French kiss (6 page)

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lean. His ropy body and narrow gray eyes made Alexa think of a hungry cat. A black knit hat was pulled down low over his eyes, almost as if he were going incognito -- and there was a smudge of charcoal on his left cheekbone. She bet his lips tasted of Gauloises and cheap beer.

Holding Alexa's gaze -- was
he
trying to guess what
her
lips tasted like?-- the artist picked up a fresh piece of charcoal and resumed sketching, almost as if he planned to draw her. Alexa, who never blushed, felt a hot redness stealing up her face. She was used to guys checking her out -- even today, she'd gotten several sideways smiles from boys on the Métro -- but
this
eye contact felt more intense, more personal.

Alexa drew a deep breath, steadying herself. Yes, she'd always had a weakness for seductive French boys, but she was here with
Diego.
And she loved Diego. Didn't she?

Dizzy, Alexa whirled away from the artist's penetrating stare and flew toward the cathedral in search of her boyfriend. When she spotted his dark hair and tall figure, she immediately hurried over, flung her arms around his neck, and buried her face in the collar of his striped shirt, feeling a mixture of guilt and longing.

"Baby," Diego said, clearly startled but pleased. His arms went around her waist and he drew her close, nuzzling her neck. Naturally, since they were in Paris,

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their cuddling didn't prompt even a second glance from the people milling about on the steps.

'"I don't want us to argue anymore," Alexa spoke into Diego's ear, clinging tightly to him.

""Then let's not," Diego murmured. "Let's just have fun."

And, as they started kissing on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, with the setting sun bathing Montmartre in a golden glow, Alexa decided that they would do exactly that. This week would be the best, most wildly romantic one of their lives.

If only Diego would get over the stupid Eiffel Tower.

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chapter four

A Royal Mess

"Is that Prince William?" Holly's best friend, Meghan, asked, pointing to a blond boy in a navy blue sweater who was leaning against the bar, drinking a bottle of Theakston's beer.

Holly groaned. "I hate to break it to you, Meggie," she replied, reaching for the pitcher of ale, "but what would the extremely hot heir to the British throne be doing in a dinky pub in Wimbledon?"

From the moment the girls had arrived in England two days before, on Saturday, Meghan had been spotting members of the royal family everywhere: at the run-down faux-Victorian hostel where the team was staying, at the local fish-and-chips place, even on the running track at Wimbledon Park. Her obsessing was starting to wear on Holly's nerves.

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"The same thing
we're
doing," Jess chimed in, plopping down on the wooden bench across from them with a fresh pitcher. "Getting sloshed." Grinning, she filled her mug to the brim, then clinked it against Holly's. "Cheerio."

Holly toasted Jess back and tentatively sipped at the cool, foamy ale. She wasn't a big drinker, but in England, where the drinking age was eighteen, and no one seemed to card, it was hard to resist. In fact,
all
the members of the Oakridge High girls' track team on their blissful free hour before curfew were scattered throughout the Fox Run Pub. Disregarding the fact that they weren't supposed to drink while competing, the girls were drowning their sorrows in pints. That morning, they'd lost miserably to the annoyingly svelte, über-blonde German team.

Of course, Holly -- team captain and perpetual guilt magnet -- blamed herself.

While Jess and Meghan continued to swoon over the Prince William clone, Holly tuned them out, set down her pint, and rested one freckled cheek in her hand. For the millionth time that night, she rotated her sore ankle beneath the table and mentally replayed the awful events of that morning.

Ponytail swinging, heart thumping, she'd been pounding up the track as her teammates screamed her on. But then she'd felt it sharp and sure as the

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stitch in her side: She was off her game. Holly had been feeling fuzzy and distracted ever since she'd gotten to England. But she hadn't expected her condition to worsen on the track. As Holly's legs slowed, the pompous captain of the German team Brünhilde or whatever her name was --- shot by her. Holly's stomach dropped, and her knees followed; as her left ankle turned, she stumbled and fell, slapping her hands against the crimson-colored track. A hush fell over the stadium.

It was the most mortifying moment of Holly Jacobson's entire life, not counting the time a random boy had seen her naked in South Beach last year.

Shaking, she'd picked herself up and limped across the finish line -- dead last.

"Jacobson," Coach Graham had barked, storming over. "You were a mess out there!" In a matter of days, Ms. Graham had morphed from friendly, Go-Team-Go! coach into Psycho Drill Sergeant.

Holly had tried to catch her breath as the rest of the team gathered around her, asking if she was okay. She'd sought out Meghan's and Jess's concerned faces in the crowd and lifted her shoulders at them in a helpless
I suck, don't I?
gesture. More than anything, Holly hated knowing that she'd let her team down.

Frowning, Coach Graham had led Holly through the crush of Oakridge girls, over to the nearest wooden

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bench. She'd promptly sat Holly down and expertly prodded her achy ankle.

"Ouch," Holly had whispered, wincing and turning her head away. Pieces of hair that had escaped from her ponytail stuck damply to the back of her neck, her green uniform felt itchy, and her palms burned. Holly had been running track for the past four years; she was used to enduring discomfort, even pain. Tiger Balm and Icy-Hot could be a girl's best friends. But now, Holly didn't want to deal with the recover}- process. She was sick of always worrying about injuries. And she bet that Coach Graham would make a huge deal out of this latest one.

"It's not sprained, but you need to stay off it," Coach Graham had pronounced, confirming Holly's fears. After applying an ice pack to Holly's ankle, she straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest, glowering. "Though you shouldn't have any problems walking, doing any running would be a terrible idea now." She cleared her throat and gave a decisive shake of her curly ash-blonde bob. "I don't think you'll be able to compete for the rest of the week."

Thud.
That had been the sound of Holly's heart completing its slow descent. She'd stared up at her coach in disbelief. Not being able to run was the worst punishment someone could inflict on Holly Jacobson; it was only while in motion that she felt in control of her

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life. And running always provided a blissful distraction from whatever problems Holly might be grappling with at the time. Holly couldn't bear the thought of a week spent sitting lamely on the sidelines, watching as her teammates sped up and down the track, trying to cheer them on despite the lump in her throat.

Because then she'd have
lots
of free time to dwell on that one big problem she was dealing with.

"I'm -- I'm fine," Holly had protested feebly. She'd reached down, feeling with her own fingers how swollen her ankle was. "Just give me, like, another day --"

But Ms. Graham had already interrupted with a litany of reasons as to why Holly had to remain benched -- though she
was
expected to attend every single practice session and competition, of course. As her coach rambled on, Holly had stared dreamily at the dark green treetops that ringed the track, suddenly filled with the desire to run. Not in a race this time, but as a means of escape. Holly imagined herself running and running, leaving Wimbledon and the rest of England far behind. Only she didn't want to run home, to her parents and Oakridge. She wanted to go someplace where nobody knew her and didn't care in the slightest about track and field.

"The thing is, Jacobson," Coach Graham had said, her voice stern. "Your head has been in the clouds from the minute this trip began. Honestly, I'm not

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surprised you fell today."' She'd taken a step closer, blocking Holly's pleasant view of the treetops. "What's been throwing you off? I want an explanation."

Holly had blown her bangs up off her forehead, at a loss. What reason could she possibly offer her coach?
Jet-lag? PMS? Torn tendon?
Or ... the truth?

Tyler.

Now, sitting with her friends in the crowded pub, listening to the rhythmic beats of Dizzee Rascal, and watching guys and girls snog at the bar, Holly felt a deep pang of longing. Tyler Davis may have caused her fall that morning, but she still missed him like crazy.

Tyler had called her only once since she'd been in England, on Saturday night, and they'd suffered through The Most Awkward Conversation in the History of Dating. (The highlights, as Holly remembered, had been "Um" and "Yeah.") Then, when Tyler had blurted "Do you want to talk about, you know, the car?" Holly panicked. She'd been agonizing nonstop over what she'd termed "the car-tastrophe"-- but
discussing
it was a whole different beast. What if Tyler confirmed her worst fears ("You're no Alexa St. Laurent!"), and Holly started crying? So, swallowing her hurt and confusion, she'd made up some feeble excuse about needing to go stretch, and abruptly clicked off.

If running was Holly Jacobson's greatest talent

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and that definitely felt questionable now then her second greatest was avoiding confrontations.

The proof? For an entire year, she'd avoided getting into a single real argument with her boyfriend. There had been tensions over minor matters, like which movie to rent (Tyler nixed anything with subtitles; Holly hated horror) or what kind of food to take out with the movie (Tyler was only happy with Applebee's or Arby's; Holly preferred Middle Eastern or Indian). But Holly was so adept at smoothing out these wrinkles in their relationship, and Tyler was so laid back, that no misunderstanding ever turned too serious.

Now, their transatlantic tension felt suspiciously like an actual fight.

Holly reached under the beer-sticky table for her blue Vans tote and, almost out of habit, withdrew her red T-Mobile.

Still no messages.

She knew she could call Tyler herself, or e-mail him from the local Internet café, but not to get all Wimbledon or anything Holly felt like it was totally Tyler's serve. After all,
he
was the one who'd rejected
her
in Oakridge. She sighed heavily.

"Oh no -- does your ankle hurt?" Meghan asked worriedly, glancing at Holly.

Holly shook her head, looking back at her cell.
Just my heart.

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"Girl, what is
up
with that phone?*' Jess asked, leaning across the table and grabbing the cell. "It's been, like, glued to your hand since Saturday."

"Stop, Jess -- give it back," Holly pleaded, reaching across the table. Chuckling, Jess hurriedly passed the phone to Meghan, who stuffed it into the pocket of her Champion hoodie. A group of shaggy-haired guys drinking Guinness at a nearby table laughed at their antics, and Holly's face burned; she and her friends must have looked like kindergarteners fighting over a toy. Why did hanging out with Meghan and Jess make her feel so
young
sometimes?

"Tell us what's going on and we'll give it back," Meghan challenged, her brown eyes sparkling.

Holly bit her lower lip, hesitating. She'd fully intended to spill the Tyler story to her best friends, but for some reason, she'd held off. Back in the day, Holly used to tell the girls every detail of her humdrum life -- unrequited crushes, failed exams, gym class triumphs -- and they'd always reciprocated with their own similarly benign tales. Since she'd met Tyler, though, Holly had found herself leaving out certain juicy details. And on this trip, she'd kept completely mum. It wasn't like Meghan and Jess weren't sympathetic listeners. Of course they were.

They were just utterly clueless about boys.

Holly was sure that Meghan, with her dirty-blonde,

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pixie-ish haircut and little-girl smile, and Jess, with her long ballerina's neck and dark brown bun atop her head, could both get boyfriends if they really wanted them. But both girls were so involved in sports and schoolwork that guys ranked low on their priority lists. Though Jess had briefly gone out with Marc, the cocaptain of the lacrosse team, and Meghan had once hooked up with Jeff, Oakridge High's soccer star, neither girl had ever had a real relationship.

Not too long ago, Holly had been as innocent as her friends, if not more so. But now that she was having some very real drama with her very real boyfriend, she suddenly felt like she was in a
very
different place than Meghan and Jess.

Holly took a fortifying sip of ale. The alcohol was making her feel warm; she unzipped her light green Kangol hoodie. Really, what could be the harm in confiding in her friends? It might be therapeutic to get all that worrying off her chest.

"Okay, here goes," Holly began, drawing a big breath and huddling in close to the girls.

"Jeez, you make it sound so serious," Meghan giggled.

"It
is
serious," Holly snapped -- but then felt bad. She never got testy with her friends.

"Wait," Jess said, her voice hushed. "Don't tell me.