Love Requires Chocolate (Love in Translation, Band 1)

Stringfield, Ravynn K.

ISBN 10: 059357155X ISBN 13: 9780593571552

Verlag: Joy Revolution, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

A new romance series that's Emily In Paris meets A Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants! In this first book, budding theatre nerd Whitney Curry studies abroad in Paris, France, where she meets her match in a cute, aloof footballer.

Whitney Curry is primed to have an epic semester abroad. She’s created the perfect itinerary and many, many to-do lists after collecting every detail possible about Paris, France. Thus, she anticipates a grand adventure filled with vintage boutiques, her idol Josephine Baker’s old stomping grounds, and endless plays sure to inspire the ones she writes and—ahem—directs!
But all is not as she imagined when she’s dropped off at her prestigious new Parisian lycée. A fish out of water, Whitney struggles to juggle schoolwork, homesickness, and mastering the French language. Luckily, she lives for the drama. Literally.
Cue French tutor Thierry Magnon, a grumpy yet très handsome soccer star, who’s determined to show Whitney the real Paris. Is this type-A theater nerd ready to see how lessons on the City of Lights can turn into lessons on love?

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ravynn K. Stringfield is a writer and professor originally from Suffolk, Virginia. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in publications such as Shondaland, ZORA, and Catapult Magazine. Love Requires Chocolate is her debut novel. She can often be found haunting coffee shops in search of the perfect hazelnut latte, knee deep in art supplies, or curled up with her dog, Genghis, telling him about her Lois Lane obsession.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

SCENE ONE


Some People Don’t Appreciate the Value of a Good List!


“Mademoiselle!”

An out-of-breath man’s face crowds my phone screen as I slowly turn, capturing the bustling street outside Gare du Nord. The sound of the city is at a reasonable volume, so I can hear myself think. Though, admittedly, all the French landing on my ears is super jarring. I feel like a fish dropped into a huge new tank. Every voice jolts me, because even though I know the language, I can’t make my brain translate words fast enough to keep up yet.

The man’s face wobbles on the screen as my hand trembles with excitement. I’m here!

“Uh, hi!” I say, lowering my phone, then lifting my cat’s-eye sunglasses. “Or bonjour! You’re kind of in my shot.” I point to my phone with what I hope is a charming smile. The man’s cheeks are red from the heat, and his expression tells me he is uninterested in my shot.

“Are you Whitney Curry?” His thick accent nearly swallows my name.

“Yes! That’s me! The one and only!” I say, my stage smile turning into a real one. I finally notice that he’s holding a letter-sized piece of cardstock that has LYCEE INTERNATIONAL DES ARTS A PARIS (LIA)--WHITNEY CURRY printed across it. My name is bolded, and I’m impressed by the fancy school insignia embossed at the top. I wonder if he’ll let me have the sign for my memory book.

“I am Monsieur Guillaume Polignac, your ambassador from Lycee International des Arts, Paris, here to escort you to the dormitories.” He mops his brow with a handkerchief, and I immediately stick my hand out.

“Enchantee--” I start, but Monsieur Guillaume Polignac cuts me off.

“This way.” I try not to bristle at the fact that he ignored my attempt at French. My nose wrinkles at the rudeness anyway, but since he is my ride to my new home, I try to keep pace as I follow him up the sidewalk. When we stop at a tiny blue car, he struggles to lift my monogrammed trunk with the letters “W.C.” in spiraling white type on the front, and my brown leather valise, mumbling and probably cursing to himself in French.

“What do you have in here--a whole person?”

“Oh, just the essentials,” I tell him brightly. “Costumes, accessories, special lights. You know . . . everything a girl needs to thrive. There’s no such thing as being overprepared!”

Monsieur Guillaume Polignac raises his eyebrows at me before giving the trunk one last shove to pack it inside. “Such strange luggage.”

“It’s vintage. Very rare.” I climb into the passenger seat and buckle myself in, making sure to pull my braids out from under the seat belt. My heart is thudding against my rib cage, and I do my best to remain still. I want to do my “I’m excited” dance, but a quick glance at my stone-faced driver curbs the impulse.

Monsieur Polignac does not ask any questions, nor does music come on when he starts the car, which is just as well, as it would only interrupt my daydreaming. Before we’ve even started moving, my mind is buzzing. I am envisioning myself renting a car and driving out to Chateau des Milandes, the old estate where Josephine Baker spent much of her life with her children, on the weekends I have off from my rigorous Parisian art school schedule. I need to stand where she stood. I need to breathe the same air she did. I need to soak it all up so that one day I might be as iconic as she was.

I’m trying to manifest greatness, but my phone is vibrating in my pocket incessantly, making a grating noise against the car door. Texts flood in from my mom, asking a thousand questions about the flight and reminding me to turn on my location sharing. Another deep inhale and exhale before I dig my phone out and turn it on do not disturb.

Not right now, Mom. I’m drinking in Paris. I try not to think about my mom’s anxiety about me traveling alone for the first time and all the fights I had with her that led to this moment. I feel a little guilty that I do consider texting Nana instead, wanting to share this momentous occasion with at least one of them, but I ultimately decide that updating them both will have to wait. I sit back in the seat and think, I’m soaking up my new life far, far away from Mom’s fussing.

Monsieur Polignac inches through traffic down a picturesque street. You know, like the ones on postcards, with beautiful gardens enclosed by iron lace and cream-colored buildings that could double as elaborate cakes. We pass gorgeous glass storefronts spilling over with perfumes and scarves and purses. Beautiful people window-shop or clutch fresh flowers and baguettes. I even think I catch a glimpse of a chocolate shop. Bicyclists navigate the paths. It all feels like something out of a guidebook of Paris rather than the real thing. Excitement runs like lightning through my body, but I feel a small pit forming in my stomach. There’s so much to see. How will one semester be enough time?

“First visit to Paris?” Monsieur Polignac asks.

“Oh, oui,” I reply, slowly peeling myself away from the window. “I’ve wanted to come here my whole life. It’s my nana’s favorite city. She used to live here.” I rattle off Nana’s entire artistic career as a relatively well-known performer, singing and dancing throughout Europe and often in New York City in her twenties. But it’s not enough to just be the granddaughter of the incomparable Diana Curie. I’ve got to make a name for myself.

The legendary Whitney Curry.

Monsieur Polignac’s bushy eyebrows move up and down, and I know I’ve probably lost him at some point in my speech as we wind down another narrow street. But then his eyes have an unexpected mischievous sparkle, and he makes a turn.

“Well, it’s out of the way, but everyone should see it as soon as they arrive . . . ,” Monsieur Polignac mutters to himself. After several minutes in thick traffic, the buildings begin to fall away, and I can see the river, the Seine, with boats drifting down it, toting tourists taking photos. This is the river of songs and poems, the one that couples in romance movies walk along together. My heart is so full after these first few minutes in this city, and I’m suddenly sure I know what those lovers in all the classic Parisian-set stories feel.

On the street, people walk, bike, drive, and ride scooters around this busy area, making use of the many bridges to cross to the Left Bank. I have an urgent need to hear the chatter of the boulevards, to be out wandering the streets. I’m here to study, but I’m ready to be among them, getting to know the city as well as I know my audition materials. I consider leaving the window up so as to appear a little bit saner, but one only arrives in Paris for the first time once--and it’s imperative to do it right. I roll down the window and let the wind blow across my face as I take pictures with the Polaroid I stuck in my purse. The pit in my stomach starts to shrink, and I imagine it spiraling away like a ribbon in the wind. It’s replaced with a molten excitement that electrifies every vein in my body.

We arrive at a bridge with huge winged horses stationed on pedestals on either side, looking infinitely statelier than any of the numerous statues I’ve seen thus far. All of Paris looks elaborate, elegant, but these lions are positively ornate, and my eyes greedily drink them in.

“C’est le Pont Alexandre III,” Monsieur Polignac...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Joy Revolution
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 059357155X
• ISBN 13: 9780593571552
• Einband: Bibliothekseinband
• Anzahl der Seiten: 288
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar