The Art of French Kissing (13 page)

I blushed, feeling stupid. “I know that.”

“Besides,” Gabe added, “I have dual citizenship. My father is French. My mother is American. They divorced when I was a baby. I spent summers here with my dad and the rest of the year in Tampa with my mom.”

“You lived in Tampa?” I stared in disbelief. “I grew up in Orlando.” The cities were only an hour apart. Gabe laughed.

“That’s unbelievable,” he said. “What a small world.”

“You really went to UF?”

Gabe nodded. “Yes. I got a journalism degree there ten years ago and then got my master’s at the Sorbonne, here in Paris. That’s when I decided to move here to work for the UPP. Being bilingual really helps.”

“You graduated from UF ten years ago?” I asked. “I graduated seven years ago. Also from the journalism school.”

“Wow, we overlapped a year,” Gabe said. “That’s unbelievable. How come I never saw you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we crossed paths and didn’t even know it.”

“No,” Gabe said, staring straight ahead. He made the left turn onto Avenue Rapp. “I think I would have remembered you.”

My heart fluttered bizarrely for a moment, and I shot a quick glance at him. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he’d initially seemed.

A moment later, Gabe turned right down my street, and I pointed out my building.

“You’re right next to the American Library,” he said. “That’s so weird. I come here all the time.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m a big reader. Well, maybe some weekend when I’m over here, we can grab a cup of coffee.”

“Um, maybe,” I said slowly, thinking that, although he seemed nicer than I had expected, I would probably have to wear my ice skates to such a meeting, because it would be a cold day in hell before I voluntarily subjected myself to coffee with Gabe Francouer. He would no doubt spend the entire time we were together pumping me for information about Guillaume. No thanks. “Well, thank you for the ride,” I said awkwardly.

“It was great to talk with you, Emma,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to get going, though. I have dinner plans.”

I felt myself blushing again. “Oh, of course,” I said. Wait.
I
was supposed to blow
him
off. Why had he just made me feel like he was eager to get rid of me?

I opened the car door and stepped out. “Well,” I said awkwardly. “Thanks again.” I slammed the door behind me.

“No problem!” Gabe said through the open window. “Cheers!” He gave me a little wave and then sped off without looking back.

Chapter Eleven

T
hat night, Poppy came across the gum wrapper Edouard had scribbled his name and number on the first night I’d been to the Long Hop.

“Who’s this guy?” she asked, holding the wrapper in the air.

“That chain-smoker I met the first night we went out.”

“You should call him,” Poppy had said. “He seemed nice!”

“You didn’t even talk to him,” I said. “And he smoked like a chimney.”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “He liked you. And I guarantee, he’ll be great for your confidence.”

Against my protests, Poppy dialed for me and handed the phone to me. “Try to sound sexy,” she said. I rolled my eyes.

Edouard sounded surprised to hear from me, but he said that of course he remembered “ze pretty blond American girl” and would still love to take me on a romantic picnic in Paris. We agreed to meet on Wednesday night.

“Let’s go buy you something to wear!” Poppy said on Wednesday afternoon. We left the office early, and I let her talk me into a black strapless dress from Zara on the Rue de Rivoli and a new pair of way-too-expensive strappy black heels from Galeries Lafayette.

“See?” Poppy asked on the Métro on the way home. “Don’t you feel sexier now?”

I had to admit, she had a point. I spent longer than usual that evening blow-drying my hair, applying my makeup, and slipping into my dress. By the time I was done, I saw a completely different person in the mirror.

Perhaps the more different I felt, the easier it would be to forget about the life I’d left behind in the States.

“So you said you are new to our beautiful city?” Edouard asked as we walked to his car, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back.

“I’m getting to know it,” I answered.

“And I hope you are loving it so far?”

“I am.”

After a brief drive along the Seine in his little Renault, Edouard parked near the Musée d’Orsay and, with an enormous picnic basket in hand, led me toward the Pont des Arts, the beautiful pedestrian bridge that spanned the river between the Louvre on the Right Bank and the Quai Malaquais on the Left. When we found a spot on the bridge, he pulled out a perfectly folded white-and-red-checkered picnic blanket.

“My lady,” he said, gesturing to it after he’d spread it neatly, aligning the corners with the planks of the bridge.

“Can I help?” I asked, watching him in awe.

He smiled at me. “Just relax and enjoy.” He pulled out an iPod and mini speakers, then turned it on. “I’ve organized some selections from Serge Gainsbourg, to introduce you to one of our country’s legends,” he said. Soft jazz music began to waft from the speakers as Edouard lit a cigarette and busied himself pulling perfectly packaged foods from the basket and setting them up in front of us. I stared as the picnic materialized; he seemed to have brought at least a dozen dishes, some of which I’d never even seen before.

“You did all this for me?” I asked as he uncorked a bottle of red wine and began to fill two glasses. “You barely even know me!”

He shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette on the bridge. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke and smiled. “You said you hadn’t had a proper Parisian picnic yet,” he said. “I knew no better place to start than here.”

His chain-smoking aside, it felt like something out of a dream. To the west, the Eiffel Tower rose gracefully over the Seine, and to the east, I could see the twin towers of Notre Dame. To the north, the palatial Louvre seemed to go on forever; southward, the beautifully antiquated buildings of Paris dotted the Left Bank. As the sun began to dip low in the sky over the Eiffel Tower, the bright blue of early evening gave way to muted pinks and oranges on the horizon. It was breathtaking, the kind of scene that made me wish fervently I could paint or even take good photographs. It was the kind of evening mere words couldn’t describe.

While I looked on in awe, Edouard patiently explained some of the dishes he had brought to share with me. “This is goose
rillette
,” he said of the first item. It looked like a grayish, brownish box of mush, but when he spread it on a slice of baguette and I took a bite, my taste buds did a little happy dance on my tongue.

“This is amazing!” I said, my mouth still full. It was salty and sweet all at the same time, and it tasted entirely unfamiliar.

He grinned at me in amusement. “It’s a French specialty,” he said. “You can’t get it in your country.”

Next up were several fresh cheeses, including an herbed chèvre and a strong blue cheese, then a jar of tiny sour pickles called cornichons and a series of little salads, including a shredded carrot one that I couldn’t seem to get enough of. There were two kinds of meat pâté, both of which were amazing, and a strange-looking dish that appeared to be hard-boiled eggs wrapped in ham and encased in gelatin but turned out to be surprisingly delicious.

By the time we were finished with our meal—which ended in espresso from a Thermos and fruit tarts that looked almost too beautiful to eat—the stars were starting to come out, and a crescent moon was rising above Notre Dame. Thoroughly stuffed, I lay back on the picnic blanket beside Edouard and looked up at the night sky.

“It is beautiful, no?” Edouard said after a moment, puffing on a cigarette.

“It’s amazing,” I breathed. I felt like we were in our own little world, although there were passersby walking to and fro and another couple on a blanket a few yards away making out like hormonal teenagers. The vague, sweet smell of marijuana wafted over from a trio of snickering teenage boys clustered on the other side of the bridge. I turned my head to the side to look at Edouard. “I think this is one of the most wonderful evenings I’ve ever had.”

“We are just getting started,” he said. He put his cigarette out and took a sip of water. Then, inching closer to me, he pressed his lips to mine. Even though I could still taste tobacco on his breath, I kissed him back, spurred on by the food, the wine, the starry night, and the romance of it all. He pulled me closer and parted my lips with his tongue, threading one hand tenderly through my hair and stroking the side of my face with the other. It was perfect. I didn’t want the moment to end.

I cracked my eyes open as he kissed me and looked up at the night sky with the Eiffel Tower glowing ethereally white in the background. It was a quintessential moment of French romance—exactly what I needed. As I kissed back, I thought about Brett and all I’d left behind in Florida. These last few days, I’d been missing him—and my old life—a lot less. Somehow, Swanson frozen meals eaten in front of the TV while Brett watched Fox News didn’t compare to picnicking on a bridge over the Seine while a handsome Frenchman gazed into my eyes and made me feel like the only woman in the world.

I was just falling into the kiss when a ringing sound jolted me out of the moment.

“Is that yours?” Edouard asked after a moment, between hungry kisses.

“Is that my what?” I whispered back, wondering who could have been rude enough to leave their cell phone volume up on a bridge meant for picnickers and lovers.

“Is that your
phone
?” Edouard asked, kissing me again and biting my lower lip gently. I shuddered.

“My phone?” I asked vaguely. Then I sat straight up. “Oh, no, it
is
my phone!”

I’d forgotten that I’d left it on. I could feel heat rising to my cheeks.

Just then, the ringing stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you need to see who was calling?” Edouard asked.

“No,” I whispered back. “I’m sure it’s not important.” All I wanted was for him to kiss me again. Fortunately, he acquiesced. Unfortunately, whoever was calling me apparently had different plans for the evening.

“Do you think you’d better answer?” Edouard asked on the fifth series of rings. People around us were starting to stare.

I heaved a sigh and pulled myself reluctantly away from him. I groped in my purse until I found my phone, then flipped it open. Poppy’s name was on my caller ID. I gritted my teeth. “This had better be important,” I said as I answered.

“I am
so
sorry to interrupt your date,” she said hurriedly. “But I need your help, Emma. Guillaume has done it again!”

My heart sank. I glanced at Edouard, who was still lying on his side on the picnic blanket, gazing at me hopefully. “Done what?” I asked.

Poppy sighed. “All I know is he’s hanging from a rope between two apartment buildings in the seventeenth.”

I swore under my breath. “You’re kidding. Right?” I asked hopefully. Maybe this was her idea of a joke.

Poppy was silent for a moment. “I wish I was,” she said. “Seriously, Emma, could he make our lives any more difficult? His launch is barely a week away!”

I glanced at Edouard again. “Poppy,” I whispered, turning away from him a bit. “I’m on a date with Edouard!”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” she said quickly. “Just explain it to him. Tell him you have to go for work.”

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. I jotted down the address and promised to meet her there as soon as I could.

“Everything okay?” Edouard asked as I hung up.

I took a deep breath. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. There’s a work emergency I have to help take care of.”

Edouard just stared at me.

“You are leaving?” he asked.

“I’m so sorry.” I glanced around at the remnants of the perfect picnic. “Really,” I said. “You have no idea how disappointed I am.”

He stared at me for another moment then shook his head. He stood up without another word and started grabbing empty dishes and tossing them back into the picnic basket, muttering under his breath.

“Edouard?” He was obviously upset, and I couldn’t blame him, especially after all the effort he had gone to.

“It’s just not natural,” he grumbled as he tossed the last of the dishes back into the basket.

“What’s not natural?” I asked, confused.

“This,” he said, shaking his head. “In our country, women do not leave dates early to go to work. Perhaps things are different in America, but here the women are women and the men are men.”

“What?” I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. What did being women and men have to do with anything?

He studied me for another moment then shook his head. “It’s too late. We shall go. Let’s go to the car.”

“I can find a taxi . . .”

“Nonsense.” His voice was stiff. “I will drive you.”

He gathered up the blanket, threw out the empty wine bottle, and began striding quickly, picnic supplies in hand, back toward the Left Bank, away from our perfect little spot on the perfect little bridge. With Edouard puffing aggressively away on a series of cigarettes, we drove in uncomfortable silence to the seventeenth, where he found his way to the address on a side street off Avenue Niel that Poppy had given me.

“The avenue is blocked,” Edouard said stiffly as we pulled up. There were several Paris police officers motioning for drivers to keep going. I groaned. I had no doubt that they were there because of whatever Guillaume had done. Edouard pulled down the next side street and looped around to the top of Rue Banville. “This is as close as the police will let me get.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. “And again, I’m sorry.”

“You know,” Edouard said, his face stony as he watched me exit the car. “You will never find a boyfriend if you continue putting your career first.”

I stared at him. “But I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

“I’m just giving you some advice,” he said.
“Bonne nuit.”
And with that, he nodded at me and sped away. I stared after him for a moment.

“Hot date?” came a voice from behind me. I spun around to see Gabe standing there on the curb, watching me with a look of amusement on his face.

“None of your business.” I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Seemed like a nice guy,” Gabe said, raising an eyebrow.

“He was,” I said curtly, feeling foolish, wondering how much of the conversation he’d heard.

I brushed past him and into the throng waiting outside. I could feel Gabe following me, but I didn’t turn around. When I rounded the corner onto Rue Banville, I stopped dead in my tracks.

“He doesn’t look too comfortable up there, does he?” Gabe asked from behind me, his voice far too cheerful for the situation at hand.

“Oh, no,” I breathed. High above the street, which was blocked off by police barricades, Guillaume was dangling by his ankles from a thick rope suspended between two buildings, at least twelve or thirteen floors off the ground. He was belting out a slurred version of “City of Light,” complete with grandiose arm gestures.

Mon amie, mon coeur et mon amour

Won’t you show me what our love is for?

His words rang out, deep and melodic, between the buildings.

“He sounds good,” Gabe said, as nonchalantly as if we were listening to his song on the radio. I turned to glare at him.

Beneath Guillaume were four Parisian fire trucks, one with its ladder extended up a few stories, and several firefighters gazing up at him. But no one seemed to be making a move to get him down.

“Someone has to do something!” I exclaimed, more to myself than anyone else.

“This is France,” Gabe replied cheerfully. “The
pompiers
will stand around all night and gaze up at him, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”

“But . . . what if he falls?” I asked.

“Then I guess you’ll get your big publicity push,” he said.

I turned around and glared. “What’s
wrong
with you? He could get hurt up there!”

Gabe looked slightly abashed. “Emma.” He reached out and put his hand on my arm. “I’m just sure he’ll be fine. He always is. He’s always getting himself into scrapes like this. He loves them. Relax.”

I glared at him and shook my arm away. “Go back and wait with the other media,” I muttered. I focused my attention away from him and turned to the police officer standing at the top of the street, keeping the crowds away.

“Hello,” I began politely. He looked down at me, his forehead creasing. “I’m Guillaume’s publicist. May I please get through?”

“Comment?”
he asked sharply. Darn it. He didn’t understand me.