A/N: I'm still not Josh Schwartz. But don't worry guys, I'm working on it. Any day now.


She had just slipped out of her delicate velvet thong sandals and was spreading out her towel on the searing white sand when her cell phone rang. It wasn't Chuck. She answered anyways.

"Blair Bear," a deep, comforting male voice said, distant and cracked from the combination of the white noise waves and the distance between them, "I would love it very much if you could find some time to visit me here next week."

Harold was in Bretagne. Blair loathed Bretagne. Bretagne was tourism. Bretagne was cold.

"Daddy," she then asked, "Are you at the beach right now?" He was. They were exactly opposite one another on the edges of a vast, ruthless ocean. Blair loved the theatrics of that separation imagery. Blair would.

She envisioned Harold on the edge of an ancient stone wall, classic French literature in one hand and a partially consumed gaufre citron in the other, the smell of the crispy waffle mingling perfectly with the salty sea air. Waves crashed against the stone slabs a dozen feet below. Several white nesting seagulls squawking somewhere in the background completed Blair's shining romantic panorama.

Except Blair hated seagulls like she hated Bretagne. Bretagne was high on caloric content and high on stereotypes. (Bonjour: bicycles and baguettes and crepes.) Bretagne was aging Parisian empty-nesters and light, misting rain on her new Tory Burch sweater set. Blair was ninety nine point seven percent sure that Bretagne did not have a Tory Burch.

But she almost said yes anyways. After all, Harold had rented a chateau.

Save for what came out of his mouth next. "Please consider it, precious," he crooned, "If you say you'll come, Roman will be even more ecstatic than I."

Then Blair remembered. She loathed Bretagne.

And to think that she had already been considering the pros and cons of each commercial airline's first class JFK – CDG service.


A/N: I was in Bretagne! I liked it! It was... quaint. But Blair, oh Blair, would she ever loathe, probably, western France as a whole. A gaufre citron is a waffle with lemon juice squirted all over it. It's tasty. In case you weren't aware. I wouldn't have been, were it not for my obsession with fried batter. Not that you care.

Review if you're feeling generous. I would enjoy it.