By Stephanie Perkins
Anna can't stay up for her senior 12 months in Atlanta, the place she has an excellent task, a faithful ally, and a weigh down at the verge of changing into extra. So she's now not too overjoyed whilst her father all of sudden ships her off to boarding institution in Paris - till she meets Etienne St. Clair, the ideal boy. the one challenge? He's taken, and Anna should be, too, if something comes of her weigh down again domestic. Will a 12 months of romantic near-misses result in the French kiss Anna awaits?
"Magical. Anna and the French Kiss quite captures the sensation of being in love." - Cassandra Clare, writer of The Mortal tools series
"Anna and the French Kiss charms [readers] with its Parisian atmosphere and très bien boy."
"Very sly. Very humorous. Very romantic. you might want to date this book." - Maureen Johnson, New York Times bestselling author
"Tantalizing pacing, gleaming repartee, brilliant assisting characters . . ." - Gayle Forman, New York Times bestselling writer of If I Stay
"Imagine a mug of wealthy, thick scorching chocolate. Now upload a swirl of candy whipped cream. Yummy? Oui. good, Anna and the French Kiss is richer, sweeter, and—yes—even warmer. You're in for a really particular treat." —Lauren Myracle, New York Times bestselling writer of Peace, Love and child Ducks and Let It Snow
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Additional resources for Anna and the French Kiss
My eyes went around the room one last time, from the computer to the tournament trophies on my shelves to the black-belt certificate framed on my wall to the movie poster of The Lord of the Rings. Finally, I looked at the back of my hand. There was a number written on it in black marker. That made me smile to myself. Then I snapped the light off. I said a quick goodnight prayer. In sixty seconds, I was sound asleep. CHAPTER THREE “Kill Him” Then, all at once, I woke up. There, in that bare, terrible room.
I fell to the earth with a downward finishing strike—a punch spiraling straight to the floor as my body dropped down behind it to give it extra force. ”—expelling every ounce of tension in my body, letting the tension explode into the punch as my knuckles scraped the surface of the polished wood. Then I was upright again, spinning again, lashing out with a hook kick that brought my foot snapping around behind me and the rest of my body snapping around after it. Under the sound of my movements, I could hear the silence of the audience, I could feel their attention on me, feel them caught up in the violent grace of the form.
The strap was strong and secure. The metal of the chair was smooth. Same with my right wrist. My hand extended over the arm of the chair. I could open and close it into a fist. But there was nothing within reach, nothing I could get hold of. What about my ankles? I had to lean forward in the chair as far as I could to get a look at the front of them, then lean over to the side to get another angle. On the left, it was the same as with my wrists. Nothing to see, nothing to use. A strap, a metal chair leg, a bolt holding the chair securely to the floor.
Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins