A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

9:50 P.M.

Oh my. I need to think. Think, think think. I am sitting on a lounge chair in the Marriott’s private beach area trying to clear my head.

I have big news. BIG NEWS.

Pierre came on to me.

Yes! Finally! Really! We all walked over as a group to the old city. The cobblestoned roads were so old and quaint, and the streetlights flickered like candles, and the entire area smelled like garlic and warm pasta and wine emanating from a nearby restaurant.

We sat down at yet another long table. Pierre sat beside me. Becca and Harold sat next to me. Tommy and Penny sat across from them.

Abby, at the other end, glared. I looked at my watch.

We ordered. Pierre had a glass of merlot.

Tommy started talking in a French accent. Penny kept giggling.

We ate more fries and mussels. Abby continued to glare. Penny continued to giggle.

Pierre had another glass of wine.

I looked at my watch again.

Pierre, very gently, put his hand on my thigh.

No one else could see, because his hand was under the table. He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “Lindsay, comment ça va?”

“Um, bien. Merci.” Had I just thanked him for touching me thigh? I think so, because he then started to caress said thigh.

“After dinner, you want to promenade on ze beach? I have merveilleuse spot to show you.” Still caressing. “It is romantic. Just we deux?”

Just the two of us? Tonight? Of all nights? “But I—”

He put his finger to his lips, and then said, “We will meet at ten. We will practice your French.” He winked and then removed his hand from my body and returned to conversing with the rest of the table.

When it rains it rains buckets of men.

My heart was pounding hard and I glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed to conversation…and caught Tommy’s eye. His expression was . . . well it wasn’t nice. His nose and forehead were wrinkled and his lips were pursed like he’d just eaten something disgusting. A bad moule? He shook his head and turned away.

What is HIS problem? HE’S hooking up with some random person. Why shouldn’t I?

After dinner I walked to the beach to regroup. Not only could I not physically meet both Vlad and Pierre, but I wanted ONE fling. Not two! Not two on the same night! That was just…dirty.

Now what am I supposed to do? I have plans with two different flings at 10! But who should I chose? Who do I like better?

Vlad is a sexy Russian. He looks like a supermodel.

Pierre is a sexy Frenchman. He may or may not have already hooked up with someone else on the trip.

Who is a better fling?

Here’s what I need to do. Visualize kissing both of them, and see which one I prefer.

I’ll start with Vlad.

Yes, I can see that . . . kind of . . . I mean . . . I’m not getting excited by the idea or anything. I don’t know anything about him. Nothing. Just that he’s Russian, smokes clove cigarettes, and likes to travel.

Hmm. Interesting. Pierre? He’s a charmer. Good teacher. Kind of sweet.

I imagine our lips touching . . . and . . . nothing.

Both of them – it’s like kissing my sleeping bag. What is up with that? I have to want to kiss someone. Okay, I’m going to close my eyes and whoever’s lips I see are going to be the lips of my fling.

Oh. No.

I just saw the lips of . . . Tommy?