Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
In the lobby, Sébastien stood waiting in a white tank that clung to those perfect abs and showed off his beautiful biceps. A bone surfer’s necklace curled around his neck and rested in the hollow of his throat. It was enough to give a girl a heart attack. I couldn’t possibly have the same effect on him when he saw me, could I? He held a bouquet of small decorative cabbages and bright sunflowers wrapped in yellow paper. Cabbages? He’d brought me a bouquet of cabbages?
“It reminds me of you,” he said, smiling down at me.
I knew French people called each other cabbages as a term of endearment, but still, I didn’t know how to take that. “A cabbage reminds you of me?”
“The bouquet. It’s different and cheerful. It just caught my eye at the florist’s.”
“Oh.” I wondered where he had gotten the idea I was cheerful instead of cynical, emotionally stunted, pessimistic, and depressive. Honestly, I had to start acting more sincere with men. “Thank you.” I stood on tiptoe to greet him with the normal French kiss on each cheek, flushing deeply. I was used to exchanging cheek kisses with everyone by then, but it felt very different with him.
He pulled his head back, startled and offended. “Is that how you greet your boyfriend?”
“My what?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“My what?”
We stared at each other, him hurt and me panicked. “We’ve only been out twice,” I said. “And the first time didn’t count, you said. Why are you saying you’re my boyfriend?”
“Why are you saying I’m not?”
“We barely know each other! We could both still be dating other people.”
Black eyebrows came together. “You date more than one person at a time?”
“I’m not—although plenty of guys have been interested, by the way, hundreds—but I could if I wanted to. Couldn’t you?”
“I don’t act like that,” he said, offended. He frowned, eyes searching. “You do?”
“I’m not ‘acting like’ anything!” Geez, he was looking at me as if “tramp” might be written on my forehead. And I hadn’t even worn my leather pants yet. “It’s not like we’re engaged! We’ve barely met!” Why was I having this discussion, when I wasn’t dating anyone else, didn’t want to be dating anyone else, and wasn’t even sure I could handle dating him? My nerves were shot and I couldn’t sleep anymore for the fizzing in my veins. But the jump from having drinks—not on a date—to girlfriend was a big one. Did this mean I should mention Cambridge?