The Art of French Kissing (18 page)

“No,” I answered in a small voice.

“And you want to leave this life you love behind to give a second chance to someone who hasn’t exerted any more effort than picking up the phone?”

I stared hard into my glass of sangria as if it were a wishing well that would give me the answers, if only I looked hard enough. But the fact was, I already knew the answers I needed, didn’t I?

“No,” I said again. Maybe I just needed to look inside myself and stop placing blame where it didn’t belong. Maybe I needed to be a little more like Poppy and learn to take control of my own life instead of letting myself be a doormat. After all, I could do it at work—and I
had
been doing it since I got here. Why was I so seemingly unsure that I deserved to be respected in my personal life?

“But I’m going home in a few weeks anyhow, right?” I asked softly. Maybe all this Paris-driven self-discovery was for naught.

Poppy paused. “Well, I was going to wait to tell you this,” she said slowly. “But I’ve talked to Véronique. And based on all your good work these last few weeks with Guillaume, we’d really like you to stay.”

“What?”

Poppy smiled. “KMG would like to offer you a longer assignment,” Poppy said. “That is, if you can stand Guillaume Riche for the next year.”

“A year?” I asked.

“A year,” Poppy confirmed. “So will you do it? Will you stay?”

After Poppy went to bed that night, I sat in the living room for a long time, staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower until the lights went out and the tower faded into the shadows, making me feel all alone again. I looked at my watch. It would only be 8 p.m. back in Florida. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone to call Brett.

“I’m going to stay in Paris for a while,” I said when he answered.

There was silence for a long moment on the other end of the phone. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I tried to put into words how I felt. “I’m really happy here. I’m finally part of something important. I finally feel needed.”

Brett was silent for a moment. “So I guess it doesn’t matter if
I
need you,” he said. “I guess that’s just not important?”

“I didn’t say that,” I said. I took a deep breath and thought about Poppy’s words tonight. “Besides, if I’m so important to you, why don’t you come over here for a while? I’m really happy here. Maybe we could give it a try in Paris.”

“Are you crazy?” Brett asked. “I don’t even speak French.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “But maybe you could just take some vacation time from work. Take the time you were going to use for our honeymoon, even. Come stay with me for a few weeks and see how you like it.”

I was testing him, and I knew it. I was holding out my hand, and if he took it, I was willing to give things a try and admit that Poppy may have been wrong.

“Haven’t I been clear with you about the fact that I intend to stay in Florida?” Brett said after a moment, “If I wouldn’t move to New York, why would you think I’d come to France?”

“Because
I’m
here,” I said right away. There was silence on the other end of the line. I struggled to fill it, because that’s what the insecure side of me did—rushed to fill in words when the silence between them felt too heavy. “Besides, you wouldn’t have to
move
here. Just come for a little while to see where I’m living. This is my life now, Brett. And I still want you to be a part of it, if you want to.”

I wasn’t sure if I meant that last part or not. I felt terribly torn. But I owed him at least that, didn’t I? I owed him a chance. It was more than he had given me, but I was trying to live by my rules, not his. At the end of the day, there was comfort in that.

“Emma,” Brett said slowly, as if talking to a child or someone whose mental comprehension was in question. “I thought you told me you were coming home.”

I looked out at the darkened silhouette of the Eiffel Tower and felt a sense of calm settle over me. “I know,” I said. “I think I
am
home.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
he thing about Paris is that it’s seductive. It’s not the men or the dates or even the perfect kisses that have the power to seduce you, as Poppy would have me believe. No, it’s the city itself—the quaint alleyways, the picturesque bridges, the perfectly manicured gardens, the rainbow of flowers that bloom everywhere in graceful harmony in the springtime. It’s the way the sparkling lights illuminate everything at night, the way the stars dangle over the city like someone placed them there by hand, the way the Seine ripples softly like a supple blanket stretched between the banks. It’s the hidden cafés, the tiny, self-righteous dogs, and the cobblestone streets where you least expect them. It’s the bright green of the grass, the deep blue of the sky, the blinding white of the SacréCoeur.

It is perfection. And in perfection, there is seduction. Because maybe if you stay long enough in a city that’s so perfect, you’ll find perfection in your own life, too.

The night before I was scheduled to leave for the junket in London, I worked late and walked home alone, looking forward to a night by myself, for once. Poppy had left for London a day early to visit some friends and work out some last-minute details at the hotel. As I turned down my street and started walking the several yards to my building’s front door, I stared up at the Eiffel Tower, which loomed over me from two blocks away. For the hundredth time, I marveled at how lucky I was to live here. How could I honestly live in the shadow of that and consider, even for a moment, leaving to go back to my old life?

I was so focused on the Eiffel Tower that I didn’t notice the door to the American Library swing open in front of me. Nor did I notice a man walk out, balancing a tall stack of books that swayed uncertainly to and fro as he looked in the opposite direction. In fact, I didn’t notice anything but the Eiffel Tower until I ran smack-dab into the man, sending the books flying everywhere.

“Oh!” I exclaimed in horror. “I’m so sorry! Um,
je suis désolée!
Is there anything I can do to . . .”

My voice trailed off in midsentence as the man stood up and grinned at me.

“Well hello, Emma,” he said. “Imagine running into you here. Literally.”

My jaw dropped.

“Gabe
,
”
I said stiffly. “It’s you.”

“Indeed it is,” Gabe agreed cheerfully. He looked down at the books lying around us like a pile of rubble. “I suppose this was your revenge for the little incident in your office with the box of pens?”

“What? No!” I said sharply. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to run into you!”

“Mmm, so you say,” Gabe said, arching an eyebrow at me.

I stared at him for a moment before I realized that he was kidding. I smiled reluctantly. “Hey, I wasn’t the only one not looking where I was going, you know.”

“Duly noted,” he said with a mock-solemn nod. “Now, don’t you think we’d better clean up this mess?”

I bent to help Gabe pick up all the books. “Big weekend of reading?” I asked as I stacked the final one—a James Patterson novel—on the sidewalk beside him.

“I don’t know about you, but I have a junket to go to,” Gabe said with a little grin. “This is just some light reading for the train ride over.”

I smiled. “Good plan.” I paused and looked down. “Hey, I meant to thank you for the nice article the other day,” I said softly.

“Oh, that?” Gabe waved a dismissive hand. “No need to thank me.”

“Yeah, but—” I paused. “The interview was a little weird. I know Guillaume was not exactly . . . nice to you. You could have been a little harsher on him in the article. I appreciate you going easy on him.”

Gabe sighed. “Look,” he said. “This isn’t easy for me to say. The guy’s a nutcase. But Guillaume is very talented, Emma, even if he’s an obnoxious
bricon.
I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.”

I just looked at him. After a moment, he rolled his eyes and smiled.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Also, my editors make sure I stay nice.”

“Oh,” I said awkwardly. I didn’t know why I was suddenly feeling tongue-tied. I realized it was the first time I’d seen Gabe out of work attire. He was dressed casually in dark jeans, a gray T-shirt, and maroon Pumas, and I had to admit, he didn’t quite look like the annoying journalistic foe I usually thought of him as. He looked great.

“So, Emma, I’m glad I ran into you,” Gabe said. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Oh.” Inwardly, I groaned. It was just my luck that I’d be cornered on the street by the very journalist who seemed to be a master at getting his way. “What is it?” I braced myself for him to ask me about Guillaume’s mental state. Or his alleged alcohol addiction. Or something equally horrifying.

“Do you skate?” he asked. I blinked at him a few times in confusion. Was that code for something embarrassing? Was it some sort of French slang?

“What?” I asked.

“Do you skate?” Gabe repeated.

“Like . . . with roller skates?” I asked tentatively.

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes! Do you?”

I stared at him for a moment. With his bright eyes and his big smile, I swore he looked just as crazy as Guillaume for a moment. I blinked a few times.

“Um, yes,” I said after a moment. “I mean, I used to sometimes in Florida. But . . . why?”

“Excellent!” Gabe exclaimed. He beamed at me. “You must come skating with me tonight!”

I furrowed my brow at him. “What?”

“The Pari Roller!” he said excitedly, as if I would know exactly what he was talking about. Of course I hadn’t a clue.

“The what?”

“The Pari Roller,” he repeated. “Every Friday night, twenty thousand people meet in the fourteenth arrondissement and skate all over Paris!”

I stared at him. “Twenty thousand?” I repeated. “That sounds insane!”

“It is,” he replied with delight. “It’s the most insane thing ever! It’s the biggest group skate in the world. There are dozens of police along to block off the roads. But it’s the best way to see Paris, Emma. You must come along!”

I looked at him dubiously. “You’re not pulling my leg?” I asked.

“No, no!” he exclaimed. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a computer printout. “Look. This is the route for tonight. It comes out each Thursday.”

He handed me the crumpled sheet, and I studied it for a moment. It was a map of Paris that seemed to have been colored over with an interlocking, zany design.

“That’s the route,” Gabe said, pointing at the tangled mass of zigzags. “It’s nineteen miles long. It’s fantastic! My baby sister Lucie and I used to go every week, but then she moved back home to Brittany to live with our father. So I’ve been going alone, but it would be perfect for you! It’s the best way to see the city!”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “So . . . you’re asking me to come?” I said. It sounded like a zany idea. But I had to admit, the longer I looked at the piece of paper, the more intriguing it sounded. I’d never considered seeing Paris on skates.

“Yes, yes, you’ll love it!” he said. He was grinning like a lunatic.

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. “Is this just another way to trick me into giving you information about Guillaume?” I asked. “Or are you going to try to corner me into an interview?”

Gabe looked taken aback. “No, Emma, I wouldn’t do that,” he said, the smile slipping from his face.

I made a face at him. “I think you would.”

He frowned. “Emma, I promise,” he said. “I won’t say a word about work this evening.”

“Really?”

“I give you my word,” he said solemnly.

I hesitated. “I’m just not sure if it’s professional,” I said reluctantly.

Gabe looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

I blushed. “I don’t know. Since you’re a reporter and I’m a publicist and everything. Isn’t this unethical?”

“Emma,” Gabe said. “I’m not asking you to spill all your Guillaume Riche secrets or give me exclusive information. I’m asking you to go skating.”

I thought about it for a moment. What did I have to lose? My alternative was spending an evening alone. And when would I have a chance to skate all over this city again? It sounded fascinating. And perhaps, if we could stay away from talking about Guillaume for a night, I could curry a bit of additional favor for KMG with Gabe. Obviously, I’d need the extra store of goodwill for the next time Guillaume did something stupid.

“But I don’t have skates,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “My sister left hers at my apartment. If they don’t fit, we’ll figure out a way to rent you some.”

“Well . . . okay,” I said after a moment. I smiled. “I guess I’m in.”

“Great!” Gabe said. “Why don’t you meet me in an hour and we’ll eat first.”

Against my better judgment, I was at the door of Gabe’s apartment in an hour, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, as he had suggested. It felt crazy to be there, but I kept reminding myself that it was for the good of Guillaume. After all, if I was friendly to Gabe, he might forgive more of my rock star’s wackiness, right? He might be easier to charm the next time Guillaume did something stupid. Unfortunately, there was no doubt in my mind that there
would
be a next time.

Plus, I had to admit, I’d spent the past hour getting excited about the Pari Roller. I had looked it up online to make sure that Gabe wasn’t making it up, and as wacky as it sounded, it was true. From 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. every Friday, a group of nearly twenty thousand skaters, most of them in their teens and twenties, went roaring north from the Montparnasse station into the heart of Paris, snaking their way past monuments and landmarks in one noisy stampede on wheels.

When Gabe opened the door to his apartment, which was indeed just a few blocks from mine on Rue Augereau, he was holding a pair of skates in one hand and a baguette in the other.

“My sister’s,” he said in greeting, holding up the pink Rollerblades. “And dinner,” he said, holding up the baguette. “Well,” he amended. “Part of dinner, anyhow.”

“You cooked?” I asked. I’d assumed we would just grab a sandwich or crêpe on the way.

Gabe shrugged. “We’ll need the energy. Believe me. Besides, it’s nothing special. I’m not so great in the kitchen. But I do make a fantastic spaghetti Bolognese, if I do say so myself.”

I laughed. “It sure smells good,” I said. And it did. The pungent aroma of tomatoes, basil, and garlic danced down the hallway toward the door, enticing me in.

“I’ll go get things ready,” Gabe said. “Why don’t you try on Lucie’s skates?”

While Gabe set the table and chopped up lettuce for a salad, I slipped my feet into his sister’s Rollerblades and was a little surprised to find that they fit almost perfectly. I stood up and wobbled a bit. Gabe came over to check on me.

“How do they feel?” he asked.

“Good,” I said. He looked down at the skates and bent to press his fingers into the space just above my toes, like shoe salesmen sometimes did.

“They’re a little loose,” he said. “But I think you’ll be okay if you wear a second pair of socks. I’ll go get some for you.”

-Forty-five minutes later, our stomachs full of spaghetti and our arms full of skates, socks, helmets, and pads, Gabe and I left his apartment and started walking toward the Métro stop at La Motte Picquet Grenelle, about five minutes away.

“So I thought you said you grew up in Florida,” I said to make conversation along the way. “How come your sister lives in Brittany?” I tried to shift the weight of the skates from one arm to the other as we walked. They were getting heavy.

“She’s actually my half sister,” Gabe said. He glanced over at me. “Here, let me take those,” he said, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the street. “I’m sorry. I should have offered.” Despite my protests that he didn’t have to, he grabbed my skates and handed me his much lighter helmet and pads to carry. I thanked him, and we started walking again.

“So Lucie is your half sister on your dad’s side?” I asked after a moment.

Gabe nodded. “Yes. He’s still in Brittany. My mother, of course, still lives in Florida. I spent every summer with my dad, so I’m close to Lucie.”

I absorbed this for a moment. Then I realized something. “So when you said in the UPP story that Guillaume had grown up in Brittany, you knew that because you spent summers there as a kid? You knew who he was from when you were younger?”

“Yes,” Gabe said quickly. “That’s right. But I thought you said we weren’t going to talk about work tonight.” We had reached the Métro entrance, and before he could say more, we had to scramble to get our tickets out with our hands full. By the time we were through the turnstiles and had boarded the
Nation
-bound 6 train, Gabe was already on to another subject, asking me where I had lived in college. I let the whole Brittany issue go. After all, he had answered my question; it had been bothering me for days how Gabe had known so much about Guillaume’s background.

The Pari Roller was, without a doubt, the craziest thing I had ever seen.

We joined thousands of other skaters in the Place Raoul Dautry, between the train station and huge Montparnasse tower, just in time for a brief lecture, in French, from the roller organizers about safety and road rules. Gabe quietly translated for me as I pulled on my knee pads, the extra socks he had loaned me, and his sister’s skates. He helped me fasten Lucie’s helmet on my head and grinned as he adjusted the strap.

“Why, you look beautiful, Emma,” he said, patting the top of my helmet once he had tightened it on. I made a face at him.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure I’m really hot with my hair squished into a mushroom shape under a big, hard helmet.” I rolled my eyes.

“You
are
hot,” Gabe said, looking surprisingly serious. I opened my mouth to say something smart in return, but before I could, the whistle blew and we were nearly run over by a sudden onslaught of skaters descending on Paris.

“Let’s go!” Gabe grinned down at me. He put a hand on my arm and helped steady me as we made our way into the crush of bodies on wheels. “You ready?” he shouted over the noise that came from twenty thousand sets of wheels grinding over the pavement in unison.