First Love, Once Removed Volume One

By Laci Maskell

Livia has been in love with exactly two men in her lifetime.Jean-Luc was her first. He was the passionate, whirl-wind romance she never quite got over.Lucas is her second. He is her rock, her safe place, her forever. At least she thinks.Until Jean-Luc re-enters her life and splits her heart in two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laci Maskell
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005233037

Laci Maskell

I was born and raised in Nebraska. I fell in love with reading when I discovered Harry Potter. I began writing in the sixth grade. The four loves of my life are reading, writing, watching movies, and listening to music.

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First Love, Once Removed Volume One

Laci Maskell

Published by Laci Maskell at Smashwords

Copyright © Laci Maskell 2021

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Dedication

To all of you who stuck by me through the hard times.

Other books by the author

Still Life Moving

So . . . That Happened

The Phoenix Trilogy

Phoenix Born

Phoenix Burn

Phoenix Rising

First Love, Once Removed

Volume One

Episode One

Episode Two

Episode Three

Episode Four

Volume One

Episode One

Chapter One

My first day in France and I run right into someone.

Way to go, Livia.

Only an American would walk down a sidewalk, in a country they’ve never been in, with their nose in a book. When I make contact with the second party, the impact sends me ass first onto the stone sidewalk.

I sit, disoriented, on the ground for far too long. I look up when a shadow falls over me. The body is surrounded in a halo of sunlight, exactly like you see in the movies. The most beautiful guy I have ever seen stands over me. I blink several times. Surely I hit my head. When I look up again he is still there. And he’s smiling at me. The beautiful man is smiling at me. Beautiful men don’t smile at me.

Etes-vous d’accord?

I must have hit my head because I cannot understand a word he says.

He extends his hand to pull me up. My hand fits perfectly in his. They are soft and warm. He smiles as our hands connect. I blush and look away as I make it to my feet. Then he leans down to pick up my book, bag, and what I assume is his bag.

I’m so sorry, I say when I realize he is the one I ran into.

Pardonnes-moi, he says. Again I have no idea what he is saying. But when I remember I am in a different country, where its' citizens speak a different language, I’m not so worried I might have hit my head.

I open my mouth to say something to him, but if he doesn’t speak English we are going to have a problem.

I right myself and get my head on straight. I did learn a little bit of French before coming here. I just need to focus and remember it now.

Bonjour, I say, extending my hand to him.

The beautiful boy smiles, but instead of shaking my hand, he grabs me by the shoulders, leans forward, and kisses me on both cheeks. A blush flares in my cheeks and spreads down my chest and arms. I’m startled until I remember what country I am in. Maybe I do need to get my head checked out. I’ve had to do a lot of remembering so far.

Parlez-vous Francais? he says, but this I understand.

I even know how to answer him, Je parle un pev do Francais. Parlez-vous Anglais?

He smiles as I butcher his native language. It is a beautiful smile, one that takes my breath away. Yes, he says. I just wanted to test you.

I almost laugh because it sounds like he said he wants to taste me, even though I’m sure he means test.

Abandoning the English, he says, Comment vous appelez-vous?

Je m’appelle, Livia, I answer, then repeat his question while expelling almost all of the French I learned.

Jean-Luc, he answers. His accent makes me swoon.

I’ve heard French accents on TV shows and movies, but they are nothing compared to this guy’s accent. It is authentic, rich, and makes me shiver all over, especially in places I’d be embarrassed to admit.

It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I ran into you, I say, trying again to steer the conversation in the way of English.

Il est agreeable de rencontrer vous. Quoi vous apporte a la France?

I must look at him like an idiot. I have no idea what he just said. I’ve heard people who speak different languages talk before, and it never bothered me, but I never needed to understand what they were saying. Now that I am trying to have a conversation with a gorgeous French guy, and have no idea what he is saying, I feel dimwitted, which embarrasses me. A silence falls between us, until he laughs.

My apologies, he says. That was rude of me.

No apology necessary, I say, and finally take my book and bag from him. I should be apologizing for hitting you.

It was my pleasure, he says.

I turn my head at him, not sure how it would be his pleasure that I knocked him on his ass, though now that I think about it, I think he stayed firmly upright. He smiles that beautiful smile at me and laughs. Either he is messing with me, he thinks my witlessness is cute, or just really likes to smile and laugh.

What brings you to my lovely country? he asks, spreading his arms wide, gesturing around him.

I’m taking a couple classes over the summer, I say, pointing my thumb in the general direction of the university.

You came here for education? he asks, looking at me like I am crazy. May I be the first to welcome you to France.

Merci beaucoup, I say to him.

He smiles and raises his eyebrows at me, seemingly impressed. His smile is equally as beautiful as the rest of his face. If anything, his smile only enhances the beauty of his face. I certainly haven’t seen any guys to equal him in the States.

As much as I wish to keep talking to this Jean-Luc, I also don’t want to be late for my first class.

I should be going, I say.

Why? he asks. Are you not enjoying yourself?

I assure you I am, but I have class, I answer.

May I escort you? he asks.

I want to ask why he would feel inclined to do so, but fearing that if I do, he won’t, I just nod. He smiles, takes my bag from me, swings it over his shoulder, then extends his elbow for me to take, remaining sexy all the while.

I wrap my hand around his elbow and he leads me towards the university. Then he begins talking. The guy can definitely talk. I’ve known him for a total of five minutes and yet he doesn’t talk to me as though that is the case. I’m not sure if it is a cultural thing, or a polite thing, or a Jean-Luc thing, but either way, I enjoy it. The more he talks the more I want to listen. He tells me about places in France I have to visit if I get the chance. "Livia, you have to see this place," he says and so on. A shiver runs up my spine every time he says my name, like it’s a spell or a promise on his lips.

He stops us at a coffee cart along the way and doesn’t even ask, but orders me something. It is a coffee, chocolate, caramel mixture; something I could get in the States, but I’ve never tasted anything like it. I’m not the biggest coffee fan, but the coffee taste is light. The chocolate and caramel mix with what I can only imagine is pure cream to envelope my taste buds and delight my senses. Jean-Luc watches me, transfixed, as I take my first sip.

Good? he asks.

Very, I say. Thank you.

My pleasure, he says, surprising me by taking my hand in his and kissing the top of it.

The pleasure receptors in my skin send shockwaves through my body. Jean-Luc keeps hold of my hand and we continue walking towards the university. I am going to be one unhappy American girl when we finally do reach the building. Our conversation picks up, only now he turns the tables on me and asks about American culture, customs, and me. No one has ever taken an interest in me before. It makes me nervous to answer his questions at first, but the more attention he pays me, the more animated I get, telling him things I should be embarrassed to tell him, or things he probably finds no fascination in. But I can’t stop myself. The way he looks at me makes me feel dizzy and alive. His eyes suck me in. His smile makes me feel like the only girl on the planet.

I am mesmerized by Jean-Luc. I don’t even notice when we have stopped in front of the school building. He continues to talk and I continue to listen.

It is only when he asks what class I am taking that I break out of my spell.

Art history, I answer.

This makes him break out into a new discussion of places I must see.

As much as it kills me to say, I tell him, I have to go.

When can I see you again? he asks, holding both of my hands in his.

Excuse me? I ask, dumbfounded as to why this beautiful French guy, who has just met me, would want to see me again.

Jean-Luc pulls me closer to him and says, I wish to see you again.

Um, is all I can manage when he says, Tonight?

Okay, I reply, still dumbstruck. Surely this is an illusion or an amazingly crafted day dream.

I tell him where I am staying so he can find me tonight. He smiles and kisses me on both cheeks, lingering longer than he did the first time. Goodbye, Livia. I will be thinking of you until I see you again, he says and walks away, but not before looking over his shoulder at me.

No way did that just happen. Never in my life have I had a guy pay that much attention to me. Never have I had a guy tell me he will be thinking about me. I watch him walk away until he is out of sight, periodically pinching myself to make sure I was not just hallucinating.

I can’t focus through my first class. Thoughts of the strange but beautiful French boy float through my mind. I still can’t fathom that he would have wanted to talk to me after I knocked him over. I can’t fathom that he would want to spend more time with me than the walk to my class’s building. I can’t fathom that I get to see him again. I am looking forward to it like I have never looked forward to anything before.

I listen for a bell to signal the end of the period when I notice my fellow classmates leaving the room. I gather my bag and empty notebook and walk down the rows of desks to the door. I have one more class today. One more hour until I can leave and wait for the mysterious French boy who took an interest in a clumsy American girl.

One class to get through, I think to myself. Wait a minute. Didn’t I come here specifically for these classes and the culture, not the boys? Of course, French boys are part of French culture. Wow. Leaps and bounds away from why I came here.

I walk the halls and pay special attention to the architecture and decor of the building. The walls are made of stone. They look so much more prestigious than my high school back home, a building with walls made out of painted concrete blocks. There are paintings on the walls from various artists. A statue is placed here and there. The word plain floats around my brain but it would be so wrong. There is nothing plain about this building. It is beautiful like I’ve never seen before. Nothing that I have seen in California could compare to the beauty in this one building.

I study the building but make sure I allow myself enough time to find my next classroom. I don’t want to be late or get lost on my first day. I’m looking forward to my next class. I have three classes this summer, French language, French History, and French Art. I have a feeling I’m going to bomb the language. I’m not too good with languages. I nearly failed the two required years of Spanish I had to take in high school. I seriously hope I can do better with French. Besides, if I continue to see Jean-Luc, I will have to do well in it. When he spoke to me in French this morning I hadn’t a clue what he was saying. I don’t want to look stupid all summer. But history is my favorite subject. I love everything about it. When we learned about the French Revolution in class I couldn’t get enough of it. I needed to learn more. Of course we had to move on. So here I am in France, to learn more. Not only of the French Revolution, but everything I can soak up in the next two and a half months. Art is my second favorite. There is something so special about art. I think the reason I like history and art so much is because they go hand in hand. I can almost always tell you what era a painting or sculpture is by merely looking at it. Modern art is another story, but I’m getting there.

I enter the classroom behind a few other students. I recognize some of them from my other class, though I should since we are all in the same program. Maybe we can form a study group. I can help the other students with history and art if they can help me with the language.

I exit my history class feeling good. I love history. This is going to be a good summer.

I walk with some of my classmates down the hallway wondering if I should strike up a conversation with them, maybe discuss a study group, find out a good place to eat in town, but decide against it. It’s only the first day, I don’t want to seem desperate or awkward when I have to spend all summer with these people.

I exit the building in my own head when I hear my name spoken in a beautiful French accent. I turn around to find Jean-Luc leaning against the building. So this morning wasn’t a dream. Good to know.

He is as beautiful as I remember.

I’m not sure what I should do. I should probably walk over to him, but this all seems weird to me. Who actually has hot French guys waiting outside of their school buildings for them?

I walk back towards him and can’t keep the smile off my face. This is actually happening to me.

I thought we were meeting tonight, I say.

I didn’t think my classes ran that long and it’s still light outside. Maybe tonight means something different to French people.

I couldn’t wait, Jean-Luc says in that amazing accent of his.

If I’m not careful I’m bound to be putty in this boy’s hands.

My cheeks hurt from the giant smile plastered on my face.

I’m glad, I tell him.

Am I?

I don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s hot and he’s got the accent, but he could be a French serial killer for all I know.

But then he takes my hand and places his lips upon it and I no longer care if he is a serial killer, he knows what to do with those lips of his.

He’s kissed me on the cheek and on the back of my hand. The image of what it would feel like to have those warm lips cover mine is so vivid in my mind I can practically taste it.

It’s only when Jean-Luc clears his throat that I realize I’m staring at him. My cheeks instantly flush. I lower my head in embarrassment.

I’m about to turn away from him, fearing I’ve ruined the situation, when a warm finger is placed under my chin and lifts my face to view his.

An amused grin adorns Jean-Luc’s face.

Would you like to take a walk with me? he asks.

I would love to, I tell him, forgetting about anything I’ve got to do for the afternoon.

Jean-Luc takes my bag from over my shoulder and slings if across his. It is one fluid motion and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so sexy, or chivalrous.

This guy is going to own my soul in no time.

All I can think is, don’t swoon, don’t swoon.

Too late.

He loops my arm through his and I swear my knees go weak.

Pull yourself together, Livia.

I firmly place one foot in front of the other when his arm tugs on mine. He looks at me while he walks forward. With my luck I would trip and fall the second I took my eyes off of the pavement.

Jean-Luc walks us through the streets of Paris like this is his town, his turf, like he owns the place. It’s his sureness, his confidence that draws me further to him.

There is some itch at the back of my skull telling me to be cautious, my mother’s voice warning me about French boys and their charms. I promptly ignore it. I’m sure my mom would fall in love with Jean-Luc if she were here.

As we walk he asks me about the States and my home town and how I grew up. I tell him about the eternal sunshine that is California. About going to the beach and partying with my friends. I tell him about how high school was for me. About cable TV and how the world really needs to fall out of love with reality TV. He wears his adorable grin the entire time, though I can’t imagine I’m entertaining him.

While we walk I wonder if he could be leading me to the Eiffel Tower and how I feel about it. It’s a little too cliché for him to be leading me there, especially on the first day I met him. But at the same time, I’m in Paris with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Could I really be upset about it?

I try to ask him questions about himself, what it’s like growing up in the most romantic place on Earth, has he ever been to the States, how going to high school was for him. He dodges these questions by answering swiftly, the same as any other person who grows up in a famous town, no but I wish to someday, it was normal, and instead asks me if I have any siblings, and if so what are their names and ages, what are the names of my parents, and so on. As much as I like talking about myself, not so much, I would like this to be a two way conversation, and I would really like to know more about him. Perhaps when he has had his fill of learning about me, he will fill me in on his life.

Before I can catch myself, Jean-Luc has stopped on a sidewalk. He steadies me before I trip over my own feet, and holds up a hand before I can apologize. Then he looks up so I follow his gaze. We stand in front of a building, a cafe, whose storefront is a wall of glass. The golden light that pours through onto the street is beautiful. I look up farther to see that it is a part of a hotel, a building that towers over us, flags of which I can’t discern line the front of it. The architecture is intricate with beautifully crafted ironwork balconies connected to each room above.

Cafe de la Paix, Jean-Luc says, doesn’t have the greatest service, the food isn’t five star, and it’s expensive, but there’s something about the combination of those three that I love about this place.

I can’t help myself from the burst of laughter that shoots through me. I clamp my hand over my mouth but smile behind it.

Here I was expecting Jean-Luc to take me to the Eiffel Tower, the most romantic place in Paris and where does he take me, a cafe that’s expensive, has poor service, and mediocre food. The irony is hilarious. My first day in Paris I meet a guy who could rival anyone for best looking guy on the planet, he wants to see me again, treats me like I’m the only girl in the city, then takes me to a down rated cafe. The whole situation is laughable.

Yes? Jean-Luc asks in that beautiful accent of his, mild amusement on his face.

Nothing, I’m sorry, I say, my cheeks warming. Crap, I’ve offended him. Could I be any more of a spaz? I fear the answer to that question.

Shall we go in? he asks.

Yes, please, I say to keep from further embarrassing myself.

Jean-Luc moves forward to open the door for me then ushers me inside. There is a sign inside the door written in French I can only imagine is the equivalent to Please wait to be seated. A hostess meets us soon after and guides us to a table that is situated in front of the glass front. Jean-Luc moves to pull out my chair for me then takes his own seat. No guy from the States has ever pulled out my chair for me. Although, I am from California, and if a girl isn’t a feminist there you don’t belong.

A silence falls over us and I’m afraid it is about to get awkward between us. We both stare at each other. I’m looking for something to say to him. A question to ask perhaps. Wondering why it is me he chose to spend his day with and will he forget about me tomorrow. I can’t imagine what he is thinking. Another moment passes before we are handed our menus. I peruse it, all the dishes are in French. Luckily, there are descriptions of the dishes next to the names.

My eyes stare in disbelief. There is so much fish on the menu. You would think a California girl would like fish, I do not. Nor do I like the other entrees that decorate the menu, pigeon, veal, rabbit, clams, dog, oysters. I’m in big trouble if the rest of the cafes and restaurants in Paris only serve these dishes. I finally find one suitable enough to eat. Grilled beef fillet, with a seasonal side. The dessert looks promising.

The waiter is to our table to take our order before I know it. I thought this place was supposed to have lousy service. I place my order, praying I’m saying the pronunciation of the French words correctly. I can’t even understand Jean-Luc as he orders, the French coming too quickly and fluently from his lovely lips.

When our waiter walks away with our orders in hand Jean-Luc surprises me by taking my hand in both of his. My cheeks flush causing me to turn away.

No, don’t, he says, his voice lilting. Do not be embarrassed. It is beautiful.

This only causes my cheeks to get redder and hotter. This boy is trouble.

What do you think of my fine city? he asks, like he owns the place, like he wants me to love it.

It is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

Lovely, he says. I can’t tell if it’s because of what I said or if he meant it for me. Of course that sounds egotistical. Especially since no guy in the States has treated me so wonderfully. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my share of boyfriends and they treated me well, but never like Jean-Luc.

Maybe I should listen to my mother’s voice at the back of my head telling me to be careful. I leave in ten weeks. And I’m pretty sure I can’t take Jean-Luc with me. Getting close to him could be disastrous. Then again, maybe I should enjoy myself while I’m here and leave it as that, a beautiful two and a half months spent with a beautiful French boy. Then again, I could be getting far too ahead of myself and he may never want anything to do with me after today.

The waiter comes back to our table with two glasses and a bottle of wine. I would have preferred water, I’d actually like some water, but who am I to be a bitch in a foreign country. I’d rather not be shunned out of France on my first day.

Jean-Luc takes his glass in his hand and holds it up, waiting for me to do the same. When they clink together, he says, To you, my beautiful American girl.

My heart leaps in my chest. Butterflies form a frenzied swarm in my stomach. I want to look down again, but keep my eyes on his, eyes that are deep and bore right into me.

I am in so much trouble.

I take a sip of the wine, needing something else to focus on.

I’m quickly learning I need some kind of guide to dealing with sexy, forward, French guys. I am so out of my league it is not funny. Actually it might swiftly become comical if I’m not careful.

Our food comes, saving me from any humiliating comment I may make to him. I take a bite. Jean-Luc was right, the food isn’t five star. I’d take a medium rare steak over this any day. And a baked potato. Oh what I wouldn’t give to have a baked potato slathered in butter and salt. When in Paris, right? It’s only ten weeks. And surely I can find a McDonalds somewhere in this city.

I warned you, Jean-Luc says and grins to himself.

That you did, I tell him.

Again he reaches over the table to take my hand in his. His skin is soft and warm against mine. I imagine him running his hands over other parts of my body. I get hot in other places just thinking about it. When he runs his thumb across the top of my hand I about jump out of my seat.

A knowing smile spreads across his face.

I’m curious to know if I affect him at all like he does me. I want to test it but am afraid I’ll come off as awkward or forward. He is the French one after all. Isn’t that their way? I decide to chance it anyway. Twirling my hand around, I interlace our fingers. He immediately sits up straighter then stills, like he has stopped breathing. I smile, liking the way it feels to make him react in such a way.

Our waiter returns to the table and speaks to Jean-Luc in French. I have no idea what they are saying. More wine is poured and drank. I seriously hope I don’t get tipsy and make an ass out of myself. I finish eating, the food finding a place among the butterflies in my stomach. Once again our waiter returns with a plate he sets in the middle of the table, taking the one from in front of me.

Eclair au chocolat, my favorite. I hope you like it, he says, squeezing my fingers with his.

I reach for my fork to taste the dessert that looks so mouthwatering, but before I can, Jean-Luc picks one up and places it near my mouth so I can take a bite. Once I’ve taken a bite and am savoring the tasty pastry, he leans forward and uses his thumb to wipe chocolate off my lip. Not only is that hot enough, he places his thumb in his mouth and sucks off the chocolate.

I might as well die and go to heaven right now.

He looks deep into my eyes and smiles as though he’s just learned the secrets to the universe. My