Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Read Free Page A

that for?” I turned around, attempting to flirt, which for me is a struggling art form.
    His gaze drifted up to my eyes as he shrugged. “What can I say? You have nice shoulders.”
    That was the day Mathew Perotti picked me for his girlfriend. Me, Chloe Dillard. The boring girl, the nice girl, the nobody girl.
    The girl who wanted Mathew most of all.
     

     
    “Where did you come from?” I ask the boy with the Hershey chocolate eyes when the room finally stops spinning.
    “Back there—” he says, glancing behind him. “From the kitchens.”
    Am I dreaming or is he speaking English with a French accent? Maybe the crack on my head jolted my brain into understanding perfect French.
    Maybe not.
    Lemon filling creates perfect little waves on both of my knees. Chocolate sauce drips all over my new Paris designer jacket, and whipped cream has streaked my hair like fresh bleached highlights.
    My head pounds like someone’s hammering nails into my skull. I must have thunked it against the tile floor.
    “Lie still, let me see if you’re hurt.” His voice even sounds like the warm chocolate spooned into beignets .
    As I stare into the boy’s face, I wonder if the bus will come pick me up if I call them. Can I even give the tour guide directions to the shop? My head is whirling and I just want to lick the frosting off my fingers. I’m not sure I can survive eight hours on the bus and touring Château de Chenonceau—this crazy fabulous castle built in the middle of a river with bridges spanning both sides. France’s castles are simply spectacular, but they come in second place to the city of Paris, of course. Thinking of Paris reminds me of my new clothes—the ones that I’m currently wearing. I’ll have chocolate-stained clothing and eyelashes glued with pudding all day!
    Sera and I had added our bags to the pile the bus driver had been loading, before we snuck off to La Patisserie. Now my bags are on their way to the Loire Valley and the fabulous Château de Chenonceau. Hopefully Sera will keep an eye on my luggage and make sure it comes with her to the hotel at the airport tomorrow night. We get up Monday morning at 5 a.m., get through security, show our passports, board—and sleep on the plane all the way home.
    Show my passport.
    I’m drawing a sudden blank. My passport is—where? Inside my backpack? In my luggage stowed away in the bus compartment? Robert nagged us every day about not losing our passports—and being careful to keep our money safe—and staying together—and making sure we had a buddy—and to inform our adult leader where we were going— and above all —to be on time at the designated meet-up location! If anybody could ruin a perfectly beautiful trip to Paris, it was a boring thirty-five year old Educational Tour guy named Robert.
    So I took Robert’s advice and packed my passport in a very safe place. And now I can’t remember where. Wherever it is, the passport is miles from here. Plus my clean clothes and makeup for possibly the next forty-eight hours!
    The boy with the sweet éclair eyes reaches out to touch my chin. He holds up his finger and shows me a blob of white cream. Then he licks his finger and smiles. I swear those straight white teeth could glow in the dark.
    “I hate to see Maman’s White Whipped Delight go to waste,” he says in a deep, serious voice.
    I can’t help it. He makes me laugh. “You’re crazy.”
    He gives me a lopsided smile and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Can people’s eyes actually sparkle? “I have been accused of that before,” he says in a delicious French accent.
    Several stabs of guilt pierce me—guilt with a capital G. I’m not positive, but it almost seems like this pastry guy and I are flirting. What am I doing? I have a boyfriend. And I suck at flirting.
    I’ve always prided myself on being a loyal, honest, trustworthy girlfriend. Yes, those qualities make me sound like a Boy Scout, but I don’t flirt with other guys. In fact, a