Allison Parr - Running Back

“Okay,” Mike said when we were in the elevator. “Here’s my technique at these things. Smile a lot. Laugh at people who need affirmation of their own cleverness.”

“You get a lot of those?”

He looked vaguely suffering. “It’s the entire one percent.”

We got out of the elevator into a room of low lights and voices, lower couches, and a sweeping glass panorama of Paris. Glittering people circulated before the backdrop. A woman in black watched me with narrowed eyes. Did she know how out of place I was?

I ignored her and took in the view. The entire city was laid out in a stream of bright streaks, from the toy-sized tower to the star of avenues surrounding the Arc de Triomphe.

I’d just turned back to Mike when someone flung her arms around him. It took me a moment to recognize the sleek haired brunette in impeccable make-up and a fitted red dress as Rachael Hamilton. Her own eyes widened on seeing me. “Wow, you’re much...taller than I remembered.”

I lifted a foot. “It’s the heels. Also, I think having my hair coiled at the top of my head adds to the illusion.”

She studied me a minute longer, and then her eyes relaxed. “It’s good to see you, even if I have to crane my neck to do it.”

Mike gave Rachael an absent pat on the back, his eyes searching the room. “I’m going go find the guys.” He squeezed my hand. “Be right back.”

We both watched him go. I felt slightly amazed. “Wow. He was super into me before we arrived and now I’ve been abandoned in the first thirty seconds.”

Rachael laughed. “They’ve been friends a long time. I’m sure they’ll all be back in a minute. I’ll show you our table.”

She led me over to some low couches, and Briana Harris, former star of Boomerang , a pretty decent show about the boomerang generation. She drew her eyes over me and frowned. “You don’t look how I remember.”

I was surprised she’d actually remembered me at all, given that she’d met me for half a minute outside Radio City Music Hall.

“In fact,” she said, taking a sip of wine, “You look like Tamara Bocharov.”

Rach dropped down, and I also sat. She pushed a plate of cheese and grapes at me. “That’s because she’s Bocharov’s daughter.”

I swiveled her way. “Did Mike tell you that?”

“No. I just have extensive Googling skills.”

Briana sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Rachael rolled her eyes. “I guess I was caught up in the ohmigod, archaeology’s awesome thing. Sorry.” She flashed me a smile. “I’m glad you came. I thought you and Mike looked good together.”

I was still processing that they knew about my mother, and that for once I was realizing it wasn’t as big a deal as I’d always blown it up to be. “Really?”

“Okay, not at first. But Mike had never been so tight lipped about anyone before—he sounded almost mad at you when he first mentioned you. But I’d really liked you in our two-second meeting, so I decided to experiment.”

Bri shook her head. “Your tact is incredible.”

“But I was right, wasn’t I? They’re here together. And when Ryan came back from minicamp, he said Mike was—” Rachael stopped and looked at me. “Well, I think I was right.”

I was having a very surreal moment where I pictured Mike and Ryan Carter wearing their uniforms and talking about me while practicing plays. And then Ryan Carter turning around and discussing me with his girlfriend. I just could not picture that.

Bri sighed forlornly. “Malcolm didn’t say anything. He doesn’t believe in gossip.”

“Malcolm is obviously a better person then the rest of us. I’ve learned to live with that.”

The two smirked at each other, their long-term friendship obvious, and I felt left out for half a heartbeat before they turned back to me. They were funny and inclusive and I relaxed, even as I noticed—or maybe imagined—people glancing my way several more times.

“So you guys do this a lot?” I asked. “The fancy dress thing?”

“Kinda weird, right?” Rachael popped a tartin smeared with brie and jam into her mouth.

Bri scoffed. “Rachael.”

Rachael chewed and made questioningly large eyes.

Bri turned to me. “This is my Rachael impression. ‘Oh! I have to go to a party and wear beautiful clothes! How peculiar! Excuse me while I look through my closet of sundresses and try to decide what to wear!’”

Rachael finished chewing. “Shut up.”

Bri waved her hands above her chest. “I have fallen down the rabbit’s hole!”

I let out a snort of laughter.

Rach smeared more brie across another slice of bread. “You stink.”

Bri narrowed her eyes. “No. No bad puns. That’s why you’re dating Ryan, so I don’t have to put up with them.”

“I don’t know why you think they’re bad. They’re clearly brilliant.” Rachael appealed to me. “Don’t you think they’re brilliant?”

I held up my own hands, unable to stop grinning. “I just make bad analogies.”

Rachael grinned. “I can work with that.” Then her face closed down a little, to a simple polite smile, and I looked over my shoulder.

A woman with a press badge smiled winningly, a man with a camera beside her. “ Pardon ... Vous n’êtes pas lié à Tamara Bocharov, êtes-vous ?”

I had forgotten how much the eyes were done up.

I had forgotten my mother had thrived in this city.

Because she had thrived here. And I should be proud of that. I smiled up at the woman. “ C’est ma mere .”

“You’re an American.” The woman passed a surprised glance to her friend. “I forgot Tamara married an American.”

He smiled winningly at us. “How about a photo?”

He arranged us in a trio, and I watched with interest as Rachael and Briana angled themselves like this was second nature. The photographer snapped away, thanked us, then they were on their way.

I watched them go. “That was weird.”

Bri shook her head. “It wasn’t weird. She writes for a women’s magazine, and you’re a supermodel’s daughter. It’s weird that no one shares gossip with me.”

I liked them. I liked it even better when Mike came back, and the six of us sat in our own circle. I was super awkward at first, because each time my gaze caught on the elegant planes of Malcolm Lindsey’s face or the shocking beauty of Ryan Carter, I felt like I had, as Briana’d said, fallen down the rabbit hole. If Ireland was emerald as Oz, this was strange as Wonderland, but wherever I was, I didn’t want to leave.

We returned to the hotel after three in the morning. They’d turned the Eiffel Tower off, which I didn’t know was possible, but it was black metal as our taxi wound back through the streets. We slipped into our room and then he was tugging my dress up over my arms, and I was pulling his shirt out of his pants and pushing at the buttons with more enthusiasm then helpfulness. These nice shirts of his were the bane of my existence.

His mouth descended on mine, his eyes dark and wanting, and I shuddered against him, gasping into his mouth and allowing his kiss even deeper. “Did I tell you,” he asked, as I pushed the shirt down his arms and started to blaze kisses across his sternum, “how beautiful you are today?”

I laughed up at him as my hands traced the defined planes and ridges of his stomach. “Because of my eyes?”

His hands gripped my shoulders, his thumbs playing against the tops of my breasts. His hands slid to my bra and undid it, and then he pulled me up and flush against him. “Because you are beautiful.” I reacted with a small moan. “You are strong, and smart, and stunning. You are absolutely everything—” He broke off and kissed me, a burning, intoxicating kiss. Fire spread through every part of me, and then I was boneless, thoughtless, running my hands over every part of him I could touch.