French kiss by Aimee Friedman Read Free Book Online

made straight for the grand steps of the basilica, Alexa hung back, wanting to scope out the scene some more.
    When one of the sketchers glanced up from his easel, Alexa's heart fluttered. Clad in a tight black T-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed-up boots the French dirty-boy uniform -- he was on the short side, but
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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