Forget (4 page)

I’ve reverted fifteen years and finally popped my fan-girl cherry. Instead of boy bands, I’m losing my cool over some nameless guy in Paris. I have no idea if he can sing, and I’ve yet to hear his voice, but just on looks alone, Justin Timberlake has nothing on him.

My finger taps the screen, snapping the photo.

FLASH.

Oh my God.

Oh. My. God.

The flash! I forgot to turn off the flash! There’s never been a brighter flash in the history of cameras, fireworks or Christmas lights. Hell, even nuclear bombs. I swear it’s so bright, I can actually hear the light bouncing off the windows and shiny metal seats.

Man candy pauses, looking over at me, head tilted, brow raised.

A few women in the front turn around to find the culprit.

Oh dear God, I’m the culprit.
I’m the idiot who just took a picture of a guy without his permission, and failed miserably at being sneaky about it.

Mortification sets in. My cheeks heat and the warmth spreads like a wildfire. Full body blushes are a real thing, and I’m living proof. If Violet from
Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory
would have been named Scarlett, and the gum would have tasted like cherry pie, this is exactly how she would have looked.

All I can think about is how in the hell to extricate myself from this situation. My mind shouts,
“Do whatever you need to get out of here! Just jump off the damn train!”

Despite
that
wonderful advice, I follow my second instinct; acting like my phone had a sudden malfunction. I tap the screen several times, so the flash keeps going off. It’s erratic, bright light bouncing every few seconds, and probably blinding everyone around me.

“Huh?” I furrow my brow and flail my phone around. “What is going on? Why does it keep going off?” I mutter to myself after each spontaneous flash.

Everyone on this train is going to need Lasik eye surgery.

Sighing, I turn my phone off in a dramatic fashion. “I need to get this thing looked at,” I say too loudly, startling a yelp out of the lady in the seat ahead of mine.

Smooth, Brooke. Real fucking smooth.
I put my phone back in my messenger bag and stare intensely at the ground. I refuse to look in
his
direction. I’d rather burrow inside the floor than make eye contact. I can probably last at least forty-eight hours down there without food or water.

My cheeks get hotter, if that’s even possible, as I replay the entire scene in my head. I’m internally wincing.
I’m a moron.
I could have played it cool, and simply said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take a picture.” Or even a simple “Whoops!” could have worked. Hell, just putting my phone away quietly might have done the trick. But no, in true bumbling Brooke fashion, I panicked and chose the most ridiculous option. I called on all of my acting chops like they were Batman, and I needed a rescue from The Joker. An actress I am not, my performance went over like a lead balloon.

I officially hate myself, and my self-loathing tendency to re-play embarrassing situations over and over and over again. It’s painful, and a little on the masochistic side, but it’s a habit I can’t break. My mind refuses to forget
anything,
and what happened a few minutes ago is one of those moments that will flash before my eyes when I’m on my deathbed.

I try to stay hopeful, silently praying that everyone, including my secret subject, will think I’m just an idiot tourist who sucks at technology. Honestly, at this point, I’d take the idiot option over being the creepy picture lady.

I muster the courage to glance up. The women have turned around, but not
him.
He is still staring at me, and as the train slides out of a tunnel and places us in direct sunlight, I notice the small smirk on his lips and intrigued look in his bright green eyes. I look away, scooting into the empty seat by the window, and keep my eyes firmly placed on the outside.

It’s only a minute or two before I feel him move to the spot that I just vacated, placing us in our own little row. “Cheese,” he whispers hotly into my ear.

“Huh?” I blurt out, turning towards him too fast. My neck burns for a split second from the whiplash.

“Cheese. You should have said cheese before you took my picture. I wish I could have been more prepared,” he explains, each word articulated crystal clear. His tone is too fine-tuned, quite the opposite from the flowery and flowing Parisian style I had expected.

He’s not French . . . he’s English.
His slightly posh, definitely sexy voice is what most Americans would call British. I use to do the same until I started working with Nigel. He was born and raised in Manchester and is adamant that a British accent doesn’t exist. Apparently, there are English, Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish accents, and all of them are subdivided into numerous regional accents and dialects. It’s confusing to my inexperienced American ears.

He leans in closer, his beautiful face mere inches from mine. “And it should be noted, that I rather liked the idea of you taking my picture.” A slow grin spreads across his lips.

This close-up, I realize he’s even better looking than he seemed across the aisle. And he’s tall, even sitting down, his presence towers over mine. Eventually, my dazed mind trips into understanding and I process his accusations. “I wasn’t taking a picture of you.”

He tilts his head to the side. “But your phone was pointed in my direction.”

“No . . . no . . . it wasn’t. I was . . .” I trail off, scouring for something to say. “I was just trying to do a search on Google maps, but for some reason it just started taking pictures.”
Did I really just name-drop Google?

“
Ohhhh.”
He nods his head in understanding, but his voice says otherwise.

“It’s a known defect with that model. My friend just had the same problem last week,” I add to the already ridiculous lie. That model? It’s an iPhone! Even alien life forms on Mars have iPhones. This is the epitome of a face-palm situation.

“My mistake,” he apologizes. Amusement shines in his very verdant green eyes.

I wave my hand nonchalantly in a “don’t worry about it” motion. My eyes dart back to the window. I silently wish this train would speed through Paris at a hundred miles per hour.

He leans closer, whispering into my ear. “That faulty phone of yours is dangerous. It’s a health risk for men everywhere . . .” he pauses, but his mouth still hovers. The warmth of his breath tickles my neck. I fight my body’s urge to shiver, but my nipples have a mind of their own, hardening underneath my bra. “That phone is a risk, not only to a man’s hopes, but his eyes too. If you don’t get it looked at soon, you might want to consider carrying around extra sunglasses for anyone who might be in flashing range.” His voice is deep and gruff, yet smooth as honey at the same time.

It’s intoxicating—
he’s
intoxicating. I want to hear him whisper dirty words in my ear, and then slide his tongue along my neck. No doubt he’ll star in a lot of filthy fantasies, but right now, I can’t go there. I refuse to keep my title for World’s Biggest Idiot today.

“First time in Paris?” His eyes are beaming.

“Yeah,” I say, a quiet laugh leaving my lips. “I’m guessing I made it pretty obvious with the whole paparazzi stunt.”

A deep dimple on his right cheek is revealed when his smile reaches his lips. “Maybe, just a tad,” he teases. “Where is home?” he asks, a slight Parisian accent rolling off his tongue.

“California. I’ve lived there all my life.” I keep it simple, avoiding details. “What about you?”

“Take a guess,” he challenges.

I tilt my head, looking at him closely. “Your accent is kind of confusing. I hear a lot of English, and then, sometimes a little bit of French rolls off your tongue.”

He blinks in surprise. “I’m impressed that you said English instead of British. Most Americans generalize all Brits under one category. What part of England do you think I’m from?”

“
Wow.
You’re really testing me here.” I run my index finger over my bottom lip. His voice reminds me of a famous actor, but I can’t seem to think of his name. I scrutinize his face for clues. Once it comes to me, I snap my fingers and point an index finger towards him. “Jude Law!”

“I’m from Jude Law?” he questions, more than humored.

“
Shit.”
I laugh despite myself. “I meant your accent reminds me of Jude Law’s,” I clarify, shaking my head in exasperation. “Blinding you with my faulty phone, and then name-dropping celebrities? I guess all that’s left is making your ears bleed with my Queen’s English impression, and then you can really call me a wanker.”

Gorgeous stranger chuckles a few times. “You’re adorable.”

My nose wrinkles on its own accord. Adorable? I don’t want to be adorable.

That’s what someone would use to describe their kid sister, and believe me, my current thoughts of him are far from sisterly.

“And you’re right, Jude Law was born and raised in London, just like me. My father is English, and my mother is French. London is my home, but I’ve spent time in both places. I’ve been living in Paris for the past two years.”

“That explains the French accent that sneaks into your voice.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering a few seconds, before openly scanning the rest of my body. The way he’s eyeing me makes me feel incredible. He’s looking at me like I’m his favorite brand of American girl.

This is what quicksand feels like,
I think, as I sink into his gaze. I want him to swallow me whole. I have the urge to ease the hem of my dress up and spread my bared thighs for his open perusal.
Wait. What?
I shift in my seat. My face, my chest, and hell, even my toes heat as my teeth snag at my bottom lip.

His gaze turns fiery, honing in on my lips again. He takes his hat off, and long fingers run through his hair, mussing it up even more. “Je dois savoir cette belle femme. Timide et rougissant de la tête aux pieds et . . . et . . . making me
. . .
fou mordre ses jolies lèvres,” he mutters more to himself than me. Unlike the fast, strung-together French filling the streets of Paris, his words are offered separately, each one pushed out and curling softly in the air.

His fluent French nearly hypnotizes me, but I shake it off. I focus on his words, but all I can translate is something about
woman
and
feet
and possibly two words of English,
making me.

“Huh?” I question, glancing down at my feet. Only pink toenails are visible underneath my messenger bag.

“What’s your name?”

“Did you just make a joke about my feet?”

We toss out questions at the same time.

He barks out a laugh, staring at me with wide, charmed eyes. “I promise I was not making a joke about your cute feet. I’m a fan of pink toenails by the way.
Big. Fan.”

“This conversation is turning very weird,” I admit. “Is this your way of telling me you have some kind of freaky foot fetish?” I ask, and immediately want to take it back. I’m starting to wonder if an alien has taken over my body.

“
Freaky foot fetish?
” he questions. His diluted hybrid accent rolls off his tongue, making those three words sound better than they should.

I start to laugh, but the squeaking breaks of the métro steal my attention. It’s the 4
th
Arrondissement. My stop. People begin to file out of their seats, and I know I need to get up. I’m in Paris to remember Millie, not flirt with gorgeous men. I take one last look at his face, before gripping my messenger bag and getting to my feet. “This is my stop.”

He stands, but doesn’t edge into the aisle to let me through. “I need the name of my photographer.” He winks.

“Oh shut the hell up, I did
not
take your picture.” I poke him in the chest with my finger. And even though he’s one-hundred-percent on the money, I can’t help but think he’s a little bit on the cocky side. Why is he so confident that
I
would want a picture of
him?

His smile is mischievous.

“Seriously.” I can’t fight my smile. “This is my stop . . . I need to get off.”

“Yes, you need . . .
to get off.
” He melts my feet to the floor with a heated look.

Those three words hover in the air, taunting me, tempting me, and visions of getting to know him in the Biblical sense float around in my head. I’m in the Garden of Eden and dying to take a bite of what he’s offering, desperate to experience his version of
get off.

“You’re trouble.”

He shakes his head, but bad-boy charm oozes from his sexy smile.

I want to get drunk off his smile and have a million of his smile’s half-British, half-French babies. His full lips make me think of French kisses, which lead me to thinking about him naked again.
I’m hopeless.

“I really need to go. I’m about to miss my stop.” My voice betrays me, sounding soft and breathy, and the exact opposite of someone who wants to leave. I steel myself, forcing a stern tone. “I’m going to be really fucking pissed if you make me miss my stop.” Okay,
somewhat
of a stern tone.

He laughs, taking two steps back. His body is almost in the aisle, but not quite. “I really like you, Little Wing,” he says, tongue slipping past his lips and staring at my mouth. “You and your perfect little mouth.” His voice turns gravelly, deliciously curled with a hint of French.

Holy hell, he should come with a warning label.

And
Little Wing?
For all I know, he’s just tossed out some British slang for annoying American girl, but the way he said those two words, while staring at my mouth, has me thinking it’s the opposite.

I take two steps forward and notice the line to exit is getting smaller by the second. My foot taps impatiently on the floor. “Brooke,” I concede, “My name is Brooke.”

“Brooke.”
All of a sudden my name is the best name I’ve ever heard.

He pulls something out of his backpack, grabbing my hand without permission, and a cold point is pressed into my palm, sliding across it softly. Before I can argue or pull my hand from his grip, he’s finished and backing up, making enough room for me to slide past.