Love Requires Chocolate

**A budding theater nerd has her semester abroad all planned out, until a cute soccer player offers to show her the real Paris the first book of a YA romance series with international flavor!

A heartfelt romance that s as delicious as chocolate. New York Times bestselling author Ashley Woodfolk**

Whitney Curry is primed to have an epic semester abroad. She s created the perfect *itinerary and many, many to-do lists after collecting every detail possible about Paris. Thus, she anticipates a grand adventure filled with vintage boutiques, her idol Josephine Baker s old stomping grounds, and endless plays sure to inspire the ones she writes and ahem* directs!

But all is not as she imagined when she s dropped off at her prestigious new Parisian lycée. A fish out of water, Whitney struggles to juggle schoolwork, homesickness, and mastering the French language. Luckily, she lives for the drama. Literally.

Cue French tutor Thierry Magnon, a grumpy yet très handsome soccer star, who s determined to show Whitney what she s missing. Is this type-A theater nerd ready to see how lessons on the City of Lights can turn into lessons on love?

The swoony Love in Translation romances can be read together or separately:
LOVE REQUIRES CHOCOLATE LOVE CRAVES CARDAMOM (Coming in May 2025!)

Autorentext

Ravynn K. Stringfield

Leseprobe
SCENE ONE

Some People Don t Appreciate the Value of a Good List!

Mademoiselle!

An out-of-breath man s face crowds my phone screen as I slowly turn, capturing the bustling street outside Gare du Nord. The sound of the city is at a reasonable volume, so I can hear myself think. Though, admittedly, all the French landing on my ears is super jarring. I feel like a fish dropped into a huge new tank. Every voice jolts me, because even though I know the language, I can t make my brain translate words fast enough to keep up yet.

The man s face wobbles on the screen as my hand trembles with excitement. I m here!

Uh, hi! I say, lowering my phone, then lifting my cat s-eye sunglasses. Or bonjour! You re kind of in my shot. I point to my phone with what I hope is a charming smile. The man s cheeks are red from the heat, and his expression tells me he is uninterested in my shot.

Are you Whitney Curry? His thick accent nearly swallows my name.

Yes! That s me! The one and only! I say, my stage smile turning into a real one. I finally notice that he s holding a letter-sized piece of cardstock that has LYCEE INTERNATIONAL DES ARTS A PARIS (LIA)--WHITNEY CURRY printed across it. My name is bolded, and I m impressed by the fancy school insignia embossed at the top. I wonder if he ll let me have the sign for my memory book.

I am Monsieur Guillaume Polignac, your ambassador from Lycee International des Arts, Paris, here to escort you to the dormitories. He mops his brow with a handkerchief, and I immediately stick my hand out.

Enchantee-- I start, but Monsieur Guillaume Polignac cuts me off.

This way. I try not to bristle at the fact that he ignored my attempt at French. My nose wrinkles at the rudeness anyway, but since he is my ride to my new home, I try to keep pace as I follow him up the sidewalk. When we stop at a tiny blue car, he struggles to lift my monogrammed trunk with the letters W.C. in spiraling white type on the front, and my brown leather valise, mumbling and probably cursing to himself in French.

What do you have in here--a whole person?

Oh, just the essentials, I tell him brightly. Costumes, accessories, special lights. You know . . . everything a girl needs to thrive. There s no such thing as being overprepared!

Monsieur Guillaume Polignac raises his eyebrows at me before giving the trunk one last shove to pack it inside. Such strange luggage.

It s vintage. Very rare. I climb into the passenger seat and buckle myself in, making sure to pull my braids out from under the seat belt. My heart is thudding against my rib cage, and I do my best to remain still. I want to do my I m excited dance, but a quick glance at my stone-faced driver curbs the impulse.

Monsieur Polignac does not ask any questions, nor does music come on when he starts the car, which is just as well, as it would only interrupt my daydreaming. Before we ve even started moving, my mind is buzzing. I am envisioning myself renting a car and driving out to Chateau des Milandes, the old estate where Josephine Baker spent much of her life with her children, on the weekends I have off from my rigorous Parisian art school schedule. I need to stand where she stood. I need to breathe the same air she did. I need to soak it all up so that one day I might be as iconic as she was.

I m trying to manifest greatness, but my phone is vibrating in my pocket incessantly, making a grating noise against the car door. Texts flood in from my mom, asking a thousand questions about the flight and reminding me to turn on my location sh