Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(12)

I sit up and give her a quizzical expression. I know I’ve only just met her, but nothing about her so far has indicated a streak of spontaneity. Still, I have to admit that the offer is tempting, even if I am pretty exhausted.

“You know what? Hell yeah. Let’s do this. I’m in Paris, damn it! I can sleep when I’m dead!” I say, jumping up and starting to unzip my suitcase. If I’m going to see this beautiful city, I am sure as hell not doing it in my jeans and a sweatshirt!

Maybe I show up tomorrow for practice exhausted. Big deal. What can go wrong?





4





Liv





“Okay, open your eyes!” giggles Maggie, who has led me by the arm for the past few minutes of walking, after a short cab ride. “Open and look up!”

My eyes have been shut tightly, as per her instructions, ever since we got into the cab off the Champs-Élysées. But now I slowly open them and tilt my head upward, my stomach immediately twisting into excited knots. I’m staring up at the powerful, criss-crossing metal beams of the Eiffel Tower! My mouth falls open to admit a long, awestruck exhale.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Maggie says, nudging my shoulder.

I nod, feeling like I’ve been abducted by aliens and set back down gently in some kind of fever dreamscape. How in the world did I manage to end up here, standing underneath this magnificent structure, surrounded by the sights and smells of such a legendary city?

“It’s… so much bigger than I expected,” I breathe, my chest swelling with emotion. When I was in middle school, the desktop background on my old hand-me-down laptop was a black and white photo of the Eiffel Tower. I used to close out of my homework assignments sometimes just to gaze at the picture, pretending that I was there.

And now… here I am. I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. This has to be a dream that I’m going to wake up from. Any second now my alarm clock will go off and I’ll open my eyes to see my old bedroom back in North Carolina.

“Wanna go up?” Maggie asks enthusiastically, in a way that suggests there is only one correct answer: yes, yes, yes!

“Obviously!” I laugh, leaning into her as we both grin and run for the entrance. She pays for our way in, since she’s already got her dollars converted into euro. Maggie’s been paying for me left and right today, and at first I balked, too proud to let her just buy me things. But once she explained, in a surprisingly matter-of-fact manner, that her parents are very wealthy and they’re giving her a hefty monthly stipend — I backed down. In fact, the very first stop on our miniature tour of Paris a couple hours ago was the Triangle d’Or, a fancy boutique spot. I was fully prepared to simply window shop, but Maggie marched straight in and out of Dior, Givenchy, and Chanel like she belonged there. And once I saw her drop several hundred euro on a soft black hat at Hermès on a whim, I realized that she truly did belong there. She wasn’t homeschooled for some religious reason or because her parents were suspicious of the educational system. It was because they spent so much time traveling the world that they required a tutor who could travel with them.

I’ve landed myself a rich, generous roommate with a bottomless pocketbook and a newfound taste for freedom. But for all her (as the French might say) bourgeois privileges, I have to give it to her; Maggie has none of the snobby condescension I’ve come to expect from what kids back home pejoratively dubbed “city slickers.” So far, she’s been incredibly open and kind to me, treating me like an equal rather than a charity case. Granted, I’ve only known her for a few hours now, but I can already tell she and I are going to become fast friends. It’s a huge relief, knowing that I’ve found at least one friend in the city. Things are definitely looking up for Liv Greenwood.

Especially now that we’re about to ascend the 704 steps of the Eiffel Tower! Wait… are we really going to walk up 704 steps right now? I know we’re both athletes, but…

“Where are you going, silly?” Maggie laughs, waving me over away from the entrance to the stairway. “We’re taking the lift!”

“Oh, thank god,” I gasp in relief. “I was about to say, you must be in way better shape than I am to wanna take the stairs!”

“No, no, training doesn’t start till tomorrow, remember? Today we’re lazy,” she giggles, pulling me into the lift alongside a group of elderly tourists arguing in Portuguese. I’ve never been around so many different languages and accents, the foreign words colliding with my own English train of thought like a calamitous wreck. But I love it. I love having my entire worldview shaken and crumbled to the ground. I can feel the pieces of my old, sheltered self falling by the wayside, stepping out of the way to make room for a new, worldly Liv. Maggie and I wriggle through the little crowd, muttering excusez-moi as we go.