Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“But…but aren’t you supposed to be at Mirac with Chaz and Shari?”

He swings the garment bag off his shoulder. “I had to go into Paris for the day to pick up my cousin’s wedding gown. She didn’t trust the shop’s courier to get it here in one piece. See?”

He unzips the bag a little and a froth of white lace-unmistakably bridal-spills out. He tucks it back in and rezips.

“I never thought in a million years, when you sat down next to me, that you were the Lizzie I’ve heard so much about from Shari and Chaz. But then when you said Shari’s name, I knew it. But by that time you’d already mentioned…you know.” Now he looks more embarrassed than sheepish. “And I knew you’d only done that because you thought you were never going to see me again…”

“Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. Since that’s exactly what I HAD thought to myself. “My. God.”

“Yeah,” Luke says with a very French shrug. For an American. Which makes sense. Since he’s half French. “Sorry about that. Although you have to admit…it’s kind of funny.”

“No,” I say, “it’s really not.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, not smiling anymore. “I sort of guessed you’d see it that way. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“So you knew,” I say, feeling my cheeks heating up. “You knew all along we’d be seeing each other again. A lot. And you didn’t try to stop me. You just let me go on and on like that. Like a moron.”

“No, not like a moron,” he says, really not smiling anymore. In fact, he looks a little worried. “Nothing like that. I thought you were really charming. And funny. That’s why I didn’t try to stop you. I mean, in the first place, I didn’t know, until you were almost through with your-um, venting-who you were. I just knew you needed to vent, and so I let you, because I actually enjoyed it. I thought you were sweet.”

“Oh God!” I want to throw his garment bag over my head and hide in it. “Sweet? Talking about how I gave my boyfriend a blow job?”

“You talked about it in a very sweet manner,” Luke assures me.

“I’m going to kill myself,” I say from between my fingers, since I’ve buried my burning face in my hands.

“Hey.”

I hear footsteps, then feel hands go around my wrists. I look up, startled, and find that Luke has laid the garment bag across my suitcase and is standing very, very close to me, looking down into my face while gently pulling my hands from my eyes.

“Hey,” he says again, his voice as gentle as his touch. “Seriously. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to tell you, but then I thought…well, I thought it would be a funny joke. But. Like I said. Jokes aren’t really my thing.”

I am intensely aware of how dark his eyes are-as dark as the tree branches behind the train station, silhouetted against the navy-blue sky-and how kissable his lips look. Especially since they’re only just a few inches away from mine.

“If you tell anyone,” I hear myself say in a voice that has gone strangely throaty, “about what I told you on the train-especially Chaz-I will kill you. About my not finishing my thesis yet AND the other thing. The you-know-what. You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand? I will kill you if you do.”

“I totally understand,” Luke says, his grip on my wrists even firmer now that I’ve dropped my hands from my face. He’s essentially holding them in his big warm hands. And it feels nice. Really nice. “You have my complete and total word. I won’t say a thing. Your blow job is totally safe with me.”

“Ack!” I cry. “I mean it! Don’t mention those words again!”

“What words?” he asks. Now his dark eyes are as lit up as the smattering of stars I see winking down at us, like sequins on a blue cashmere sweater set. “Blow job?”

“Stop it,” I say, and let myself sway toward him.

Just in case, you know, he wants to kiss me.

Because I’m starting to realize that the fact that Luke is Jean-Luc is hardly what anyone can call bad news. Considering that now I don’t have to worry about getting hold of Shari. And about where I’m going to stay tonight.

Not to mention the fact that he’s the nicest, hottest guy I’ve met in a really long time. Who doesn’t have an addiction to Texas Hold’em…that I know of, anyway.

And that he seems to like me.

And that I’m going to be spending the rest of the summer with him.

And that he’s holding my hands.

Suddenly things are looking up. Way up.

“So,” Luke says, “am I forgiven?”

“You’re forgiven,” I say. I can’t help smiling up at him like the moron he claims I’m not. He’s just so…cute.

And not just cute, either. He’s nice, too. I mean, he bought me dinner.

And he was totally sympathetic when I was crying like a maniac.

Plus he’s an investment banker. He’s working hard to…protect rich people’s money. Or something.

And he made me laugh instead of cry after I got off the phone with Andy.

And I’m going to be with him. All summer. All-

“Good,” Luke says. “Because I’d hate for you to think you were wrong. You know, about my character assessment. The one you made based on my clothes.”

“I don’t think,” I say, lowering my gaze to the opening of his shirt, where I see a few promising-looking chest hairs poking out, “that I’m wrong.”

“Good,” he says again. “I think you’re really going to like Mirac.”

I know I’m going to like it, I think-but for once restrain myself from saying out loud-if you’re there, Luke.

“Thanks,” I say. And wonder if he’s going to kiss me now.

And then we both hear a car coming and Luke says, “Oh, great. Here’s our ride.” And abruptly drops my wrists.

And an ancient butter-yellow convertible Mercedes pulls into the parking lot, driven by a honey-colored blonde who calls out in a French accent, “Sorry I’m late, cheri!”

And I know, even before he hurries down to kiss her, who she is.

His girlfriend.

It so figures.

Because of course he has a girlfriend. He’s way too fabulous not to-that little keeping-his-true-identity-a-secret-from-me thing aside.

The thing is, she seems really nice. She’s definitely gorgeous, with all that hair and her slim tanned shoulders and long, equally tanned legs. She’s wearing a very simple black tank top and a longish peasant skirt (new, not vintage, and expensive-looking, too) with jeweled flip-flops. She’s definitely in vacation mode.

Although my fashion radar may be off, because Dominique Desautels-that’s her name-like Andy, is foreign. She’s Canadian. French Canadian. She works at the same investment banking company in Houston that Luke does.

And they’ve been going out for six months.

At least that’s what I’m able to gather from my careful questioning of them both from the backseat of the Mercedes before my voice dies.

Because it’s very hard to concentrate on gathering information about the two of them when we’re whizzing past such beautiful scenery. The sun has set, but the moon’s rising, so I can still make out enormous oaks, their branches twisting across the road to make a sort of canopy of leaves above us. We’re careening down a twisting two-lane country road that winds alongside a wide, burbling river. It’s hard to tell, judging by the scenery, where, exactly, we are.

Or even when we are. Judging by the lack of telephone poles and streetlights, this could be any century, not just the twenty-first. We even pass an old-fashioned mill-a mill! With one of those big paddle wheels on the side of it!-with a thatched roof and beautiful garden.

There are electric lights on in the windows of the mill, though, indicating that this isn’t the 1800s.

Still, I see a family in there, sitting down to dinner.

In a millhouse!

It’s very hard to remember that I am depressed about my boyfriend turning out to have a gambling problem when the scenery whizzing past me is so picturesque.

Then we pass out from beneath the canopy of trees and I see towering cliffs above us, with castles on top of them, and Luke explains that this area of France (known as the Dordogne, after the river) is famous for its castles, having over a thousand of them, as well as for its caves, on the walls of some of which are paintings dating back to 15,000 BCE.

Then Dominique adds that Perigord, which is the part of the Dordogne we are in, is also known for its black truffles and foie gras. I am barely listening, though. It’s hard not to be distracted by the sight of a set of high-fortified walls-Luke says they belong to the ancient medieval village of Sarlat, and that we can go there to shop if I want to.

Shop! They couldn’t possibly have a vintage store there. But maybe a thrift shop…God, could you imagine the finds just waiting for someone like me? Givenchy, Dior, Chanel…who KNOWS?