Page 41 of Start With A Slap

“Where are you gonna be?”

He smiled at her. “At my flat, then out for a couple of meetings. You look beautiful, don’t worry about it.”

She realized she was still primping, and let her hands fall. “I wasn’t?—”

“I know.” He said in French, “It wasn’t for me, it was for Paris.”

She was admittedly surprised that he wasn’t going to stay in the same hotel, for the sake of seducing her. “You don’t stay at your hotels?”

“Gonna miss me, love? Want me close?” At her glare, he got serious. “No, I don’t stay at my hotels. Takes up valuable space. Plus they fawn all over me... I can’t stand it.”

“Gee,” Ivy said. “Wish I’d fawned all over you.”

Resting his cheek on his palm, he sighed at her. “But instead you slapped me.”

She gave him the same dreamy look. “You’re twisted.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, matching her tone.

CHAPTER 12

For Paris

Ivy stood on the grand balcony of her hotel room, OD’ing on the intoxicating scent of Paris. Diesel fuel, red wine sautée, fresh-baked baguettes, unfiltered cigarette smoke... somehow a perfect combination. She wished she could bottle it.

The first time she was here, she was thirteen. Her parents were still together, still happy; they’d traversed the continent on EurailPass, beginning and ending in this city, where she met a boy who knew only three English phrases, one of them being “I love you”. He was her first real kiss. She fell out of love with him, but never fell out of love with Paris.

She wished Jason didn’t have such negative associations with it.

“Oh god — Jason!” She returned to the room and ransacked her bag for her phone. Back home, she’d promised to text him when the plane landed, but that was over an hour ago. It had completely slipped her mind.

She powered it up. Two messages from him were waiting. Quickly, she typed out a note:Arrived just now. Go back to sleep. Will call you later! Love youufollowed by a string of heart emojis.

Ivy was excitedto find that some of the friends she’d made during her semester in Paris were still in town and able to meet up with her that afternoon. She was a little worried that they’d chide her for having a “real job”, but it turned out all had pursued careers that had nothing to do with their majors—with the exception of Bijou, who was a celebrated street artist and generally a badass. Her voice was rasped by cigarettes and her trimmed fingernails were permanently stained with spray paint. Ivy had been a little infatuated with her in college. They’d even made out a few times, but it was more an “I want to be you” situation than an “I want to be with you.” Bijou loved Americans—but her true love was American men.

As the group caught up at an outdoor café near the Pompidou, Ivy showed them a photo of Jason. Bijou said, “Oh lá lá.Il est trop canon!”He’s super hot!Her stamp of approval was still an ego boost.

During a lively discussion of American vs French politics, Ivy’s phone chimed, and she furtively looked at it.

Happy?

It was funny; she was just thinking about him and what he might be doing at that moment.

“It must be the sexy husband,” Bijou singsonged in French.

“Non,” Ivy said, and typed out her reply:

Not sad.

“No?” Bijou gave her a skeptical look while exhaling a stream of smoke. “Whoever it is made you smile like a lover.”

“No, no!” God, was it that obvious? Or was Bijou just being Bijou? “It’s my father-in-law.”

Bijou said, “The man you detest?”

She shouldn’t have said anything about Sever. They’d asked what brought her to Paris, and though she’d left out the lurid details and his name, she’d kind of laid the animosity on thick. “I don’t always — I mean; Sometimes I — He’s — There’s... It’s complicated.”

“Seems very simple to me,” said Jette, and they all laughed while Ivy tried hard not to blush.

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