When the walls are up, how in the world is Elias ever going to penetrate the fortress of his love interest?

Prologue

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Frannie

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I OPEN MY NIGHTSTAND DRAWER and pull out a rope of condoms and toss them into the suitcase.

“Are you serious?” My best friend, Becca, plops down on the bed. She picks up the condoms. She’s always had at least one more button done up than me.

Straight faced, I feign sincerity. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my whole life.”

“Stop,” she says. “What if TSA searches your suitcase? In front of everyone?”

“That’d be really funny.”

“We’re so different,” she says.

Becca and I’ve been inseparable since the first grade, except for half our junior year when my parents were getting divorced. Due to my “emotional turmoil,” I went a little wild with the drinking, the drugs, and the boys; oh how, I loved the boys. The therapist Mom forced me to talk to reassured her I’d calm down, eventually.

The problem was I didn’t care about being discreet, so Becca’s parents forbade her to hang out with me, except for Pizza-Movie Night that I’d been attending for the last ten years, with the conditions I didn’t show up under the influence and we’d remain in their presence at all times. After I learned how to hide my alter ego, it only took about two months for them to forget how bad I’d been. Then they allowed us to hang out unsupervised again.

Once my parents were living apart, it was easy to sneak out when I stayed at my dad’s. He was about to turn forty and felt like his fraternity life had been unfairly cut short by the early arrival of my older brother, and a year later, me. He said “society” (meaning me and my brother) owed him a do-over. He assumed the world hadn’t changed much, so he thought the ladies at Babes, the country and western bar he frequented, actually liked the smell of his cologne, Tosh. It stunk so much that the stench lingered long after he walked out the front door.

Every other Friday night, Becca and I were free until twenty minutes after last call, so we’d sneak out and head down to The Library Lounge on College. Without fail, the bouncer would let us in if we waited until no one of legal drinking age was at the front door. Even though he was older and studied at the university, Becca tutored him in science, and I edited all his papers. It was a fair exchange.

The Library Lounge is still our local haunt, but these days we only attend Steamy Saturdays when we discuss our favorite romance novels, partake in pink drinks and red cocktails, and at ten o’clock, the doors open, and the men enter. Only those interested in mingling with successful women are admitted.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Becca says.

I pull out my vintage Marilyn Monroe dress. “Do you think this is too much?”

Becca imitates my voice, “I know Becca, I’m going to be lost without you. I can’t imagine being apart for a whole summer.”

I say, “Yes, Becca. Whatever will I do without my best friend?”

Becca leans against my bureau and checks her teeth in the mirror then rifles through my jewelry box. “Here, bring these.” She holds up a pair of pearl earrings. “They’ll look fabulous with the dress.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say.

“I know. I’m so jealous. You have to facetime me every day.”

“Definitely.” I slide the dress off the hanger and give her a questioning look. “Too much for Paris?”

“No way,” she says.

I fold it neatly and place it next to the condoms. “That should do it.” I close the top. “Can I borrow your butt?” I point to luggage.

Becca sits on top of my suitcase, and I zip it up.

“Do you have a plan? Or are you just going with the Frannie Flow?”

“I have a plan. At least for the first and second day, beyond that, it’s just write, write, write.”

Becca stands up, and I wheel my luggage to the door.

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” She asks.

I glance into the mirror and try to pat down the jungle. As soon as I take my hand away, my curls spring back, so I sit at my vanity. “Yes, please.”

With her fingers, Becca combs through the mess. “I’m so envious of your curls.”

She tugs on my hair, so I tip my head back. “Seriously?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I stare at her reflection. “I’ve always wanted your hair. It’s so pretty. Those chestnut waves—you were blessed.”

Becca looks up at the ceiling and nods. “Yeah. My hair’s pretty rad.” She smiles at me in the mirror then weaves my curls strand over strand. “But we always seem to want what we don’t have.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” I hand her an elastic.

“Did you ever think you’d be celebrating your 25th in Paris?” She asks.

“Not in a million.” I spy my grandmother’s giant topaz and hand it to Becca, so she fastens the necklace

around my neck. It settles into the V of my cleavage.

“I mean, you don’t even believe in love,” Becca says.

“I wouldn’t say I don’t believe.”

We head out to the living room, and I grab my keys from the bowl. “I mean, you and Bill seem to be heading to the altar, and your parents are still over the moon in love.”

Becca doesn’t respond. “Tell me they’re still in love, Becs.”

She picks up a framed picture of the two of us, from the era before she met Bill.

“Becca?”

“Yes, Mom and Dad are still in the blissful throws of forever love.” She puts down the picture.

“That’s a relief.”

“Sorry. They’re all good.” She picks up a spray bottle and spritzes my spider plant. “But why don’t you think it

could happen to you?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s genetic. Or maybe it’s nurture or lack there of. You remember my parents, right?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean their kind of relationship is your destiny.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the relationships in your family are a bunch of anomalies. I really don’t think most couples are actually happy. In my world, characters only find true love at the end of movies and books, and that’s definitely not real.”

She walks over to my collection of vintage fairytales and pulls out Beauty and the Beast. She stares at the cover and goes quiet.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m good.” She slides the book back into place. “Do you write about the life you wish you had?”

“Not really. I don’t want some rich dick to come along and pretend to sweep me off my feet.”

“Your characters aren’t dicks, Frannie. They’re just rich. You can have money and still be nice.”

“Not in real life, Becs.” I look at my phone. “It’s time,” I say.

“I’ll walk you down.”

I look back at my apartment. The blinds are half-closed. The TV is unplugged. And the lights are off. I punch in the alarm code. “1375,” I say. “Don’t forget.”

“Frannie, you’ve had the same combination since high school. I won’t forget.”

“And don’t forget to water my plants. Please. I don’t want to come back to dead spiders and withered snakes.”

I lock the door behind us and hand her the keys.

“We’re still talking about the plants, right?” She asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I can’t believe you, a highly sought after researcher, still don’t know the names of common house plants.”

“And I still can’t believe you don’t believe in love.”

“I believe you love me.”

Becca tilts her head and brushes my arm. “Always.”

We walk to the elevator.

“So, tell me your plan,” she says.

“Well--I land in Paris at ten a.m.”

“So, four a.m. my time.”

I press the “L” button. “Right. Then I’ll catch an Uber to my flat. I doubt I’ll get any sleep on the flight, so if I’m not too tired, I’ll force myself to walk around for a bit, get to know the neighborhood, then head back in the early afternoon for a nap or maybe I’ll sleep the whole night through.”

“And for your second day?”

“I plan on getting into wardrobe, my beautiful dress.” Becca knows how much I love old things, so when she found the Marilyn dress, she said she just had to get it for me. “Then I’m heading to the Seine to paint, or sketch, whichever one feels right.”

The elevator dings, and we step into the lobby.

“You can’t bring paints on the plane, can you?”

“I didn’t check, but I had some sent over to my Air BnB. Madame Beauparlant is holding them for me.”

“And you trust her not to steal your stuff or your identity?”

“Of course.” I nod to the doorman. “I can’t wait to meet her. She seems so eccentric.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, just the way she speaks. She has a je ne sais que.

“That means—I don’t know?” Becca asks.

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“Yes, Becca. Good job.”

“Thanks. I remember a few things from Mr. Poirier’s class.”

“He was such a perv.”

In unison we say, “Ew,” and shake our heads.

Becca holds the door open for me, and we step onto the sidewalk. It rained earlier, and a few puddles remain.

The street is busy with cabs and people walking home from work.

“You’re so daring,” Becca says. “I don’t think I could ever do something like this.”

“You could. I bet you can do a lot more than you think.”

“Maybe.”

“I know. At the end of the summer, if—when my book is finished, you should come see me.”

“I don’t know. That’s a big trip.”

“Think about it. Can you imagine? Becs and Frannie take on Paris? It’d be epic.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I’m going to take that as an almost yes.”

She clenches her jaw but doesn’t object because she knows eventually, I’ll convince her. I’m very persuasive.

“By the way, whatever gave you the idea?” She asks.

“Don’t think I don’t notice you’re deflecting.”

She gives a strained smile.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Of course.” She straightens up. “Just going to miss my best friend. Before I start crying, answer my question.”

“Sorry. What did you ask?”

“Why did you decide to do this?”

“To go to Paris? That’s where my next story takes place.”

“No, I mean to dress up, to play the part. No offense, but you’re not the type of woman who wears silk dresses or even dresses up.”

“I dress up.”

Becca grins, and her eyebrows challenge me. “Really? When?”

“Your parents’ twenty-fifth.”

“That was ten years ago.”

Instead of responding, I open my Uber app and choose a car. “To answer your question, remember when I took that acting class?”

“Yeah, that was so fun to see you on stage.”

I roll my eyes. Stage fright is real. My brother and I both get it pretty bad. My voice becomes a shaking mess and pitches high, and his face turns beet red.

“Part of the course was on method acting. It helped me step inside my characters’ bodies, in kind of a freaky way. Anyway, I just thought, maybe the method could help with writing too. I want my heroine to feel real, three-dimensional, not so flat.”

“Frannie, none of your characters have ever felt flat.”

“You’d never tell me differently, Becs. You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader. I don’t think you’re capable of seeing me in a bad light.”

“Maybe so, or maybe you’re just awesome. Either way, I can’t wait to live vicariously through you, or through, whomever your leading lady is going to be. Do you have a name for her yet?”

“Not yet. I’m thinking Yvette, Charlize, Vienna, Naomi, maybe Sylvie.” I look at my phone. My driver is almost here. “I want her to have a soft name but one that makes her sound strong and independent. Maybe even sexy and cute.”

“Rebecca fits all those.”

I smile. Becca tells me this every time a new character steps into the light. “You know I can’t use names from real life. All I’d think of when I wrote Rebecca would be a super smart librarian who catalogs butterfly flight patterns from her terrace, and no offense, but that woman wouldn’t wear this pinup dress.”

“I guess you know best.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Rebecca character, she’s just not right for this book.”

“I know. I’ve heard it all before.”

My Uber pulls up. I check my phone and the license plate. They match. I open the back door. “What’s your name?” I ask the driver.

“Darren. You Francis?”

I groan at the sound of my full name. “Yeah. But call me Frannie.”

“Whatever,” Darren says.

I ignore him and turn to my best friend.

She pulls me in for a big hug. “Call me when you get to the airport. And when you sit down on the plane. And as soon as you land.”

“Yes, Mom,” I tease.

“I’m so proud of you, mon amie.”

I pull back. “Thanks. I’m proud of you too.”

Becca shakes her head.

Darren interrupts, “Are we gonna go?”

“Rude,” I say to my friend. I slide into the Uber and put down my window. “Wish me luck.”

Becca nods. “Good luck, Frannie. You’re going to be great.” As we pull away from the curb, Becca wipes away the tears that are soaking her cheeks. She throws kisses my way and yells, “Bon voyage, mon amie.”

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End of Prologue

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