Okay. Holly’s heart had now achieved full slamming-against-ribcage status. So maybe Raphi had known something about this—known that Holly would in fact have a date. Tonight. At eight o’clock. Which, naturally, was when Holly’s train was leaving. And she knew, from glancing at the schedule earlier, that it was the last train going to England that night.
“Pierre, I’m so sorry,” Holly said, her throat constricting. “It does sound great, but I can’t—I really have to get—” Suddenly, Holly paused, and saw her two options branching out before her, like in a “Choose Your Own Adventure” novel. One road led to Puma sweatpants and tight ponytails and the steel-gray sky above Wimbledon. The other led to Holly in her new green safari-print dress and a sumptuous opera house, with Pierre sitting next to her in a dark theater.
Hmm. A toughie.
Holly felt recklessness warming her blood again. The thing was, despite her earlier grumbling, Holly did care about what Alexa had said. And the memory of Alexa’s derisiveness—over Holly’s lack of boy-experience, over the track meet—fueled in Holly the desire to do something different. To swerve off her appointed path. Holly’s roiling resentment toward her friend, combined with Pierre’s delectable nearness and the invitation in his dreamy blue eyes, all came together in one powerful instant.
Holly Jacobson chose her own adventure. For tonight, she chose Paris.
Blushing, Holly smiled back at Pierre and gave him a small, barely perceptible nod. This feels right, she realized. Why had she even hesitated? And, more important, why had it not occurred to her before that she could take a morning train to England? The track meet wasn’t until ten tomorrow, and the ride from Paris took only about three hours. All Holly had to do was set her alarm for dawn and catch the earliest train possible out of Gare du Nord.
Meghan and Jess would understand.
“Ah,” Pierre said, a huge grin spreading across his face. “You have changed your mind?”
“Well, first I have to change my clothes,” Holly replied, unable to suppress her own grin as she gestured down to her jeans and waffle shirt. Pierre himself looked very Euro-boy-cute in a tweed blazer with the collar turned up, worn over a plain white T-shirt, pencil-skinny black pants, and black loafers.
“You will thank me for this afterward, I promise,” Pierre said. He came up very close to her and, as she had that day in the park, Holly got the stomach-swooping sense that Pierre might kiss her. But instead he spun her around and pointed her in the direction of the guest room. “Go change—quickly!” Pierre urged. “The show will not wait for us.”
The show will not wait for us, Holly thought as she hurried back into the guest room with her duffel. Breathless, she tore open her bag and pulled out the new dress and flat-heeled boots she’d been dying for a chance to wear. Shows did not wait and neither did life. And Tyler or no Tyler, track meet or no track meet, Holly Jacobson was sick of walking in on life midway through the opening dance. This time, she wanted to be there when the curtain came up.
“Bravo!” Holly heard herself calling, two glorious hours later, as the heavy velvet curtain came down on the ballet of Roméo et Juliette. She and Pierre, along with the rest of the audience, were on their feet, clapping wildly for the dancers, who’d just taken their final bow. Holly had never said the word bravo before in her life, but then again, she’d never seen a performance like this one—all lavish costumes, jaw-dropping dancing, heavenly music, and of course, tragically star-crossed lovers. Holly had realized that anybody who thought ballet was boring had clearly never sat in the front row; many times, she’d felt like the dancers were flying right out at her. It had been—just as Pierre had promised back in the apartment—incredible.
“So, I was right, yes?” Pierre asked. He and Holly strolled into the marble-and-gilt lobby of the Opéra Garnier amid a swarm of dressed-to-the-nines Parisians—some women in silken gowns and garlands of pearls, some men in crisp black tuxedos—all clucking over the ballet. “This was worth missing your train for?” He gently put a hand on Holly’s back to guide her out of the ornate opera house and into the warm, starry night.
“Most definitely,” Holly sighed as they drifted across the sweeping plaza. “This was worth everything.”
The cobblestone streets were bursting with people—amorous couples on the corners, giggling girls in platform flip-flops racing toward some unknown destination—and Holly breathed it all in. After a solid year of domestic activities like playing on Tyler’s Xbox, she was loving being out this late with a handsome boy at her side, the hazy crescent moon overhead, and the very air buzzing with possibility. Holly had decided to leave her cell phone back at the apartment, and without its weight in her new mint-green clutch, she felt as free and untethered as a balloon. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for Romeo and Juliet,” she added with a grin, glancing down at the glossy program in her hand.
“Ah, me? I am different,” Pierre said, brushing his dark curls out of his eyes—a gesture that Holly had grown accustomed to, but that never failed to make her melt. “I enjoyed the ballet, yes, but I have never understood this Romeo and Juliet business,” he explained as they started down the boulevard Haussman. “It is supposed to be the greatest story of l’amour—of love—in the world, n’est-ce-pas?” he offered with a thoughtful glance at Holly, who nodded. “But they are teenagers. Juliet—she has, what? Fourteen years? And Romeo, he has seventeen? Tell me, what do teenagers know about great and true love? I find this…” Pierre flicked his thumb and middle finger together. “Crazy.”
“Do you mean that?” Holly asked, turning to Pierre in surprise. She’d initially pegged Alexa’s soulful cousin as more of a romantic. “But it’s forbidden love!” Holly argued, gesturing with her hands. The night’s energy was loosening her normally more reserved tongue. “And, come on, Pierre,” she added, shaking her head. “Of course teenagers can fall totally and completely in love. When you’re a teenager, everything becomes so intense—so important…” Holly let out a sigh, remembering herself at thirteen, when she’d first felt the cruel sting of a crush.
“You take love very seriously, ’Olly,” Pierre observed, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps too seriously?”
“I do not—” Holly began defensively, but then her heartbeat increased at a dramatic rate. Forbidden love. Teenagers. She looked down at her boots, avoiding Pierre’s gaze. Oh, God, she thought, in a mild panic. Was I talking about…us?
Thankfully, Pierre chose that moment to suggest that they grab a late dinner on the Ile St-Louis. Flustered, Holly agreed—with the one request that the meal not run too late, since she’d set her travel alarm clock for the ungodly hour of five in the morning. But by the time she and Pierre were splitting a steak frites and a bottle of wine on a terrace overflowing with flowers, Holly’s alarm was the last thing on her mind. As she and Pierre ate and drank and continued to debate the ballet, eleven o’clock magically morphed into midnight, and soon they were making their tipsy way over to the nearby Café-Brasserie St. Regis, to pick up some bière à l’emporter.
Sipping their cups of cold, bubbly beer, they wandered over to the illuminated Notre Dame cathedral, behind which they came upon a wild array of street performers, from fire-eaters to jugglers to bongo drummers. A DJ was spinning techno and trance, and packs of kids danced, waving glow sticks.
Watching the impromptu party from the periphery, Holly felt both uncomfortable and intrigued; she’d never been to a rave, but she figured the vibe at one would come close to this. She hung back, but an enthusiastic Pierre—“they call this ‘the show,’” he explained—talked her into staying. Holly soon felt all her reserve dissolving as she and Pierre finished their beers, danced in fits and starts, and chatted up some Australian backpackers who were still dirty from the Eurorail. The party was still raging when the two of them decided to cool off with a walk across the river.
“I should really get back to the apartment,” Holly said unconvincingly as she and Pierre strolled along a quiet stone quay, th
eir arms brushing against each other. She tossed a glance down at her wristwatch. It was well after two in the morning.
“Yes,” Pierre said, with just as much conviction. “You should.” Holly felt their elbows bump slightly.
“Mmm,” Holly replied, closing her eyes. Her head was pleasantly heavy from the wine and beer, and she was enjoying how the river breeze playfully lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck.
“Look,” Pierre whispered, squeezing Holly’s bare arm to get her attention. Holly let her eyes flutter open, and saw that Pierre was motioning to a flight of stone steps that led down from the quay to a narrow little nook right on the water. “These secret places, they are perhaps my favorite in all of Paris,” he added quietly.
“Let’s check it out,” Holly whispered back, feeling a spark of excitement. She wasn’t usually one to explore hidden-away corners in cities, but the slim strip of gravel by the water seemed to call to her. She grabbed Pierre’s hand and led him down the steep unlit steps until they reached the secluded spot. Wordlessly, Pierre took off his blazer and spread it on the ground, and he and Holly sat down, hugging their knees and gazing out at the water.
“Oh, Pierre,” Holly sighed, admiring how the river shone glassy-black in the moonlight. Across the way, the lights of the Left Bank shimmered and winked at her, tantalizing and coy. “It’s—it’s amazing,” she added dreamily, resting her chin on her knees. She’d never fully experienced Paris by night before.
“Oui,” Pierre murmured, and Holly felt his eyes on her profile. “Amazing. This is exactly what I am thinking.”
At Pierre’s words, Holly felt tingles rush through her limbs. She had grown deliciously accustomed to Pierre tossing off a flirtatious compliment every so often, but tonight, his voice seemed different—deeper, more serious. Her pulse fluttering at her neck and wrists, Holly sat very still as Pierre moved closer to her, and she felt the undeniable energy pulse between them.
And then suddenly, it was no longer the river breeze that was lifting Holly’s hair off her neck, but Pierre himself, his hands slipping carefully through her fine, honey-brown strands. Is he really doing that? Holly thought dazedly, wondering if she should tell Pierre to stop. But, in the next heartbeat, as Holly’s skin flushed hotter and hotter, Pierre leaned in and kissed her neck, his lips soft and warm and slow. And he certainly didn’t stop.
“Oh, Pierre,” Holly repeated, only this time her meaning was completely different—and her words were faint with breathlessness. She had every intention of telling him how wrong this was, but her eyes were closing with pleasure and she was inclining her head to the left, giving Pierre more of her neck to kiss. And, really, Holly knew she was powerless to stop this moment—this natural culmination of everything that had been building since the day Pierre had kissed her hello in the stairwell. What was happening between the two of them felt as certain, as inevitable as the current of the river as it lapped against the bank.
Pierre seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “I have wanted—this—for so long,” he whispered into Holly’s ear, his breath catching, his lips still brushing her neck. Gently, Pierre tilted Holly’s head back up, and turned her face toward his. Holly thought she could see her reflection in Pierre’s light blue eyes, and she felt, for the first time in a long time, as beautiful as Alexa. She gave Pierre a small smile, biting her bottom lip, and Pierre swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.
As Pierre brought his face in even closer to hers, Holly closed her eyes again, welcoming the wave of desire that engulfed her. She wasn’t sure who even started the kiss, but, in the next instant, their mouths were fitted together, and Holly found herself kissing Pierre with a passion she hadn’t even known she was capable of. His tongue tasted like honey, and the feel of his full lips was so deliciously unfamiliar that Holly’s whole body quivered. There, on the deserted riverbank, they turned toward each other completely, Holly’s arms sliding tight around Pierre’s neck, his claiming her waist. Their bodies pressed together and they continued to kiss hungrily as the crescent moon moved across the water.
Kissing while sitting up suddenly seemed like a silly idea; before she knew it, Holly was lying back against Pierre’s jacket, and he was above her, his hands tracing the curves of her body, his touch careful but confident. As Pierre’s fingers floated along the seam of her dress, Holly gave a small start, and Alexa’s words from earlier sprung unbidden into her mind: Pierre is not as innocent as he seems.
No kidding.
“Ça va?” Pierre murmured, drawing back a little to smile down at her. His hair was rumpled and his eyes were sparkling.
“Ça va,” Holly replied, surprised at how easily the French came to her. She knew the phrase more or less translated to “It’s cool.” And, even though Holly wasn’t used to making out with foreign boys on hidden riverbanks, she was cool with this. She was ready. She’d been ready back in Oakridge—perched on the brink, waiting to dive in.
And, from the looks of things, Pierre St. Laurent was there to catch her.
As their kissing and caressing picked up again, Pierre started to stretch out alongside her, but space on his blazer was limited. Holly shifted helpfully to one side, but felt something sharp poke her in the back. A pebble. “Ow,” Holly mumbled, pulling back from Pierre to readjust herself on the blazer. As she did so, her palm dug into the scratchy gravel. What am I doing? Holly wondered. Clearly, a riverbank wasn’t the most convenient place for a hookup, but before Holly could say anything about that, Pierre was kissing her again.
Then, suddenly, as if the cold, hard ground had awoken her, Holly was reminded of that night in the car with Tyler—how, they, too, had tried in vain to get comfortable together. And once she had thought of Tyler, Holly was unable to stop thinking of him. Tyler, whose sweet, gentle kisses were as familiar to her as the back roads of her hometown. Tyler, who—tonight, between the ballet and the beer and the walk along the water—had receded in Holly’s mind, but now returned, as vivid as if he were beside her on the moonlit bank. What was she doing here, lying on the gravel in the middle of Paris, ready to do who-knew-what with a boy she barely even knew?
And, in that instant, even as Pierre was kissing her, Holly realized that there was only one boy with whom she wanted to make out in inconvenient places. And with whom she wanted to go all the way.
So she whispered his name.
Pierre immediately broke off the kiss and pulled back, his brow furrowed, his breathing unsteady. “Tyler?” he repeated, his eyes searching hers. Holly wondered if Pierre remembered the name from the restaurant last night.
“Tyler,” Holly affirmed, her voice wavery. Slowly, she struggled to sit up, warm tears gathering in her throat. She hadn’t meant for this to happen—none of it. She hadn’t meant to blurt out Tyler’s name like that, but she also hadn’t intended to hook up with Pierre in the first place. Or had she? Everything was a giant, jumbled mess.
Pierre raised one eyebrow, sitting back on his heels and studying Holly. “He is your boyfriend?” he asked quietly. “From New Jersey?”
Holly’s stomach lurched. Right on the money. Unsteadily, she got to her feet, trembling a little. “How did you—did Alexa tell you?” she asked, preparing for another reason to hate her friend.
Pierre shook his head, smiling wryly as he also climbed to his feet. “’Olly, I am not a fool,” he said, bending down to retrieve his wrinkled blazer. Brushing the gravel off his jacket, he met Holly’s gaze and she saw the raw disappointment written on his face.
Holly felt the tears start at the corners of her eyes and she glanced down. Of course, smart, insightful Pierre would be able to guess the truth from her reaction. Holly felt terrible for keeping him in the dark all this time. As all of her various guilts—over Pierre, over Tyler, over Wimbledon—melded together in a blur, Holly was unable to put a stopper on her tumbling emotions. So she did what any normal girl would do in her position.
She burst into tears.
Pierre to
ok a step toward her, and, since Holly had no other place to rest her head, she leaned it against his chest, weeping into his soft white T-shirt. She felt him hesitate for a second and then begin to stroke her tousled hair.
“Pierre, I’m sorry,” Holly sobbed, her voice muffled. “There’s so much I’ve kept from you. Yes, Tyler is my boyfriend, and we’ve been together a whole year but he doesn’t even know I’m in Paris,” she rambled, hiccuping. “And neither do my parents because I escaped from my track meet in England, and that was why I needed to leave tonight, and if Coach Graham catches me, I might get kicked out of school, and Meghan and Jess will get in trouble, too, and they’re probably so mad at me, and now I’m in this fight with Alexa so I have no friends left and—and…” Her breath running out, Holly let herself collapse into sobs once more, burying her face deeper into Pierre’s shirt. She felt drained, but not in a terrible way; it was kind of liberating to finally shed all her secrets.
Some woman of mystery.
“’Olly, écoute-moi—listen to me,” Pierre spoke up, his voice calm and steady. “It is okay.” He put one hand under Holly’s chin and lifted her tear-streaked face so they were eye to eye. “Well, maybe it is not okay,” he amended, a smile flickering across his face. “But it is certainly no reason to cry.”
“Please don’t be nice to me, Pierre,” Holly sniffled, resisting the urge to blow her nose on the hem of his shirt. After her big confession, she’d expected Pierre to despise her, but his kindness was only making her feel worse. “I’m this total liar, and I led you on and—”