Blame It On Paris
Guilt was so much fun.
Kelly Rochard grabbed her shoulder bag and bounded down the cracked porch steps of the centuries-old bed-and-breakfast. She couldn't wait a second longer to inhale all the sights, smells and sounds of Paris in the springtime.
Who'd have thunk it? That a gregarious, nosy, hopelessly open person such as herself could possibly have managed to keep a secret this big?
No one even knew she was here.
Of course, in a week, she'd go back home to South Bend, confess everything to her new fiancé, never tell another fib again as long as she lived, and probably do penance for two or three aeons. As her mother loved to say, you could take the Catholic out of the girl, but you were stuck with the guilt for life.
But today, she just plain didn't care. Guilt or no guilt, she was thrilled to be here.
Blithely she stepped off the curb—and a dozen horns shrieked at her mistake. She backed up fast, heart pounding. A couple taxi drivers yelled as they passed by—something about connarde and ballot and une tête de linotte. She was pretty sure the insults were aimed at her specific genetic heritage, with a few general references about he ... read full excerpt from: Blame It on Paris ebook
