Chapter One
Fiona
“I still can’t believe I’m here,” I say, holding my cellphone to my ear as the cab driver takes me down the Parisian streets. Everything is so beautiful, the Seine glittering off to my left in the midday sunlight. “I can’t believe I won.”
“Somebody had to,” Mom says. “I’m so happy it was you.”
“It’s just a bit crummy they didn’t let you bring a plus-one, though, sis,” Kelly laughs.
I roll my eyes, my cheeks aching from smiling so much. I can easily imagine them sitting in the living room in Mom’s apartment. Kelly will probably still be in her construction gear, running a hand through her spiky blonde hair. We’re non-identical twins, and we look so different sometimes people don’t believe me when I tell them we are twins.
Mom will be in her armchair, maybe doing some cross-stitching. Her wild auburn hair probably cascading down to the arms of the chair like it always does.
“I’m only kidding,” Kelly adds. “It’s just so awesome.”
I lay my head against the glass.
It is awesome.
I write at the same café every weekend back home, and one day when I walked over to my usual table, somebody had left a magazine behind open on the contest page.
It was like fate.
Win a luxury trip in one of Paris’ most beautiful hotels.
There was no way I was going to pass up an offer like that.
“I’m here to work, remember,” I say.
Mom makes a huffing noise. “Work, sweetness? Enjoy yourself. Let your hair down. You can write when you get back.”
I pat my laptop bag on the seat next to me, as though they can see me.
“Nah uh. If I want to write the most romantic story imaginable, what better place to do it? Apparently, you can see the Eiffel Tower from my room.”
“Fi,” Kelly says, “you know if you don’t meet a man down there, Mom is going to freak, right? She’s counting on you coming back with a fiancé and plans to have a boatload of kids.”
“She’s not wrong,” Mom laughs. “So that means no writing, none at all.”
I shake my head with a smile, but nerves twist in my belly.
Find a man?
I’ve never been the outgoing sort when it comes to that type of thing. I don’t see how I’m going to suddenly explode into a new personality because I’m in a new city. Mostly I’m looking forward to seeing the sights and sitting on the balcony with the city laid out beneath me, typing away at my keyboard.
Even if I did find some hunky Parisian man, he wouldn’t want to sweep me off my feet.
I’m not exactly the billboard type.
I don’t voice these thoughts aloud though.
Kelly and Mom hate it when I put myself down like that. They’re always telling me I should have more confidence, infuse myself with a protective layer of sassiness, let my personality shine through.
Men don’t care about personality, I want to scream at them. They care about your dress size, and I’m curves all the way.
“Fiona?” Mom says. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I murmur. “I was just thinking.”
“Of book ideas?” Kelly laughs. “Finish the ones you’ve got before you add a thousand more to your pile.”
I giggle. There’s nothing I can say in response. She’s right. The main thing holding me back in my writing is that I’m always flitting between ideas, grabbing hold of one with the certainty that this is the idea flurrying through me.
But then something else will pop up in my mind and I’ll become captivated with that instead.
Maybe Paris will help me focus. At least I won’t have to spend hours waiting tables and dealing with self-righteous douches who want me to fall at their feet and beg for their forgiveness for bringing their water a few minutes too late because we’re understaffed and overfull.
“Seriously,” Kelly goes on. “Don’t stress yourself out about writing. I know you’ve got it in you to write a bestseller. Take Paris as an experience, Fi. Aren’t you always saying how writers need to live if they’re ever going to write realistically?”
“Do you know how annoying it is when you use my own logic against me?” I laugh. “Yes, Kelly, I say that. But saying it and living it are two very different things.”
“We should’ve stolen her laptop from her bag,” Mom laughs.
“Maybe we’ll hire someone to throw it in the Seine,” Kelly jokes.
“I’m so not listening,” I giggle. “Listen, I think we’re nearly there. I should get going. I’ll call you later.”
“You will not,” Mom says, laughing. “You’ll be too busy meeting the man of your dreams and making plans to give me dozens of grandkids.”
“Dozens?” I chuckle. “I don’t know about that, Mom. Maybe I’ll adopt a stray cat over here. You’ll have to be content with that.”
“Talk to you later, Fi,” Kelly says.
“Yes, bye, dear,” Mom says. “We love you.”