Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

quickly, backing away to hail a cab. On the one hand, I am flattered that such a cute boy has deemed me worth trying to kiss, but at the same time I am taken aback by how forward he is. After all, we barely know each other! Does everyone move this quickly in France?
    Thankfully, a taxi pulls up and I start to hastily climb inside. Will rushes forward to ask through the window, “Wait! When will I see you again? How will I contact you?”
    I shrug and say, “Oh, um, I’m sure we’ll see each other around campus!”
    And with that, the taxi peels off down the winding Parisian streets toward the school. I slump in the back seat, my heart pounding after such a strange, sudden encounter. I’ve only been in the city for a few hours, but it’s already been a much different experience than anything I ever had in North Carolina. If this is how quickly things can happen in just one morning… what all will happen in a year or two?

3
    Liv
    W hen my taxi pulls up to the curb and lets me out in front of my stop on campus, I’m still trying to shake off my encounter with Will. The last and only other time a boy tried to kiss me was in second grade at my birthday pool party. His name was Michael, and I pushed him into the pool and ran away. And this time, I merely jumped in a cab and ran away. I’m starting to wonder if this is how I will always react to male attention — immediately jump into extreme evasive maneuvers. It’s becoming my trademark move.
    It’s about one in the afternoon now and the exhaustion of flying and then dragging my luggage around the city all morning is getting to me. But it’s my first day in France — the first time I’ve ever left America! — and I am not going to let jet lag nor a weird sexual advance get me down! The instructions I have pulled up on my phone in an email from Pavlenko inform me that I’m supposed to be meeting my roommate in a courtyard on campus at half past one. So I’m just barely going to make it on time. I hurry down the beautiful, historical, arched hallways and rush out into the lazy afternoon sunshine to meet the girl I’m going to share a place with. I’m incredibly nervous and a little bit self-conscious, afraid that something will go wrong.
    What if she doesn’t like me? What if we don’t get along?
    I wonder if she’ll be from a small town like me or if she’ll already be acquainted with city life. I can’t decide which would be better. If she’s also a small-town girl, then maybe she’ll understand me. But if she’s used to taking public transportation, dodging in and out of traffic, following the hustle and bustle of the city… well, then maybe she can help me adjust.
    I cross the courtyard, pulling my wheeled suitcase behind me, looking around for someone who looks like they’re waiting for me. Most of the people I see here look distinctly French — sleek black clothing, effortless style. Then I see her.
    There’s a girl who looks to be about my age, standing in the center of the courtyard. She’s glancing around nervously, her hands fidgeting in front of her. She is much taller than me, and maybe even slimmer. This girl looks to be the very epitome of the gymnast image. Her straight auburn hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and she’s wearing jeans and a pink tank top with a green cardigan over it. She stands out in the sea of dark, probably designer duds. She has to be the one, for sure.
    I hurry toward her and she finally looks my way, her hazel eyes going wide and round.
    “Are you —?” she begins, her voice sweet but a little shrill.
    “Olivia Greenwood,” I greet, holding out my hand to shake hers. “I’m assuming you’re waiting for a roommate? For the gymnastics program?”
    She nods, somehow looking both relieved and anxious at the same time. “Yes, hi. My name is Margaret-Ann Mason, but I go by Maggie, please.”
    “You can call me Liv,” I add, giving her a smile to try and ease her anxiety. She seems a little stiff,