Fly Me to the Moon

by Alyson Noel

  “Bonsoir.” I looked up to see Max crossing the room, looking amazing in a trim charcoal suit, with a lavender shirt and navy, patterned tie. “You look beautiful.” He bent down to kiss me, taking the seat next to mine. “Did you shop?” he asked, gazing at my new dress.

  “I took a walk over to the Left Bank,” I told him.

  “Walked? You should’ve used the car. I told Jean Claude to hang around in case you needed him.”

  “I know. He mentioned it at the airport. But it was such a beautiful day, and I’d slept the whole flight, so I just felt like walking.” I shrugged.

  “So you had a good flight?” he asked, motioning to the waiter for a glass of wine.

  I thought about my seatmate and his disgusting bare feet. But I guess in retrospect, it had been a small price to pay to end up in a place like this. “I slept right through it,” I said, smiling and taking a sip of my wine.

  I swear, dining with Max was like getting a Ph.D. in food, as each meal was like a whole new culinary experience. And even though I’d lived in the restaurant capital of America for the last six years, that didn’t mean I knew what to order in any of them.

  “What do you suggest?” I asked, gazing at the menu that was written in French and cursing myself, once again, for not having paid more attention to my high school teacher Mademoiselle Simone when I’d had the chance.

  “Well,” Max said, slipping on his reading glasses, which just made him even more perfect. I’ve always had a thing for men in glasses. “I thought we’d start with the pan-fried foie gras with black cherries, cacao beans, and pistachio streusel. How does that sound?”

  Cacao beans and streusel? Was he talking appetizer or dessert? “Uh, sounds good,” I said, reminding myself how he’d yet to order something I didn’t like.

  “Great.” He glanced back at the menu and said, “Then I thought we could follow with the organic tomato-and-herb salad, and then I was trying to decide between the rabbit or the pigeon de Touraine. What do you think?” He looked at me.

  People eat pigeons? “Uh, those wouldn’t by chance be imported New York City pigeons?” I asked, laughing nervously while remembering the one that had clipped me in Central Park a few years back, and how his filthy wing feathers had left a trace of stinky, dark ick on my arm that took days to get off.

  “No.” He laughed. “And trust me, they’re delicious.”

  Okay, I told myself, I know people who still eat at McDonald’s, even after seeing Super Size Me, so how bad can it be? Plus I really liked him, I really wanted him to like me, and I was firmly committed to trying new things. Even if it meant consuming something I’d never seen in any food pyramid. “Why don’t you order the rabbit, I’ll get the pigeon, and then we can share?” I suggested.

  “Perfect,” he said, closing the menu and smiling.

  He was right again. I loved every single thing I ate, but now as I sat there, feeling the sides of my new panties burrowing deep into my flesh, I was thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have enjoyed quite so much of it. I mean, it was just a matter of time before I stood naked in front of Max, and now I would be all puffy and bloated. Great.

  “What do you think of having roasted rhubarb tart with buttermilk ice cream for dessert?” he asked.

  “I think there’s no room at the inn,” I said, rubbing my newly expanded waistline.

  “Well then how ‘bout a brandy?”

  “That I could handle.”

  “Should we order it here, or back in our room?” he asked, gorgeous brown eyes looking deep into mine while his fingers continued to draw lazy circles up my thigh, sending me into a state of want so severe I wasn’t sure I could finish my meal. Though of course I somehow managed.

  “Let’s head back,” I said, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it tightly.

  When we returned to the suite, Max promptly ordered the brandies, while I got busy in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, fixing my makeup, and convincing myself that he wouldn’t care if I was bloated, since it was his fault for ordering all that delicious rich food in the first place. And when I opened the door, I found him sitting on the velvet settee, with two glasses of brandy and a roaring fire before him.

  “Come join me,” he said, then handed me a glass as I settled in next to him. I watched as he sipped his drink and set it on the marble-topped table; then I nervously took a sip of mine and set it next to his. “I’m so glad you came to Paris,” he said, brushing a random curl off my face. And just when I thought I couldn’t go another second without the feel of his lips, he pulled me close and kissed me.

  We kissed like prisoners on jailbreak, like teenagers who’ve taken an abstinence vow, and I was so completely wrapped up in it, so completely lost in it, that I was no longer aware of anything other than the fact that I never, ever wanted it to end. Then, clutching me tight against him, he reached around my shoulders and unzipped my dress, sliding it all the way down until I was lying beneath him in nothing but my new underwear that had cost almost as much as my rent used to.

  “Wow,” he whispered as his fingertips outlined the lace on my bra and the soft, creamy V of my panties. And then, lifting me in his arms, he carried me over to the bed (with no overt signs of stagering or stress) and deposited me in the middle, where I watched him remove his tie, cuff links, and shirt. And then, kicking off his shoes, he knelt at the very edge, pulling off my thong and settling in until I could barely contain myself.

  “Max,” I whispered, pulling on his arms and hands, desperate to have him.

  Slowly making his way up my body, he nuzzled his face in my neck while I frantically reached down, unbuckled his belt, and pushed off his trousers. Then, reaching around to the front of his briefs, I was just about to slip my hand inside when he grabbed both my wrists and lifted them high above my head.

  “Hailey,” he murmured, still holding my arms with one hand while removing his briefs with the other. And then, reaching over to the nightstand, he retrieved a condom and slipped it on, while I closed my eyes and waited.

  “Oh, Hailey,” he said, his damp forehead pressing into the side of my neck. “Oh, you’re so beautiful.” His breathing grew faster, more labored, as I lay beneath him, anxious to feel something too.

  And just when I thought it might start, his jerky movements and high-pitched yelps told me it was already over.

  Okay, so the first time is never that great, I thought, shifting uncomfortably under the deadweight of his body as he fought to catch his breath. We had a lot to drink and eat, and we’re just getting to know each other. Of course it was a little awkward. After all, we still have a lot to learn about each other.

  He heaved a long, loud sigh, and I watched as he rolled off me and onto his side. And then he got up from the bed and headed toward the bathroom. “Can I get you anything?” he called over his shoulder.

  Um, how about my turn? But I didn’t say that. Instead I just said, “Nope, I’m all set.” And watched while the door closed between us.

  THINGS TO CONSIDER

  WHEN DETERMINING

  WHETHER TO

  EVACUATE

  What do you see?

  What do you hear?

  What do you smell?

  What are you being told?

  I’d been awake all night, feeling Max’s body curled around mine while listening to his constant snoring, which had started pretty much the second he came out of the bathroom, turned off the lamp, and said, “Bonne nuit.”

  But as the morning light creeped around the thick brocade drapes, he began to stir. And I lay there quietly, feigning sleep, until he crawled out of bed and headed for the shower. Then I sat up, gazed around the spectacular suite, and wondered what to do.

  Nearly everything about Max was perfect. Well, all except for one thing. And I had absolutely no idea what I should do about it. On the one hand, he was single, funny, romantic, sophisticated, adventurous, smart, attentive, generous, nice, and an awesome kisser—just your everyday Prince Charming kind of thing. But ther
e was still that one potential deal breaker that couldn’t be ignored.

  I threw myself onto the pillows, rolling over so that my face was buried in their thick, soft down. And I was feeling so upset, and so frustrated, that I was tempted to tear into them and watch as the room filled with feathers.

  Why? Why were things always so complicated? Why couldn’t anything ever turn out as I’d hoped? And why hadn’t I realized from the start that Max really was too good to be true?

  And it wasn’t just that the sex had gone from sixty to zero in a matter of seconds, because that I could work with. Or at least give it a few more tries to see if things improved. No, it was the reason why things had gone so bad. And so far, modern technology had yet to find a solution for that.

  I heard him open the bathroom door and quickly turned on my side, peering at him through my lashes, just to make sure.

  At first he had a thick white towel wrapped tightly around his waist, so I couldn’t see anything. But after glancing at me nervously and determining that yes, I was still asleep, he dropped it to the floor. And in the ten seconds he went from being completely naked to wearing a clean pair of briefs, I’d already confirmed the worst.

  Maxwell Dunne had the smallest penis I had ever seen.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said, shaking my head and taking a sip of the cappuccino I’d ordered from room service. I was freshly showered, wrapped in one of the Ritz robes I’d found hanging in the closet, and was curled up on the velvet settee, phone to my ear, talking to Clay. “And he left the sweetest note, saying he’d try to finish early so we could spend the day together.” I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against my terry-cloth-covered knees.

  “Well, maybe he’s a grower, not a shower,” Clay said, laughing at his own little witticism.

  “Clay, this is serious. I know what I saw.”

  “Fine. So tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?” he asked.

  “Zero. It’s like nonexistent. I’m surprised he even found a condom to fit.” I reached for my butter croissant and bit off a piece.

  “Hailey, you’ve got to get out of there,” he said urgently.

  “But how? I mean, he’s completely perfect in every other way. And he’s a really good kisser.”

  “That’s because he has to be. Besides, this isn’t seventh grade. We graduated from just kissing a long time ago.”

  “But what kind of monster would I be for leaving a guy because he’s . . .” I stopped, not wanting to say it out loud again. “Well, anyway, men are very sensitive about these things, you know.”

  “Well, it’s not like you should tell him the truth! What you do is find another reason to break it off.”

  “But there are no other reasons! I’m telling you he’s a total catch except for that one small thing. No pun intended,” I said, hearing him laugh.

  “Okay, fine. So marry him. You can spend the rest of your life cuddling in your suite at the Ritz. You could do worse,” he said.

  “Yeah, but unfortunately I want more. I want the whole toe-curling package.”

  “Then you need to evacuate, like now. And if you feel guilty, then just remember how men have been making women feel bad about their bodies since the beginning of time. Think of it like payback.”

  “Yeah, except Max isn’t like that,” I said, shaking my head and adding more butter to my buttered croissant.

  “Work it out, Hailey. I’ll be in Amsterdam in a few days, if you want to meet up.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, regretting the call even before I hung up. Because now, no matter what decision I made, no matter what happened between Max and me, Clay would always think of him as the guy with the teeny weenie. And despite the desperate, twelve-dollars-a-minute hotel surcharge phone call I’d just made, the truth was, no matter how disappointing last night may have been, there was no way I could leave the most amazing man I’d ever dated just because of a certain, um, shortcoming.

  I was still sitting there, phone by my side, feet on the table, staring at my half-eaten croissant when Max walked in. “Hey, glad you’re still here. I’m taking the rest of the day off. I thought maybe we could head out to Versailles, visit the chateau, and then stop for lunch somewhere,” he said, joining me on the couch and leaning in to kiss me. “What do you think?”

  I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him back. See? You can do this. He’s an awesome kisser, way better than most. Not to mention that men like him don’t come along every day, you know. Besides, you just Spent the last four years having ho-hum sex with Michael, so what’s with all the great expectations now? I thought as he removed my robe and his mouth worked its way down my body, skillfully finishing what he’d started the night before.

  By the time we’d exhausted the extensive grounds of the Chateau de Versailles, Pare de Versailles, and Petit Trianon, and then feasted on an amazing lunch at the Trianon Palace Hotel, I’d absolutely decided to stay in Paris with Max. Well, at least until next Sunday when I’d have to fly back to New York.

  I mean, he was just way too good to toss, especially for the ridiculous, shallow reason I’d been contemplating. And it seemed like the more time we spent together the more I could feel myself falling for him. And if I wasn’t mistaken, it seemed like he just might be feeling the same way about me.

  It didn’t take long to build a daily routine of Max leaving for work, followed by me ordering room service and then heading down to the beautiful indoor pool, where I’d swim lap after countless lap, hoping to work off some of those lavish dinners (and maybe just a tiny bit of sexual frustration as well). But it seemed to work, as I always climbed out of that clean warm water feeling shaky-legged and exhausted, and ready to spend the rest of the day ducking into shops, checking out museums, and sipping cappuccinos at some of those cute corner cafes.

  Then in the evening we’d meet up at our favorite table at Bar Hemingway, where we’d share a quick drink before Jean Claude whisked us off to yet another amazing dinner.

  And then after dinner . . . okay maybe the after-dinner part wasn’t so hot, but I was learning to deal. Besides, I could already see how all that swimming was starting to carve some definition into my arms and shoulders.

  And now, left with only three short days before I’d have to head back to New York, I found myself already dreading the thought of saying good-bye. So on Thursday when Max finished work earlier than usual and insisted we go shopping before dinner, I was feeling a little melancholy as we strolled around the city, and he pulled me into the Versace boutique simply because I’d admired a dress in the window.

  “Max, I can’t let you buy this for me,” I whispered, gazing longingly at the dress and knowing that not only was it outrageously priced, but that it had no role in my real life back in New York.

  “Nonsense. This dress will be perfect on you,” he said, holding it against me and smiling.

  “But where will I wear it?” I said, gazing into the mirror at the slinky black jersey knit with the sexy keyhole opening in front.

  “You’re in Paris! You can wear this anywhere! In fact, if you like it, you’ll wear it right out of this shop! Try it on,” he insisted. “If you don’t like it I won’t mention it again. Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand and smiled.

  Well, of course I liked it. I mean, who wouldn’t? And since the shoes I was wearing didn’t quite go, he bought me a pair of those too.

  “But what about you?” I said, watching the salesperson throw my old clothes into a bag while ringing up the new ones. “We should get you something too.”

  “How about this tie?” He reached for a colorful, wildly printed tie with gold Vs all over it.

  “Kind of a wild tie, for a conservative investment banker,” I said, shaking my head and laughing.

  “This will be my after-hours tie.” He smiled.

  “Okay, the fact that you’d even have an after-hours tie just proves my point,” I said, watching as he handed it to the clerk.

  “What are y
ou trying to say? That I don’t have a wild side?” he asked, raising his brows.

  But I just smiled and shrugged.

  “Shall I prove it?” he dared.

  “Knock yourself out.” I laughed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

  “I’ll show you,” he said, sliding off his old tie and putting on the new one. Then he grabbed the packages and wrapped his arm around me. “Come on. I know just the place.”

  “Where we going?” I asked, exiting the shop and heading down the street.

  “First I’m gonna leave these packages with Jean Claude. Then I’m going to give him the night off. Then we’re going to hop on the metro. And then I’ll show you my wild side.”

  Walking up the metro stairs, I squinted at the dingy, unfamiliar neighborhood. “Where are we?” I asked.

  “This is Pigalle,” Max said, throwing his arm around my shoulders as he led me past a funky mix of strip clubs, cabarets, trendy boutiques, and seedy bars.

  “It reminds me of Times Square before Giuliani had his way with it.”

  “It used to be nothing but brothels, bars, and artists. Did you know that Picasso once lived here?”

  “Uh, for your information it still looks like brothels and bars, but I’m not so sure about the artists,” I said, walking past a sex shop and gaping at an all-dildo window display.

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t believe what the real estate is going for these days. Still, I have considered buying,” he said.