. I laughed, pedaling to keep up with him as he swerved through the empty streets. Reaching the buttresses behind Notre Dame, he slowly coasted. Holding onto my bike with one hand, his shoulder brushed against mine.

He might have been drunk, or at the very least, tipsy, but I liked this carefree version. All too soon, the bridge to return us to our friends came into view. Silently, I begged him to go straight for another lap, but resigned myself when he took the turn. I’d left Maggie for too long already.

We passed the green shuttered book stalls along the river before making the final turn to end our adventure.

Maggie stood at the phone, lost in conversation. The line from earlier had disappeared, leaving only her and the twins. I felt grateful they were with her.

After sliding off the bike, Christopher leaned it against the fence. I slipped down from the seat, resting my feet on the ground, but still straddling my bike. Maggie finished her call and joined us, reclaiming her bicycle from him.

He pulled on my jacket. “A delightful expedition. We should do it again. Meet here in the middle of the night and have an adventure.”

“Maybe next weekend?” I mirrored his gesture and touched his sleeve.

“Until then, Elizabeth.” He bowed, making me giggle.

I gave him an awkward curtsey while holding my bicycle.

His laughter followed us as we rode away.

Unfortunately, like all good things, the practically free payphone ended too soon. On Monday, word spread the phone had been fixed.

Saturday two weeks later found me studying at Bernadette’s dining table with Maggie while we smoked cigarettes and drank tiny cups of silty coffee.

Conjugating verbs and assigning gender to pronouns made me sleepy. I yawned and stretched, then rested my head on my French book.

The telephone in the hall rang, sounding like an old movie. Maggie jumped up to answer it. I only heard her side of the conversation, but could decipher she made plans for the evening. I understood:

“Allô?”

“Oui.”

“C’est soir?”

“Merci.”

“À tout à l’heure!”

She resumed her seat at the table, twisting her red hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. “We’re going to a party.”

“We?”

“Oui, we.”

I snickered like a little kid. “You said wee-wee.”

With a smirk, Maggie acknowledged my joke. “That was Sabine from the school. It’s a social mixer between the English programs and French students.
Seulement
en français
.”

“Wonderful,” I moaned. Despite living in Paris and studying, my French lacked a certain
je ne sais quoi
of comprehension and fluency. I relied too heavily on Maggie to be my translator.

She tsked and purred, “
En français
.”

“
Superbe
!” I scowled at her smug expression.

“Maybe there will be cute French boys there. The kind who smoke unfiltered
Gauloises
cigarettes and madly discuss Sartre.” Her expression took on a dreamy, unfocused quality.

Both of us smoked more in France than we ever had in Olympia. Everyone smoked here. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see well-coiffed little dogs smoking. Not only did everyone smoke, they did it everywhere. I decided if my hair and clothes were going to reek of cigarettes, it might as well come from my own doing.

Inspired by Bernadette, I’d taken to wearing dark red lipstick and vintage dresses we found at flea markets, or
marché aux puces
. Like many things in France, it sounded glamorous, but literally meant market of fleas, which only made me itchy.

Maggie said I looked like a vamp. I took it as a compliment. Much better than a typical American college girl. My favorite pink mohair coat from the fifties, another street market find, complemented my new persona.

“I wonder if the Brits will be there tonight.” I attempted to sound nonchalant. I hadn’t seen Christopher since I bumped into him at Shakespeare & Company over a week ago. I didn’t know what to do with myself when he wasn’t around to tease me.

“Sabine said everyone had been invited. I imagine they were, too. You shouldn’t spend all your time with them. You’ll never learn French.”

“
Je suis un parapluie
,” I apologized.

“You’re not an umbrella.” Maggie chuckled. “See my point?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“Hey Jude” ~ The Beatles

THE MIXER WAS
held in a large dining room on our little campus. It looked exactly the same as it always did, with the exception of missing tables and a disco ball sadly spinning in the center of the ceiling.

“Let’s dance.”

“To the Beatles?” I remained perched on the banquette along the wall of the party, tilting my head to study Christopher’s expression. He appeared serious, sans the judgmental eyebrow.

“Why not? They’re British, I’m British. If you say no, you’ll be insulting England and the Queen.”

I arched my eyebrow. “The Queen? Really?”

“Yes. Dance with me.” He extended his hand, his palm up and bent two fingers in a gesture of command. My gaze lingered on his long fingers, his wide palms. I attempted to resist the images flitting behind my eyes of how they would feel on various parts of my body. He flexed his fingers again and I pressed my thighs together.

I wondered if his polite demeanor would remain in place when he was naked. Or would he finally crack and let go, exposing a wilder side that simmered under the surface when he argued? Would he speak French in bed? Cursing a soft
merde
if I put my mouth on him . . .

“Lizzy?”

I let my focus drift up his arm to his face. He stared at me, sharp blue eyes waiting for an answer.

“Yes?”

“Dance?”

“Hmmm . . .” It wasn’t a yes, or a no. I forgot what he’d asked.
Que sera, sera
.

Instead of waiting for me to give him a response, the hand I’d been fantasizing about grabbed mine and pulled me upright. After wrapping his fingers around mine, he set them on his shoulder, then settled my other hand on his waist.

“Do you know how to properly dance? Waltz?”

“We can’t waltz to this song. It’s not in three-three.”

He gave me a sly, sweet smile. “Fine, the fox trot it is.”

While everyone else danced like normal people, Christopher moved me around the floor as if we were at a V-Day celebration at the USO.

Okay, the song wasn’t that old, but the way we danced was. When the music changed, he started to jitterbug.

I couldn’t keep up for laughing at him. And myself. The French must have thought we were imitating Jerry Lewis, because they stopped dancing altogether to watch and applaud, big grins on their faces.