“Hang on,” Alexa said. She reached for her tote and pulled out her digital camera, holding it at arm’s length as she and Holly leaned their heads together and smiled. Alexa pressed the silver button and the flash went off. Then, she flipped the camera over to admire the image she’d captured—she and Holly, smiling on the beach, frozen forever in time. She returned the camera to her bag, satisfied.
Alexa and Holly started dancing together on the sand. A few guys tossed appreciative glances their way, and Alexa acknowledged the boy-attention, but she didn’t crave it like she had before. She stood on her toes, spotting Diego near one of the coolers. He was sipping a Corona and talking to, of all people, Tyler. Alexa nudged Holly to point out the surprise pairing, then the girls looked back at each other and grinned. Who knew what those boys were talking about?
Night had fallen, engulfing the ocean in darkness, but the stars were very bright overhead. Holly looked down at her watch. The hours were slipping by. Soon, it would be morning, and the girls would be on a plane again, soaring back home. Back to school and parents and ordinary life.
“Can you believe at this time tomorrow—” Holly began.
“Shhh!” Alexa put her hand over Holly’s mouth. “Don’t say ‘tomorrow.’ Don’t even think about it.”
Holly smiled. “You’re right.”
So the girls cast aside all thoughts of home, and boys, and the future. They simply surrendered themselves to the South Beach night: the music, the waves, the fire, and the starry sky. Tomorrow seemed like ages away.
Preview
Don’t miss Alexa and Holly’s next outrageous escapade in the sizzling sequel, French Kiss.
Near midnight, Holly, Alexa, and Alexa’s Parisian cousins, Raphaëlle and Pierre, headed straight to Eurotrash. Even on a Tuesday, the trendy Right Bank club boasted a mile-long line outside. But because Raphaëlle was buddies with the bouncer, he kissed her cheeks and lifted the velvet rope for her and her entourage.
Alexa felt a flutter of admiration for Raphaëlle as she followed her into the dark, pulsing nightclub. As a rule, Alexa wasn’t easily bowled over by anyone, but she’d always been a little in awe of her eldest cousin, who—with her boho style and vivid personality—was the essence of individuality. Sometimes, around Raphaëlle, Alexa felt very much her mere eighteen years, and she couldn’t help but wonder if—in her name-brand clothes and carefully applied makeup—she came off as just another high-maintenance, glossy American girl.
It wasn’t a thought Alexa liked to dwell on.
Inside Eurotrash, Raphi flounced off to join her hipster friends, who were smoking at the serpentine chrome bar, leaving Alexa, Pierre, and Holly on the elevated platform above the dance floor. Alexa shed her sparkly shrug, soaking everything in: strobe lights coloring the dance floor, the metallic silver couches strewn with kissing couples, and the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows that allowed clubgoers to stare out at the moonlit Champs-Elysées.
Alexa scanned the crowd and caught sight of a tall, lanky guy with a shaved head, wearing aviator shades and a ripped tee, amid swarms of other potential boy toys. She felt the delectable thrill of possibility. She’d forgotten how fun it was to be single. And, since she was coveniently in Paris—land of the liasion and home of the hottie—what better place was there to savor her new status?
Grabbing Holly’s elbow, Alexa hollered over the pounding music: “Let’s get two Stoli on the rocks and sandwich some cutie, okay?” She hoped poor Pierre wouldn’t mind hanging alone. Or, she thought with a devilish smile, he could come and dance with Holly.
Holly pulled back, unsure. The dance floor was swarming with high-cheekboned, trendily outfitted club kids, and Holly suddenly felt very young, even in her chic new sea green halter. Not to mention that she’d much rather dance to eighties songs—like pre-Kabbalah Madonna—than the house music blaring here. She’d had a blast clubbing in South Beach, but now that Holly had a boyfriend back home, she wouldn’t feel too comfortable grinding with some anonymous European guy.
Shaking her head, she apologetically offered her still-sore ankle as an excuse. So Alexa shrugged, blew her and Pierre a kiss, and started off toward the bar, clearly on a boy-finding mission. Holly hoped Alexa knew what she was doing; she didn’t think delving into a hookup right after a breakup was necessarily the best plan. But what did she know about boy stuff, really?
“Would you like to sit down?” Pierre asked. His hand on Holly’s bare arm made her stomach jump. He gestured to the closest metallic couch, where two lanky boys lounged, sharing a cigarette. Holly agreed, and she and Pierre sat down on the opposite end from the boys. Since the couch wasn’t that big, they had to sit sort of close together. Holly tried not to focus on the fact that Pierre’s knee was kind of rubbing against hers as he leaned in and asked if she wanted a drink.
“No,” Holly replied, too quickly. Then, as Pierre nodded and casually draped his arm over the back of the sofa, she understood that he hadn’t been asking in a sketchy, I-want-to-get-you-drunk way—he’d simply noticed Holly’s discomfort and was trying to break the ice. Holly glanced at Pierre and gave him a sheepish smile.
Pierre returned her smile, holding her gaze for a beat. “Your eyes,” he said softly, still leaning close, his knee still touching hers. “They are a very nice green.”
Holly shifted on the sofa, fighting down the beginnings of a deep blush. “Well, I think they’re more gray-green,” she replied, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth. Holly wasn’t used to talking about her looks with anyone. When they were kissing, Tyler would sometimes pull back to study her face and whisper that she was pretty, but he’d never wax poetic on the exact shade of her eyes. “I mean, I guess their color depends on the weather,” Holly rambled on, fiddling with her silver ring. “Or on my mood, or what I’m wearing, or…”
“This—how you say—shirt?” Pierre interjected, gently taking the hem of Holly’s halter top and slowly rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Oui. This shirt, it turns your eyes green.”
“Um, yeah,” Holly managed, acutely aware of Pierre’s touch. She made a mental note to wear green for the rest of her stay in Paris; fortunately, Holly had added lots of that color to her wardrobe after a lime bikini had brought her very good luck last year.
Pierre removed his hand from her shirt and ran it through his dark curls. But his own beautiful eyes remained on Holly, almost as if—Holly barely dared entertain the thought—he couldn’t get enough of looking at her. Holly wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from too much blushing in one night. Must…change…the…subject, she thought, her mind casting around wildly for something bland and basic to bring up. Something like…school.
“Pierre, what are you majoring in at the Sorbonne?” Holly blurted, not even bothering to try for a natural segue. Like any high school senior, Holly got borderline obsessed with anything college-related, so she was genuinely interested in Pierre’s answer—especially if it took her mind off the fact that their arms were now pressing together. She leaned back against the sofa, willing herself to relax.
“Well, I think our system is a bit different from American universities,” Pierre explained, his warm breath tickling her ear, “but I am studying law. It was my father’s idea—I do not like it much.” He rolled his eyes and Holly grinned, fully understanding that particular issue.
“Say no more,” she replied, feeling her blush start to fade. “My parents want me to go to law school after college, too.” She drew her finger across her throat in a kill-me-now motion, and Pierre cracked up. Holly felt a rush of warmth; she’d made him laugh. It was funny how a shared sense of humor could translate regardless of language boundaries.
“Talking about school,” Pierre said (Holly wanted to correct him by saying “speaking of,” but she held back; his malapropisms were too adorable), “I have no classes tomorrow.” Pierre’s hand, resting on the back of the couch, very lightly brushed the nape of Holly’s neck. Though Holly tried to fight the feeling, t
ingles raced down her body. “Alexa tells me that this is your first time in Paris,” he went on, his voice low. “So perhaps, ’Olly, you would enjoy it if I took you on a tour?”
Holly bit her lip, her heart pounding hard enough to be heard over the music. There were so many reasons for her to say no: she didn’t know Pierre that well, she’d promised Alexa they would go shopping tomorrow, and, most important: Tyler, Tyler, and…Tyler. Holly felt bad enough as it was, sitting so close to a guy whose slightest touch turned her skin hot, who’d complimented her eyes, and who spoke her name so charmingly. Spending an entire day with him in the world’s most romantic city might feel like mere heartbeats away from…cheating.
But Holly was frustrated with Tyler, who still hadn’t called. And it wasn’t like Pierre was a random sleaze who’d picked her up at Eurotrash; he was Alexa’s sweet, smart cousin—and, Holly felt, a new friend. She’d be sorry to miss his take on Paris—which would surely prove more interesting than Alexa’s overpriced shopping spree. So, without giving it another guiltridden thought, Holly turned to Pierre and smiled, watching as his blue eyes lit up hopefully.
And that felt like reason enough to tell him yes.
Stoli on the rocks in one hand, hips slowly swiveling to the music, Alexa was right where she wanted to be—smack in the middle of the throbbing Eurotrash dance floor. She’d just danced to Daft Punk’s “One More Time” (the music that was hot in Europe was pretty much always played out in the States) with Aviator Boy, whose name, he’d whispered to her, was Jean-Claude. But before Jean-Claude could start kissing her, Alexa had decided there were tastier options to explore—shaved heads didn’t really do it for her—and waved him off.
A sudden pair of hands on her waist didn’t surpise Alexa too much. Even in her plain black dress, she was confident she looked as sultry as any of the international supermodels working it on the dance floor.
And when Alexa turned around, a supermodel was what she saw.
He had lush, white-blond hair that swept sexily over one eye and fell in waves to his square chin. The eye not hidden by the sweep of hair was a deep midnight blue, and fringed with the darkest, longest lashes Alexa had ever seen on a guy. His jaw-dropping body looked familiar, and Alexa whirred through the boy-Rolodex in her mind—Did he kiss me in Cannes when I was fifteen? Hit on me in an Amsterdam bar two ummers ago? Walk the runway at Fashion Week in New York last year?—until she realized she’d seen him that very afternoon. While Alexa was on her way to meet Holly, he’d pouted at her—shirtless—from a billboard above the Métro station.
But glimpsing Model Boy in the flesh was much, much nicer.
They started dancing, his hands on her waist, her free hand on his shoulder as she held on to her drink. Their bodies moved sinuously together. Alexa threw her head back, her hair rippling down to her waist, and she laughed as Model Boy leaned in to touch his lips to her neck. She’d done it—she’d snagged the most beautiful guy in all of Eurotrash.
Model Boy took Alexa’s head in his hands and tilted her back up so they were eye to eye. “I’m Sven,” he whispered, giving her a big-toothed smile. “Parlezvous—uh, anglais?” Over the music, Alexa could make out a trace of a Swedish accent.
Alexa’s heart leaped; so Sven assumed she was French! Who said male models were dumb? Beaming, Alexa slid her arms around Sven’s neck, slipping her free hand beneath the collar of his sheer, fitted black shirt. Alexa reflected that, in the States, no straight boy would be caught dead in what Sven was wearing. But she knew, from the way he was gripping her hips, that Sven couldn’t be gay—he was just European. By now, Alexa had learned to spot the difference.
“Alexa,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes so her lips touched Sven’s perfect earlobe. ” And I do speak English. But we won’t be talking much, will we?”
Taking her cue—he’s practically a genius! Alexa thought—Sven lowered his face and kissed her, soft and deep. Delighting in the feel of his lips on hers. Alexa moved her hand to the back of Sven’s head, intensifying the kiss. A second later, though, some of Sven’s hair got into her mouth, so Alexa pulled back, giggling and wiping her lips. The perils of kissing a longhaired boy. Normally, when fooling around, Alexa liked to be the one with the hair dramatically spilling everywhere. Maybe a guy with a shaved head would actually have been better.
“Watch it,” Sven chided her, shaking his luscious locks back into place.
Alexa couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but, growing more turned off by the second, she watched as Sven reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handheld mirror. Frowning into it, he fussed with his hair, making sure each golden strand was back in place. Then Sven ran a discerning finger over one of his arched eyebrows and puckered his lips at the mirror, as if he’d rather be kissing it than Alexa.
Oh my God, Alexa realized, her stomach plummeting in disbelief. He’s even more vain than…me.
When Sven was finally finished examining his stunning self, he tucked the mirror away and pulled Alexa in for another long kiss. But this time, Alexa didn’t move her lips in response, so Sven pulled back and flashed her a pinup-worthy grin.
“Oh, I get it, Vanessa,” he said, tossing his hair as if he were in a shampoo commercial. “You are, ah, afraid you’ll get too carried away by kissing me.”
“It’s Alexa,” Alexa replied, through gritted teeth.
“So come back to my place,” Sven continued obliviously. “I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton. I have a photo shoot in the Bois du Boulogne early tomorrow morning, but we can still party all night.” Then he fluttered his lashes at her—which, Alexa realized, was her signature come-hither move. This was all wrong.
Alexa wasn’t sure if it was all the champagne she’d had at dinner, the vodka she was drinking now, or the fact that Sven was Narcissus come to life, but suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. A year ago, Alexa knew she would have jumped at the chance to spend the night at the Ritz-Carlton with a Swedish supermodel. But now, the thought of a one-night stand with Sven wasn’t sitting right with her at all. Maybe I’m more mature than I was back then, Alexa thought, removing her arms from around Sven’s neck and rattling the cubes in her glass of Stoli.
Or maybe she just couldn’t bring herself to hook up with a boy who was prettier than she was.
Copyright
Trademarks used herein are owned by their respective trademark owners and are used without permission.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Copyright © 2005 by Aimee Friedman
Cover photos © by Jerry Driendl/Taxi/Getty Images (city scene), Brad Wilson/Photonica (girl in car)
Cover design by Steve Scott
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First paperback printing, March 2005
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E-ISBN: 978-0-545-23199-2
Aimee Friedman, South Beach
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