Read Online Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kimberley Montpetit
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I’d been staring off into space, Parvati had jumped up and followed Mathew across the cafeteria. I noticed how smoothly her hips moved around the tables as students rose to toss their trash and collect backpacks.
She had stopped Mathew in the open doorway, one hand on her hip as though asking him a question. Guys from choir clustered around her, and then a few basketball players wearing letter jackets sauntered that direction as well, sinking milk cartons into trash cans from ten feet away as though they were actual basketballs.
Suddenly, Brian Fenway pointed to the doorway and yelled, “Kiss her!”
The whole cafeteria seemed to explode in unison. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
“What the hell—?” I sputtered.
Above the door of the cafeteria an old forgotten string of mistletoe from December’s Christmas Pageant was hanging in full view. This was the middle of January. Obviously the school janitors were not doing their job cleaning up properly—and now I was paying the price. The dimwit freshman class were all hooting and hollering at my boyfriend and the new gorgeous girl from India to lay one on each other.
Parvati’s expression was puzzled, as though she had no idea what everyone was cheering about. Finally, she glanced up, saw the mistletoe, and her hands flew to her face as though she were mortified. Was she innocent or just a good actress? I hated being so suspicious, but I was anyway.
“Do you think she knows what mistletoe means?” Sera asked.
I froze in my seat, unable to answer.
The entire cafeteria erupted into chanting and clapping. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”
My strawberry yogurt threatened to come up my throat. “I can’t look,” I said as I stared daggers at my boyfriend and Parvati.“Why doesn’t she walk away?” I whispered fiercely.
“Come on, Chloe, let’s get out of here.” Sera’s tone became indignant on my behalf. “I’m not going to let you be humiliated.”
The cafeteria crowd wouldn’t let up the shouting and whooping so finally Mathew and Parvati shrugged their shoulders, leaned toward each other, and kissed while the crowd cheered. Now I was truly pissed.
The image of their locked lips wouldn’t leave my brain.
Why did I have a photographic memory when it came to some new chick kissing my boyfriend but I always come up blank when it’s time to memorize algebraic equations?
Jean-Paul helps me onto the couch and picks up the fallen crutches. I want to cry and sink into the floor. I can’t believe he caught me dancing in his living room. On one foot, no less. He must think I’ve lost my mind.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, running to the kitchen to get me a drink of water. He examines my ankle for new bruising or swelling and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I shaved my legs that morning.
“I’m fine. No, actually my ankle feels better, it’s just—it’s just—” what can I say? How can I explain? Am I merely hormonal?
“ Maman and I planned to let you sleep as long as you needed to.”
“The wonderful smells from the shop woke me up.”
“Ah, yes. Désolé, je suis désolé ,” he repeats, saying he’s sorry several times.
“No, don’t be sorry! I want to come downstairs and help. That’s why I got dressed. Then I called my mother and, well, you know how mothers can be.”
“Say no more,” he says with a wink. “Your maman must be crazy with worry.”
I hold up my finger and thumb close together. “Just a teensy bit.”
“Come downstairs and have a soda. It’s on the house.”
“I can’t keep taking from you.”
“You have it backward, Chloe,” Jean-Paul tells me. “We are giving . There is a difference.”
“ Merci ,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. They are just too kind.
“Shall I carry you?” he offers suddenly. “The stairs can be difficult.”
An image of me in Jean-Paul’s arms, my hands around his neck, pops into my head. “No way, I’m much too heavy.”
He ignores my
She had stopped Mathew in the open doorway, one hand on her hip as though asking him a question. Guys from choir clustered around her, and then a few basketball players wearing letter jackets sauntered that direction as well, sinking milk cartons into trash cans from ten feet away as though they were actual basketballs.
Suddenly, Brian Fenway pointed to the doorway and yelled, “Kiss her!”
The whole cafeteria seemed to explode in unison. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
“What the hell—?” I sputtered.
Above the door of the cafeteria an old forgotten string of mistletoe from December’s Christmas Pageant was hanging in full view. This was the middle of January. Obviously the school janitors were not doing their job cleaning up properly—and now I was paying the price. The dimwit freshman class were all hooting and hollering at my boyfriend and the new gorgeous girl from India to lay one on each other.
Parvati’s expression was puzzled, as though she had no idea what everyone was cheering about. Finally, she glanced up, saw the mistletoe, and her hands flew to her face as though she were mortified. Was she innocent or just a good actress? I hated being so suspicious, but I was anyway.
“Do you think she knows what mistletoe means?” Sera asked.
I froze in my seat, unable to answer.
The entire cafeteria erupted into chanting and clapping. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”
My strawberry yogurt threatened to come up my throat. “I can’t look,” I said as I stared daggers at my boyfriend and Parvati.“Why doesn’t she walk away?” I whispered fiercely.
“Come on, Chloe, let’s get out of here.” Sera’s tone became indignant on my behalf. “I’m not going to let you be humiliated.”
The cafeteria crowd wouldn’t let up the shouting and whooping so finally Mathew and Parvati shrugged their shoulders, leaned toward each other, and kissed while the crowd cheered. Now I was truly pissed.
The image of their locked lips wouldn’t leave my brain.
Why did I have a photographic memory when it came to some new chick kissing my boyfriend but I always come up blank when it’s time to memorize algebraic equations?
Jean-Paul helps me onto the couch and picks up the fallen crutches. I want to cry and sink into the floor. I can’t believe he caught me dancing in his living room. On one foot, no less. He must think I’ve lost my mind.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, running to the kitchen to get me a drink of water. He examines my ankle for new bruising or swelling and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I shaved my legs that morning.
“I’m fine. No, actually my ankle feels better, it’s just—it’s just—” what can I say? How can I explain? Am I merely hormonal?
“ Maman and I planned to let you sleep as long as you needed to.”
“The wonderful smells from the shop woke me up.”
“Ah, yes. Désolé, je suis désolé ,” he repeats, saying he’s sorry several times.
“No, don’t be sorry! I want to come downstairs and help. That’s why I got dressed. Then I called my mother and, well, you know how mothers can be.”
“Say no more,” he says with a wink. “Your maman must be crazy with worry.”
I hold up my finger and thumb close together. “Just a teensy bit.”
“Come downstairs and have a soda. It’s on the house.”
“I can’t keep taking from you.”
“You have it backward, Chloe,” Jean-Paul tells me. “We are giving . There is a difference.”
“ Merci ,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. They are just too kind.
“Shall I carry you?” he offers suddenly. “The stairs can be difficult.”
An image of me in Jean-Paul’s arms, my hands around his neck, pops into my head. “No way, I’m much too heavy.”
He ignores my
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