Page 9 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
Grinning at my new positive attitude, I looked to my left just in time to see a gorgeous young couple take a selfie of themselves kissing with the view behind them. My lips drooped as I turned away.
No, don’t turn away. Their love did not come at the expense of your own.
A few deep breaths later, I was fine. I even smiled at them.
See? You can do this.
To celebrate making peace with my first adventure as an Independent Woman, I went to the champagne bar, ordered a glass, and made a silent toast. To being in Paris, a dream come true.
My throat was still tingling from the bubbles when I heard a gasps and murmurs in the crowd behind me. I turned around and saw a young man down on one knee in front of a beautiful girl, whose fingertips were pressed to her lips. Wide-eyed, I watched as the man took a ring box from his coat pocket and opened it up.
Oh my God. This can’t be happening.
I glugged my champagne, taking in the scene with bug-eyed disbelief. I mean, really? Just when I decided Paris didn’t have to be all about the romance, a proposal takes place ten feet away from me? I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw her nod happily as he slid the ring on her finger. “Yes!” she cried, and the entire crowd burst into applause and wild cheers as the woman leaned down and kissed her new fiancée.
Smiling half-heartedly, I set my glass down and slipped through the crowd toward the lift, a lump lodged in my throat where the bubbles had lingered just moments before.
I tried to perk myself up with a stroll along the Seine, but my Independent Woman positivity had fizzled.
Everywhere I looked I saw couples in love.
Fucking everywhere.
Holding hands on the bridges, sneaking a kiss on cozy street corners, whispering to one another in whatever languages they spoke, exchanging secret smiles, ducking into bars and restaurants, laughing at all the unattached losers in the city—at least that’s what it felt like to me.
I shuffled aimlessly along the river, which looked brooding and gloomy now that the light had faded. Eventually I meandered down Boulevard St. Germain and into what I guessed was the Latin Quarter. The sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling streets should have cheered me up, but the area was full of young people, and somehow my gaze still went to every clinging couple.
Damn you, Tucker. That should have been us.
With every step, anger ran hotter through my veins. A little voice in my head told me I was being stupid, I didn’t really want Tucker here, and I probably looked like an ill-tempered toddler, stomping down the street with my arms crossed and a scowl on my face, but I didn’t care. I was mad at Tucker for jilting me, mad at myself for letting it get to that point, mad at Coco and Erin for making me come here alone, mad at all the couples I’d seen, mad at France, mad at love.
I was also lost. Uncrossing my arms, I stopped walking and looked around, but I saw no major landmarks or street signs. It was dark, and though I hated the thought of pulling out my map and marking myself as a pathetic tourist, what else could I do? Panic tightened my chest, and I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and calm down before the scenarios my mother had worried about infiltrated my brain.
OK, that’s it. I need wine.
I walked one more block and, as luck would have it, found myself passing a building with English words painted on it: The Beaver Bar & Grill. Upon closer inspection of its signage, I discovered it was a Canadian sports bar. Pausing a moment to consider, I decided I wasn’t mad at Canada, beavers, or sports, so I went in and glanced around.
It was a small place, not noisy or crowded, just a few people sitting along a long wooden bar on the left and a group or two at tables in the rear. Eyeing all the patrons carefully, I looked for couples kissing or whispering or groping each other, anything that might signal an engagement was imminent, but didn’t see much love in the air. Most people seemed to be drinking tall glasses of beer and watching a hockey game on a large television in the back or the one over the bar.
“You looking for someone?”
Surprised that I’d been addressed in English, I glanced to my left, where the bartender stood drying a beer glass and watching me with an amused smile. In maybe his late twenties, he had a head full of messy longish curls and a prominent jaw covered with dark scruff.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You had a very determined expression on your face. Are you looking for someone?” He raised his brows as he repeated the question, and I detected only the barest trace of an accent.
“How did you know I spoke English?”
One side of his mouth hooked up. “I know an American when I see one.”
For some reason the comment bugged me. What was so obviously American about me? I wasn’t wearing a Nike t-shirt or white sneakers or a baseball cap. I parked my hands on my hips and blew hair out of my face. “I could be Canadian.”
“Nah.” He shook his head and set the glass down.
“What makes you so sure?”
“A Canadian would’ve just answered the question.”
