Free Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins

I crack a smile. “Relax,” he says. “You’re with me. I’m practically French.”
    “You’re English.”
    He grins. “I’m American.”
    “An American with a English accent. Isn’t that, like, twice as much for the French to hate?”
    St. Clair rolls his eyes. “You ought to stop listening to stereotypes and start forming your own opinions.”
    “I’m not stereotyping.”
    “Really? Please, then, enlighten me.” He points to the feet of a girl walking ahead of us. She’s yakking in French on a cell phone. “What exactly are those?”
    “Sneakers,” I mumble.
    “Interesting. And the gentlemen over there, on the other side of the pavement. Would you care to explain what the one on the left is wearing? Those peculiar contraptions strapped to his feet?”
    They’re sneakers, of course. “But hey. See that guy over there?” I nod toward a man in jean shorts and a Budweiser T-shirt. “Am I that obvious?”
    St. Clair squints at him. “Obviously what? Balding? Overweight? Tasteless?”
    “American.”
    He sighs melodramatically. “Honestly, Anna. You must get over this.”
    “I just don’t want to offend anyone. I hear they offend easily.”
    “You’re not offending anyone except me right now.”
    “What about her?” I point to a middle-aged woman in khaki shorts and a knit top with stars and stripes on it. She has a camera strapped to her belt and is arguing with a man in a bucket hat. Her husband, I suppose.
    “Completely offensive.”
    “I mean, am I as obvious as her?”
    “Considering she’s wearing the American flag , I’d venture a no on that one.” He bites his thumbnail. “Listen. I think I have a solution to your problem, but you’ll have to wait for it. Just promise you’ll stop asking me to compare you to fifty-year-old women, and I’ll take care of everything.”
    “How? With what? A French passport?”
    He snorts. “I didn’t say I’d make you French.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Deal?”
    “Deal,” I say uncomfortably. I don’t care for surprises. “But it better be good.”
    “Oh, it’s good.” And St. Clair looks so smug that I’m about to call him on it, when I realize I can’t see our school anymore.
    I don’t believe it. He’s completely distracted me.
    It takes a moment for me to recognize the symptoms, but my heels are bouncing and my stomach is fluttering. I’m finally excited to be out! “So where are we going?” I can’t keep the eagerness from my voice. “The Seine? I know it’s up here somewhere. Are we going to sit on the riverbank?”
    “Not telling. Keep walking.”
    I let this pass.What’s wrong with me? That’s the second time in one minute I’ve let him keep me in suspense. “Oh! You have to see this first.” He grabs my arm and pulls me across the street. An angry scooter honks its puny horn, and I laugh.
    “Wait, what—” And then I’m knocked breathless.
    We’re standing in front of an absolute beast of a cathedral. Four thick columns hold up a Gothic facade of imposing statues and rose windows and intricate carvings. A skinny bell tower stretches all the way into the inky blackness of the night sky. “What is it?” I whisper. “Is it famous? Should I know it?”
    “It’s my church.”
    “You go here?” I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem like the church-going type.
    “No.” He nods to a stone placard, indicating I read it.
    “Saint Etienne du Mont. Hey! Saint Etienne.”
    He smiles. “I’ve always been a bit proprietary about it. Mum used to bring me here when I was young. We’d take a picnic lunch and eat it right here on the steps. Sometimes she’d bring her sketchbook, and she’d draw the pigeons and the taxis.”
    “Your mother is an artist?”
    “A painter. Her work is in the New York MoMA.” He sounds proud, and I remember what Meredith once said—that St. Clair admires Josh because he can draw so well. And that St. Clair’s father owns two art galleries. And that St.