Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Read Free

shoots straight up my foot and into my ankle—and tomorrow morning my derrière is going to be seriously black and blue.
    Silence fills La Patisserie . I’m adrift in a sea of whipped cream and broken tart shells and I try not to cry like a stupid baby as I stare at my now ruined pastries.
    A flurry of noise breaks through the gooey cream stuffed into my right ear. I can hear a woman shrieking, and then there’s a deeper voice somewhere off to my left. I lift my chin and try to focus.
    I must have a concussion because the woman who placed my pastries in a box with doilies and lace has suddenly had a sex change.
    Hovering above me is a boy about my age, maybe a little older. He looks at me with dark brown Hershey syrup eyes, then holds up two fingers and I grin like an idiot.
    “How many fingers?” he asks in English.
    What does a girl do when confronted by possibly the best-looking guy she’s ever seen on the planet? “Um, have you got the time?” I ask.
    So I’m not going to be asked to join the Mensa club for geniuses any time soon.
    “ Bien sur. ” His voice matches his eyes, like Hershey’s syrup and vanilla make the perfect ice cream combo. “ Il est huit heures onze .”
    I squeeze my eyes shut and moan as I mentally translate, “ huit heures onze. ” It’s 8:11. We’re supposed to be at the bus by 8:00. Robert had said drop-dead time was 8:10. Anybody who wasn’t on the bus and in her seat belt was going to be left behind. His steely blue eyes had looked straight at me to make sure I got the message.
    I am in major trouble.
    If only that purse-snatcher had been just one minute later, the cop could have opened the door for me. If only that customer had been a gentleman for, like, sixty seconds and helped me with the door instead of thinking only of his dumb coffee. If only that glass door hadn’t opened in the wrong direction. One minute. One single minute.
    I guess it’s my fault for being in love with French pastries. And spending hard-earned babysitting money on high heels to impress my boyfriend with the Italian pedigree, even if he is from a hick town in Texas.
    Whatever.
    All I know is that everything has gone wrong.
    I’ve missed my bus.

 
     
     
     
     

    Eight Months Earlier
     
    I was surreptitiously sneaking in a few paragraphs of a majorly romantic kissing scene from the latest Julia Quinn novel while Mrs. Olson drilled a few bad notes with the alto section when Mathew Perotti changed seats, sliding into the bass section behind the sopranos.
    My heart went into overdrive. The new guy was suddenly right behind me, mere inches away, and the vibes coming off him were so strong I thought I’d faint. I stuck my finger in my novel, sat up straight, crossed my legs, and was dying to turn around and say something really smart or funny or provocative, but I held back because, naturally, I didn’t want to look too sappy and puppy-dog eager.
    He leaned forward and began to sing real soft—just soft enough that only I could hear. My book slid to the floor. Out of his mouth came the voice of John Mayer, Elvis Presley, and Justin Bieber, all rolled into one. I froze in my seat listening to the words that made every girl swoon like an idiot. “We got the afternoon, One thing I've left to do, Discover me, discovering you.”
    His warm breath fell against my neck and shivers raced up my spine.
    When it comes to Texans, everybody in New York automatically thinks cowboys, horses, and an eye-rolling twangy accent, but Mathew’s drawl was subtle around the edges and absolutely fascinating.
    Too bad the rest of the girls thought the same thing.
    Mathew suddenly bent down and brushed his lips against my bare shoulder. I was wearing a pink sleeveless shirt and my arms were tanned from the visit to my grandfather in Florida. I’d spent every waking moment in the pool. When I felt Mathew’s warm touch, the unexpected flirty kiss, my stomach flipped at least seventeen times.
    “Hey, new boy. What’s