Page 19 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
“I just hope it’s not crammed with tourists today, although it is the season.”
“We ruin your soulful hipster vibe, is that it?”
He thumped my leg and leaned closer to me. “Yes, in fact, you do.”
“Well, I’ll try to rein in my excitement but no promises.”
Our faces were close, nearly nose to nose. My breath got stuck in my lungs as his eyes dropped to my lips for a second. Jesus, he’s going to kiss me. Right here on the train, he’s totally going to kiss me!
But before I could even decide how I felt about it, he leaned back in his seat. “You don’t wear lipstick. I noticed that last night.”
It took me a second to recover. “What? Oh, no. I don’t, not usually.”
“I like th
at. I think lipstick is gross.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s all sticky and goopy, and it gets all over everything, and I don’t know what the hell toxic chemicals it’s made of these days, but it never comes off.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah, I think there are some hazardous ingredients in a lot of them. I’m a lip balm person myself.”
Lucas cocked his head and looked at me askance. “Good to know.”
Bang bang bang went my swollen heart against my ribs.
Damn, it was official—he was flirting with me, and I liked it.
“This is us.” Lucas nudged me, and I stood when he did, but I did not have his sea legs and immediately fell forward as the train swerved into the station. Lucas caught me easily against his chest. “Whoa. You OK?”
“Yes, sorry. But I think I have to hold on.”
“I’ve got you.” He turned me around and held me by the shoulders until the train came to a stop and the doors opened. “Here we go.” Once we were on solid ground, he let go of me.
And I kind of wished he hadn’t.
#
Much to Lucas’s dismay, there were quite a few busloads of tourists at Père Lachaise. We managed to avoid the crowds by skipping the big names and just wandering the dirt and cobblestone paths with no particular destination. I’d asked if there was somewhere I could get a map or a Who’s Buried Where kind of guide, but Lucas insisted that we didn’t need one. “I come here a lot,” he assured me. “Let’s just walk, and if you’re curious about something, I’ll tell you what I know.”
“But I love maps. I want a map. I need a map,” I whined.
“No, you don’t.”
I gave him a withering look, and he held up his hands. “I know I said I wouldn’t argue with you, but let’s just try it my way, and if it doesn’t work for you, I promise I’ll go buy you a map.”
It made my palms a little itchy to think of meandering through such a big famous place without a guide, but I figured I could try to endure it for Lucas’s sake.
And actually, I enjoyed it.
With no particular route to follow or timetable set, I found myself in less of a rush than I usually was when sightseeing, noticing things that I probably wouldn’t have if I’d had my nose stuck in a guide.
And Lucas hadn’t exaggerated—he was able to tell me a lot of stories about the people buried there, whether they were musicians, actors, writers or politicians. “This one here?” He gestured toward a bronze-gone-green statue of a man reclining on his tomb. “Best story ever.”
I paused in front of it. “Really? Who was he?”
“He was a French president who died while getting a blowjob from his mistress. His epitaph in French is, ‘Il voulait être César, il ne fut sue Pompée,’ which could mean ‘He wanted to be Caesar but ended being Pompey.’” Lucas’s eyes glittered. “Or it could mean, ‘He wanted to be Caesar but ended being pumped.’”
