The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

1. On The Road

A bell dinged when I opened the door of the infamous southern chain, causing all of the employees to shout a welcome without looking up from what they were doing. My father headed to the bathroom, and I jumped into a booth, grabbing a napkin to wipe pancake-syrup residue off the table.

"I'll be with ya in a second, darlin'," a waitress yelled from across the narrow, shoe box–shaped diner.

Johnny Cash blared on the jukebox, the air reeked of grease, and the fluorescent bulb in the overhead light gave everything a sickly tint. I couldn't help but chuckle, thinking about the stark contrast of this scene to my life just two nights ago: sitting in a café on the Champs-Élysées, eating a crêpe suzettes with my mother. Well, I'd been eating a crêpe. She'd never allow herself to eat something as appalling as sugar.

Midchuckle, I caught the gaze of a guy sitting solo in a booth across the aisle, who was slowly stirring a cup of coffee. Our eyes locked. My cheeks started to burn. I grabbed a menu so I could pretend to focus on something and let my long waves of espresso-colored hair fall in front of my face, trying to recall the last time I'd taken a shower. Ugh. I'd been in transit for more than twenty-four hours at this point.

I lifted my eyes to find him still looking intensely at me.

He was probably a few years older than me . . . and far too sophisticated to be sitting in this particular establishment among the tall hairdos and flip-flops. His black leather jacket was not the biker kind you might find in any diner in the Deep South—it was softer looking, trendier, possibly custom-made. The jacket, along with his dark, slicked hair, made him appear part James Dean, part Italian Vogue. For a split second I forgot where I was, as if stuck in some kind of Paris–Alabama time-continuum hiccup.

When I realized I was staring at him again, I became instantly flustered. His eyes didn't move, but the corners of his mouth slowly spread upward into an innocent smile. Or maybe it was deceptively innocent? Just as my heart began to speed up at the prospect of finding out, my fork slid across the table, flew halfway across the room, and clanked against his ceramic mug.

"Sorry!" I covered my face, mortified, and considered crawling underneath the table. I'd been so caught up in the moment I hadn't even noticed myself flick it.

"Don't worry, honey, I'll bring ya a new one," the waitress yelled.

As if I was worried about the fork. I'd nearly taken out the eye of the hottest guy within a fifty-mile radius. My heart pounded melodramatically.

When I finally mustered the courage to raise my head to catch another glimpse of him, all I saw was his mug on top of a ten-dollar bill. Realizing I'd been hiding my gaze from no one, I became even more embarrassed.

Of course he ran. I am obviously hazardous.

"You okay?" my father asked as he slid into the orange leather booth.

"Yep, the jet lag must have just kicked in," I blurted out, "but I'm super excited for cheesy eggs."

"I thought you hated American cheese?" he asked suspiciously. "You always called it plastic."

"Yeah, well, I guess something becomes more desirable when you can't have it." There were certainly no American-cheese-like products in France.

We ordered and then sat in silence while we waited for our food. My father turned his head to stare out the window. I knew he was too nervous to ask me about Paris, and I was not going to readily volunteer up any information. It was weird to spend your entire life with someone, be suddenly separated for two months, and then reunite. It felt strange that it felt strange being together.