“What?”
“You. Dancing.”
“You can’t!” I start. I’m about to go on a rant about how no one can know about us at school, that it could get me in all sorts of trouble, when the amused look on his face stopsme.
“Here, I mean,” he says.
I frown. “Now?”
Louis grins. “Why not?”
We both look around. There are a few people at the far end of the room, but then again, a small audience doesn’t scare me.
“There’s no music,” I say.
“I bet you know theSwan Lakesongs by heart. And all the other classics,” he says, making a cute face. I meanevencuter than usual.
I’m out of arguments, so I put my bag down against the wall, walk back a few steps, and turn to face Louis. He looks gleeful as he watches me get in position. My new dress clings to my thighs as I turn out my feet, and I catch him glancing at my legs. I smirk on the inside. This outfit might not be as comfortable as a leotard, but it’s pretty perfect otherwise.
I perform a short sequence I practiced over the last few days for the upcoming showcase, not taking my eyes off Louis’s, whose face brightens with each move. Ipiquéturn once, then twice, and, when there’s no more space between us, I wrap my arms around his neck. His own arms find my waist and pull me so close I can feel my heart beat against his chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” Louis whispers into my ear.
I take a deep breath, scared that if I say or do anything, I might disrupt this moment.
His lips find my neck and slowly travel upward. I shiver, and soon I feel like I’m watching us from above. Am I really nestled in a gorgeous French boy’s arms in a centuries-old room ornate with floor-to-ceiling gold? How did this even happen?
When his lips reach my ear, Louis pulls back just a little to look me in the eyes.
“Louis…,” I start.
“Mia…”
Louis sighs deeply, which lets me know that maybe I’m not the only one feeling beyond nervous. I feel like my legs are about to give out. Lucky he’s holding me.
“Ahem,” someone says next to us.
We don’t move at first—I definitely don’t want to—but a loud clearing of a throat tells us that we don’t have a choice.
Finally we pull away from each other, just a smidge, and slowly look to the side. A group of older Chinese tourists—maybe thirty of them—stare at us with a mix of annoyance and amusement. A short lady with bright red hair shakes her head while her companion looks on grumpily. I glance around and realize what the problem is. We’re blocking the way to the next room. Louis and I look back at each other and chuckle, both of our cheeks growing hot. Then we shuffle to the side, still in each other’s arms, not ready to let go of the moment.
“YOU KNOW, MYdad has meetings here sometimes,” Louis says when another horde of tourists interrupts us for good.
My heart skips a beat as my head whips around as I look across the room for Monsieur Dabrowski’s white mane.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Louis adds, but now there’s panic in his eyes. He searches the room as well, and I grow more and more uncomfortable.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, feeling like all romance has gone out of the window.
We leave Opéra Garnier and walk to where Louis has parked his Vespa.
“Maybe this Degas thing was a bust,” Louis says on the way, “but there’s one thing that can’t go wrong on a hot summer day.”
“What’s that?” I ask with a flirty smile.
“Ice cream.”
“Oh!” I say, excited. I’m still full from my late breakfast, but I always have room for ice cream. “Is there a place nearby?”
