Page 151 of Friends Don't Kiss

“Skye, language,” Chris says, dad mode on automatic.

“I think she gets a pass for today,” Alex whispers.

Annabel spreads her hands out wide. “What do you want me to do? How can I fix this?”

“I think Skye is right,” Cassandra says. “There’s nothing to fix. Kiara will see this for what it is.”

“What about Colton?” Noah asks. “It’s okay to make a fool out of him as long as Kiara is happy?”

“Yeah, looks like that’s how it’s gonna go,” Willow says over her shoulder.

Ethan steps next to Noah. “He’ll be fine. You’ll understand someday, dude.”

“Are you saying you made a fool of yourself for me?” Grace asks.

“No, but I happily would, honey. Every day. Worth it.” Leaning toward Noah, he adds, “That’s how it’s done. You need to learn these things.”

Willow turns to Ethan. “You lie to your fiancée?” she hisses.

“It’s not a lie,” he answers. “It’s the honest truth. I totally would make a fool of myself every single day if that made her stay mine.”

“You agree with this?” she asks Noah.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Guys, Colton’s calling,” Justin says, loudly enough for everyone to stop talking.

fifty-five

Colton

TheUberdriverrisksboth of our lives, but I keep telling myself it’s worth it, even if it’s unnecessary. The drive from the airport is marred with traffic jams, despite the slalom and the profuse swearing. I don’t need to understand French to tell the guy is trying to get the cars to move by the power of his words.

Once inside Paris we get to the most gigantic roundabout I’ve ever seen, with a monument in the middle, influencers standing in line in the middle of traffic to get their shot, and scooters zigzagging on the wet cobblestones as if their life insurance was about to expire.

I’d take ice racing over that any day.

Then we take a side avenue, and he slows down in front of a stately building with a brass plaque.Institut Culinaire Pierre de Varanges.This is it.

Then he makes a right and drops me off in front of the hotel I booked.

Twenty minutes later, I’m back outside, the ingredients now all stuffed in the backpack, taking fast strides toward Kiara’s baking school.

Once in front of the building, I take out my phone and call Lazy’s, hoping the international plan works. Justin picks up.

“Hey,” I say, words escaping me. “Just made it there, and before I go in, I wanted to say thank you.”

Justin is weirdly quiet. I examine myself in the glass door. The cowboy hat Grace made me wear adds a couple inches to my stature, which is already out of norm here. I decided to add the cowboy boots she got me a long time ago, and of course I’m wearing the leather jacket that does unspeakable things to Kiara. Under that, a plaid flannel shirt from Noah’s shop. People do look at me as they pass me on the street, and I’m thinking that’s a good sign. Right? Personally, I think I look pretty fucking great, and that’s saying something. “You guys are the best, and I guess… I just wanted to say I love you guys. Thanks for everything. Keep your fingers crossed for Kiara.”

Justin clears his throat. “We love you too, dude,” he says, then the line goes dead.

I push the door open, and a receptionist materializes in front of me. He looks me up and down and smirks, then picks up a phone. “On a Indiana Jones à la réception. Ouais. Ça marche.”

“Mademoiselle Smeess will be here momentarily,” he says in a French accent, a fake smile on his face.

I nod my thanks. “How’d you know that’s who I’m here to see?”

“She talks about you all ze time,” he says. “Colt zis and Colt zat.” He mimics a cowboy twirling revolvers in both hands, and suddenly I feel like a side character in a B-movie. The cowboy boots are constricting my feet, I’m too warm under the hat, and I’m wondering if the stickiness seeping from the backpack is maple syrup or honey.

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