Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit Page B

while his parents aren’t home. That I worry he would just undress me while I protested and push me down on the bed.
    When I glance up, Jean-Paul is standing very close, watching me. Studying me. I get the crazy feeling he’s going to reach out and hug me, as if he wants to comfort me. I’m so surprised I end up pulling back, and he quickly turns away, a flush rising up his face. Without a word, he buys our tickets and we board the next train.
    I sink into an empty seat and, too late, I wish I could talk to Jean-Paul and tell him what’s happening. I need somebody else’s perspective, but the moment is gone.
    Mathew would be so pissed if I discussed him with someone I barely know. Besides, Jean-Paul’s life is so perfect. I’m sure he doesn’t want to get tangled up in my messy, neurotic life.
    Tunnels and stations whiz past. After spending most of the ride staring at the maps on the train’s walls, Jean-Paul suddenly puts a hand on my arm. His chocolate brown eyes are staring at me intently.
    “Could I talk to you, Chloe?” he asks. “Really talk to you—as a friend?”
    “Of course,” I assure him. “You can talk to me anytime.”
    There’s a catch in my throat at the whole friendship thing, but isn’t that what I want to have with Jean-Paul? I’m pulled to him with an intense attraction I’ve never felt before, but all our time together has been purely friendly. And it’s nice. Really nice. I can’t remember ever being just friends with a guy on more than a superficial, goofing around in class, level.
    “Here’s our stop,” he says and pulls me to my feet so I won’t get caught in the rush when the doors whoosh open. My ankle still feels a bit tender so I lean on him self-consciously, but he doesn’t seem to notice my timidity, or worry about his hands in mine. It feels natural, too natural.
    Still holding my hand so we don’t get separated in the crowd, Jean-Paul leads me out of the station back up to the sidewalk. Warm sunshine and the aroma of Paris greets us. Actually, there’s a boulangerie right in front of us, and the smell of baked bread is spectacular.
    Jean-Paul has a girlfriend, and yet he doesn’t act guilty steering me around or touching me. But then we’re friends. And the French go around kissing everybody they know. Each time they greet someone it’s kiss-kiss on both cheeks, even if the person is of the opposite sex. It’s part of their culture. It doesn’t mean anything. Not like in America.
    “ Oui ?” he asks again, looking at me with those incredibly gentle, knowing eyes.
    He appears so serious I’m starting to wonder what’s on his mind. “Where should we go to talk?” I ask.
    Glancing around the thinning crowd, his face turns thoughtful. It’s that hour when shops begin to close, but dinner is still far away. A moment later, he looks down at me and gives me a gentle smile. “After the Embassy. We’ll find a place.”
    When we walk through the doors of the Embassy and cross the polished tile floors, the place is practically silent as a tomb. A few people here and there, but we’re too late. The offices are closed and locked. In fact, everything is closed. A sign tells us that passports are only issued Monday through Friday from 8-12. Even emergency passports.
    A moment of panic pricks at my chest. “If I can’t find my passport in my luggage, I’m truly stuck.”
    “Will that be so bad?” Jean-Paul says, teasing me.
    Actually no, but I feel too shy to say that to him.
    “Chloe, you can always take a flight later. You will get home. Your tour people will help you.”
    “My mother will have a fit.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Let’s just say she won’t exactly be jumping up and down for joy.”
    “Have faith, little American girl,” he says. “You will find the passport and be home on time. And then your life will be good again.”
    My life’s nearly perfect right at this moment, I’m thinking. When he talks to me like this, I feel calm,