The Little Bookshop On the Seine by Rebecca Raisin Read Free Book Online

thrilled me in a way I’d never felt before. I wanted to wander until I was lost, find fresh food markets, take a boat cruise, run my fingers along spines in the Bibliotheque national de France – the grand old library of Paris…exactly the kind of place where secrets abound, if only you search hard enough.
    The train slowed. Passengers stood pushing forward to the doors, the usual frenzy ensued. With a deep breath, I slung on my backpack and grabbed the handle of my case, ready to jump off. It was like being in the middle of a rugby scrum. When the doors slid open, I jostled and shrieked my way out, onto the dank, dim platform, not caring I was drawing wary glances from other passengers with my yodel-like squeal.
    Whoop!
I resisted the urge to fist pump, and instead took a few lungfuls of Parisian air. I was smiling like a loon, but I couldn’t curb it. A meek, shy bookworm from a small town had navigated her way to the heart of Paris without getting lost once! It was worth celebrating, so I promised myself a big glass of sauvignon blanc later that night.
    Dragging my suitcase, I followed the lead of the other commuters, shaking my head in awe. It was one thing to dream about Paris and quite another to actually be here. Fatigue was trying its hardest to slow me down, but I shrugged it off, wanting to see everything at once and soak up every single Parisian thing.
    Outside I glanced at the view ahead, and then my map. My heart sunk. Wasn’t there supposed to be a bridge? Frowning, and being gently nudged when people rushed past, I swayed and sighed as I took in my surroundings. I’d gone the wrong way, or had I? The Eiffel Tower… Somehow I’d ended up in what looked like an industrial part of Paris.
    The sunshine dimmed, as though it was disappointed in me, as I tried to make sense of my map. The train had been an adventure, but I wasn’t too keen to get back on it. It would take some getting used to, all that rushing and the threat of plunging into the gap between platform and carriage.
    My feet ached from the shoes Missy insisted I wear. Note to self; travel in comfortable footwear next time. I was a ballet flats kind of girl, and the wedged boots – which Missy had demanded I teeter in – had taken their toll.
    No one will guess you’re American!
she’d exclaimed. As though in order to be accepted here, I’d have to first fool them that I was French, and that could only be done by wearing the right shoes. I smiled, remembering the conversation. My heart tugged for my friends who were so far away, not only in miles, but in spirit. Would I find friends here? I couldn’t imagine anyone being as lively and animated as the girls, but I hoped I was wrong. I didn’t want to spend months here pining for them and the only way around that would be to mingle, and pretend I was a chatty, outgoing explorer. It was time to stop hiding, and start participating in real life.
    Glancing up, the sky was different here; it was smudged white and baby blue, and somehow brighter, more vivid than Ashford. The air was richer, sweet and pungent, and wholly new.
    Right, there was no more time to dither. “
Excusez-moi
?” I said to a woman pushing a stroller. She glared at me and kept going. I tried again with a young man, who shook his head, phone jammed against his ear, and pointed to the train. I tried not to take it personally, everyone was busy. I was due at Once Upon a Time, in fact I was overdue. Mild panic set in, as I pictured myself catching trains back and forth, and never getting anywhere. Gulping, I grabbed the suitcase handle and spun to go back to the station, but instead banged heads with a man passing by. I clutched my forehead, eyes watering with the sting of the collision. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, wanting to dissolve into the pavement.
    His eyes were scrunched closed, he blinked a few times, and then gazed at me. “American?” he asked.
    The shoes hadn’t fooled him. “Yes, is it so