LOST IN PARIS
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Addison Chronicles 2
A college degree didn't prepare Addison Odell for the life lessons waiting for her in Paris. Between meeting other travelers from distant parts of the world to the entanglements of new relationships, she's discovering that she's not as "adult" as she had believed when she had walked across that stage to seize her degree.
A dare gone wrong paired with insecurities she hadn't been aware of having results in a late-night run from the police down Paris streets. Lost with friends, their wandering reveals both their cultural differences and commonalities.
Each day Addison spends in Europe strips away a layer of her old self—the one who thought she had life all figured out at twenty-two—and exposes a new version capable of adapting to any circumstance. Being lost in Paris has its perks, but will the consequences change the course of her life forever?
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an excerpt...
Midnight snuck up on me fast. Dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, I manage to sneak out of the room without Sage or Harmony noticing. They had fallen asleep shortly after helping me move into their room where a cot had been set up in the corner.
I walk up the stairs and feel as if I'm breaking the rules, yet there are no rules. Here, I am making up the terms as I go. I owe no one anything—no explanation or obligation. This is not just my trip; this is my life.
I don't know why that's been so hard for me to accept all of this time. I am not a prisoner or a victim who can't make up her own mind. I am an adult woman. I am a college graduate on her way to graduate school. I call the shots. I can hold my head up high here and everywhere. I can flirt without it meaning anything. Or, I can kiss someone and let it be the beginning of something.
I am not a slut because I was raped four years ago, and the perpetrators who called me that were assaulting me over and over again with their words. They were the predators, the assholes. I did nothing to deserve any of it. I know that...now I need to allow myself to accept that.
I feel free, perhaps for the first time in my life if I am brutally honest about it. I can want two guys. I don't need to judge myself for being curious or feeling things that I have never before felt.
I step onto the roof and gasp in surprise. Peter has set up a blanket. On the side of the blanket is a plate of cheese and a bucket filled with ice with a wine bottle tucked inside of it. In the distance, the Eifel Tower looms with lasers shooting around it as if in a show. Peter is standing at the edge of the roof, his back to me, and looking toward the display. I wonder how many times he has been in this hotel on this roof with other women, but then I shrug it off.
I don't care how many times. Right now, in this moment is all that matters and I'm enthralled.
I walk up to him and lean against my elbows against the railing. "This is the perfect vantage point."
"It is," he says with a slow smile, "but then, any view of the Eifel Tower is perfect, yes?"
"Yes." I don't pull away when he drops his hand over mine. I don't want to pull away.
"I have been wanting to talk to you since that first night here. I am sorry you heard me say those things."
"Why were you saying them?"
"I was foolish...I was wrong. Even I make mistakes, Addison." He faces me and laces his fingers through mine. "I want to make sure that you understand me."
I nod and wait. The breeze is intense tonight and my hair flutters into my eyes. I remain silent, sensing that he has more to say.
"When I said you were uncomplicated, that is a compliment in my mind. I like the way you laugh without looking around to see if anyone is watching. I like that you are not constantly looking at your phone when you are surrounded by these beautiful places. I like that you are here for the experience—that you seem genuinely invested in every moment. That’s rare, whether you see it or not. You are not trying to be an Instagram star, devoted to capturing every moment with a selfie. You are truly present. It’s a fascinating quality." He squeezes my fingers. "Being uncomplicated in a complicated world is a positive thing, Addison."
"And you wanting to mold me?" I sway toward him as if being pulled by an invisible magnet. My gaze drops to his lips despite my best intentions not to be drawn to him.
"Any man in his right mind would fantasize about having you in his bed and under his hands and molding you into a wild sexual temptress."
My infamous blush burns my skin because his comment is unexpected. Me? A wild sexual temptress? I don’t like that image—not because it’s crossing a line, but because I am tired of the world defining women based on sex. Or, more specifically, me being defined by it.
Is this a blind spot again? Am I misjudging and overreacting? Overthinking?
I disengage our hands and walk toward the blanket where I immediately sit down and grab a piece of cheese. When in doubt, eat cheese. That will be my new motto.
He walks toward me, his buttoned-up shirt billowing in the breeze around his jean-clad hips before he sits next to me. He grins as if he knows he is crossing lines and is enjoying watching me squirm.
Maybe David is right—maybe I need to embrace the game. It's kind of fun. I can almost hear David’s voice telling me to relax and enjoy playing.
Is it wrong to be hearing David’s voice right now? Probably.
"So, it is the molding of you that is the problem?" He takes a slice from the plate and grins before sliding it into his mouth.
I swirl the wine in my mouth and gaze toward the sky while I try to decide how to proceed.
“Yes, it is. I don’t need some man in my life to teach me things.” I slide my gaze back to his. “I am perfectly capable of molding myself.”
He studies me for a minute before giving me a slow nod. “Maybe you can teach me a few things.”
“I’m sure I could.”
“I’m sure I could.”
“Everyone wants to know about South Dakota…” I mutter against the rim of the wine glass before taking another long sip. I take my time before answering, again thinking about what David said at Montmarte—some people have a genuine interest and I don’t need to go into immediate defensive mode. “I loved growing up there. My dad painted a giant smiley face on the barn. We had sheep and horses. I would rush home after school to ride my horse, Tango, and we’d take off over the rolling hills toward a grove of trees near a pond in the field. I would write under trees with my journal and then ride my horse back home before dark. I had a pet sheep. My friends and I were all close. It was a small school, so we all knew each other pretty well. I was a cheerleader and the editor of the yearbook—well-rounded.” I smile and meet his gaze. “It’s a low-key state, prairie on one side and mountains on the other. People are smart, they work hard.”
“But?” He adjusts himself so that he’s lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, fingers tracing the rim of the wine glass, gaze intent on my face.
“No buts.”
“There must be because here you are and you plan on moving elsewhere once you return to the States, right?”
I sigh and resume looking at the Eiffel Tower. “It’s not for me, that’s all. I no longer fit there.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t. It’s hard to explain.”
“Vienna is my home. I cannot imagine living anywhere else. My parents are there, my friends, my work…I don’t know if you’ve found your home yet.”
I nod because it’s true. I am a woman without that sense of home, of belonging. And, when I think about it, I have always felt this way. Even as a little girl on the back of that horse riding across the hills, my attention had always drifted toward the horizon with my daydreams filled with far-away places and books about adventure in my backpack.
“I would like to visit the Dakotas one day,” he said.
I clear my throat and nod. “Mount Rushmore is beautiful; all of the Black Hills are. And there’s Crazy Horse Mountain, too.”
His fingers touch my forearm, skim upward from my wrist to my elbow. “One day, I hope you tell me what you really think of the place you grew up, not just the travel brochure version.”
I pull my arm away and look into his eyes. “Not everyone needs to know my deep and dark secrets.”
“Do you have deep and dark secrets? Is that what you’re writing about?”
“I am not perfect or naïve, Peter. I had a good childhood—”
“But?”
“Why are you doing this to me? You always poke and pry. That’s not too charming.”
“I may be European, but I don’t always need to be charming. Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me? Not to stereotype you. Not to put you in a box. Do the same for me. Know me, give me a chance, stop putting me in a box of bad guy or good guy or charming or ass.”
I drink my wine and allow silence to fall between us for a minute before answering. “I’m here to have a good time. I don’t want to reveal all my torment to a stranger.”
“Why? Who better to talk to than someone who is objective?”
“Are you objective?”
“I may be developing a bias.”
I laugh because I am beginning to think he is the most truthful person I have ever encountered. He lays it all out there—good or bad—and doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks about it.
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