In front of a large cast iron gate, Simon asks, “Do you know the Luxembourg Gardens? It’s one of the most beautiful places in Paris.”

  “I’ve heard of it and seen photos. It’s like Central Park in New York, a pearl in the middle of the city, right?” I look around, already fully charmed by the greenery and statuary I can see.

  We walk along the wide, sandy dirt paths, taking in the sights. There are people everywhere, smiling and chatting, taking advantage of the weather to play tennis and basketball and sit in groups in the green chairs among the paths.

  “Would you like to see the Statue of Liberty?” he asks.

  I laugh. “I have. In New York. It’s sorta iconic, you know? Give me your poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .”

  He places a finger beneath my chin and turns my head gently to the side, pointing with his other hand. “There’s more than one. In fact, there are hundreds of them all over the world. One of the most beautiful is here in the gardens.”

  “Seriously?” I exclaim. “I didn’t know that!”

  He leads me down a pathway, shrubbery blocking my view as we get closer, and then Lady Liberty rises before me. It’s tiny compared to the original, but touching, nonetheless. I know that seeing the one in the harbor when I first arrived in New York felt like a sign that I’d arrived, that I was going to make it. In a bigger, broader way, it must’ve felt like that for immigrants arriving in America too. A symbol of freedom, of possibilities, of a future. To my surprise, I’m overcome a bit and a tear escapes to roll down my cheek.

  “Princesse?”

  I swipe at my cheek, feeling silly. “Sorry, it’s . . . the other night, the child in the shanty development? We have places like that in America too, and then there’s this.” I gesture toward the statue here in Paris, but in my mind, I’m seeing the one in New York. “It’s supposed to be welcoming, but . . .”

  “It’s complicated?” Simon offers when I trail off, unsure of what I’m trying to say. I nod, feeling like that’s as close to what I’m feeling as I could express.

  We keep walking, going past the Medici Fountain, along the paths in front of the palace, and through tree-lined promenades. Each sight is a new marvel. I feel like a tourist, wanting to stop at each new sight and take photos with my cellphone.

  But even more amazing than the historical sights are the people. Everywhere I look, there’s inspiration, from the man on a bicycle who’s pedaling along in khakis and a gray shirt to the boys running through the grass chasing a Frisbee in neon brights.

  “This is so amazing,” I tell Simon, smiling happily. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He returns my smile, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip. “This is all the appreciation I need.” He bends down, placing a quick kiss to my cheek before whispering in my ear, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  He strides over to a kiosk, talking to the vendor there. His comfort in himself, the confident and assertive way he holds himself, is attractive beyond measure. I don’t have a lot of dating experience, too focused on work over the years, but I’m not naïve. I know that Simon is unique, a man among men.

  And he wants me.

  He returns with a blanket and a basket, his plan obvious. “Shall we?” he asks, holding out his elbow.

  I take it, feeling charmed. He leads me to a patch of grass along another path that’s dappled in sunlight and then spreads the blanket out in the shade. We sit, getting comfortable by slipping off our shoes, and Simon removes his glasses, though he leaves on his hat. I look up at the massive trees that have been meticulously shaped into rectangles above each trunk, creating rows of dramatic views of the Grand Basin and Luxembourg Palace.

  I sigh in bliss. “I think I could stay here forever.”

  Simon follows my gaze but frowns. “Remember, this is only one side of Paris, Princesse. The magic wears off quickly.”

  He’s right. It’s not all beauty and romance. But for now . . . “Can we pretend? I want to enjoy a pretty day in Paris, having a picnic with a gorgeous man.”

  Simon opens the basket to reveal a casual but rich repast of cheeses, meats, and croissants. And of course, three small bottles of wine, one red, one white, one rose.

  “If you pull a tube of Ritz out of there, I’m going to lose it,” I tell him with a laugh.

  “Sorry, no Ritz. Just the croissants.” He looks into the basket like crackers might magically appear but then takes out a knife to cut a piece of what looks like salami for me. He holds it out and my stomach rumbles. “Please.”

  I pluck the piece from the tip of the knife, chewing slowly. It’s not as spicy or salty as I expected, and I recognize that while it might look like salami, it’s something French. “It’s delicious.”

  “I’m glad. I was willing to risk some rillauds, but I did not know how you’d enjoy fried pork.”

  “Are they anything like a chicharrón?” I ask, thinking of what I could get from some of the bodegas in New York. “If so, you’re looking at a body by chicharrón.”

  Simon traces my curves appreciatively with his eyes. “And what a body it is.”

  “About that,” I start. “I noticed something yesterday that concerns me.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “The models, they’re all beautiful. But all so thin.” Simon doesn’t seem to follow, his brows bunched together. I explain further. “There’s an entire world out there to be represented, and we didn’t do that yesterday. Women are more than coat hangers for pretty clothing. We’re the purchasers, and if we don’t see ourselves in the pieces, we won’t buy them.”

  He hums thoughtfully. “Your model, Jeanette, is curvier than some of the others.”

  My mouth drops open in shock. “She’s maybe a size four if I’m being generous. That isn’t curvy. And if that’s what you want, then why are we sitting here together?” It comes out a bit loud, and I definitely sound hurt. I swallow, trying to get myself under control.

  Simon places a heavy hand on my thigh, squeezing firmly. “Autumn, what I want and what the industry expects are very different things. And ultimately, Jacqueline makes the decisions about which models are hired. She is old school and not prone to input on what she sees as a given.”

  “A given?” I echo.

  “Thin models. It has been the same since House Corbin first opened. Jacqueline did not participate in the supermodel trend of the 80s, the heroin chic of the 90s, or the buxom beauties that became known later. Certainly, no social media darlings.”

  I throw my hands up. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look around us.” I scan the crowd sitting on the lawn, the people walking along the paths, all of them representing the spectrum of humanity.

  Simon doesn’t look, knowing exactly what he’ll see. “I agree with you, and I can see what can be done, but some things are out of our hands.” He sounds sad but resigned to the norm. Of the industry or of his role at House Corbin, I’m not sure.

  “It’s something I want to focus on with my designs—making everyone feel they are accepted just as they are,” I say fiercely.

  “An honorable goal,” he agrees just as fiercely. “But make no mistake, what Jacqueline prefers on the runway and what I prefer in my bed are not one and the same, Princesse.”

  I can see the fire in his eyes, the possessive appreciation, and it settles some of the concern churning deep in my gut. His words reassure me, and I’m able to relax a bit, though it takes a while before I’m comfortable enough to enjoy the wine, cheese, and meat again. But Simon doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other, playing tour guide and telling me about the history of the gardens.

  Though I’m not sure his stories are in any of the gardens’ literature.

  “Once, I must’ve been about eight, I’d guess . . . I was here on a school trip and we were allowed to rent the sailboats. I chose one in red and green and readied it for entry. There was another child, Elyna, who wanted the same boat, but I had it first so I refused to share.”

  “Not quite the charmer then that you are now?” I tease.

  He grins wolfishly. “I hadn’t discovered then that charm was quite so useful.” I laugh at his cockiness and he resumes his story. “Elyna began crying, and the boy who liked her tried to fight me to give her the boat. It didn’t go well . . . for any of us. We ended up struggling for it, all three of us laying claim to it. Before I knew it, I was in the water, which is not allowed. Our teacher, Madame Marchant, was screaming. Drenched and scolded, the three of us were prohibited from boating for the day and had to sit on the side of the pond while the other children played.”

  “Let me guess—that’s when Elyna fell in love with you?”

  He shakes his head, lost in the memory. “Non, certainly not. It is when I became friends with Leo. We sat there, mad and on the verge of fighting again, when Elyna started giving us shit. Leo and I looked at each other and decided then and there that she wasn’t worth the hassle.”

  I laugh, surprised at the turn his story took. I guess I expected him to paint himself as the hero who beat up the other boy, the romantic who gave the girl the boat, or even the victim who’d been minding his own business when Elyna demanded his boat. But his story is one of the birth of a friendship.

  “Are you still friends?” I ask hopefully.

  Simon shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in years. He went off to another school when his family moved and we lost touch. But I always think of him when I come to the gardens.”

  I smile, enjoying his story and picturing eight-year-old Simon soaked and pouting.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few girls pointing and whispering to each other as they look at us. Dammit . . . Simon took his sunglasses off to eat and he’s been recognized again.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “We need to bounce before we have a mob on our hands. I don’t want our day to be spoiled.”

  Simon notices as well and quickly slips his sunglasses back on. We gather up our things, and Simon takes them back to the kiosk before we walk back to the parking garage at a quicker pace than we did coming in. Thankfully, nobody approaches us, and as he starts up the engine, Simon looks over. “You really want to know me?” There’s a vulnerability in his voice that I’ve never heard before. It pulls at me, my heart sensing this is a significant gift from him that I should honor.

  “I do.”

  “Then we have another stop.”

  We leave the gardens and the center of Paris, driving out to the outskirts of the city. Simon talks as he drives. “Every week, I come out here to work with a few boys. I’d like you to meet them.”

  “I’d love to. How did you meet them?” I ask.

  He takes a heavy breath, and I know this isn’t going to be a fun story like the sailboats. “I told you that my mother abandoned me, and then Jacqueline rescued me. Oui? This is where I was in the interim for a thankfully short time. These boys have been here much longer and will age out here, forced to join the adult world with little support. I try to help bridge that transition, helping them be better men who can handle the difficulties they live with and the ones to come.”

  I’m stunned into silence.

  Many people speak about activism, or as I accused Simon, simply throw money at an issue as a means of solving it. It takes a deeper passion, a bigger heart to put your precious time toward making a difference. And that’s what Simon does.

  “I would be honored to meet them,” I say softly, putting my hand on his thigh.

  Ten minutes later, we park in front of a weathered building that has striking architecture but has definitely seen better days. Simon has spent the drive giving me a quick breakdown on the history of the Sun Orphanage. Looking at the grounds now, I can see what he means. The former royal residence of the orphanage stands in stark contrast to the luxurious gardens we just left, the building looking tired, worn, scarred.

  The grounds aren’t much better, with most of the equipment having that sort of jury-rigged appearance of an administration that’s trying to stretch every penny as far as possible.

  We get out, and the orphanage staff is glad to meet us, although they ask us to remain outside while the boys are fetched. I shift, nervous as five older teenage boys come out, two of them smiling as they greet Simon in French.

  “Boys, if you can, try your English,” Simon tells them, but they laugh, smacking him like he’s said something hilarious. I look to Simon, who explains. “They know I feel uncomfortable in English myself sometimes. It is the accent.”

  “Ah. Well, my French is terrible still, but . . . enchanté de faire votre connaissance.”

  The boys stop, one of them flashing me a thumbs-up. “Fucking nice!”

  I blink in shock. “Excuse me?” At his confused look, I ask, “Let me guess, you learn from music and TV?”

  Simon rushes over the language misstep. “Autumn, these young men are Claude, Raphael, Tristan, Theodore, and Samuel. Boys, this is Miss Autumn Fisher, from New York.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Autumn,” the shortest of the boys says. “I’m Samuel.”

  “Samuel is very good in English,” Simon says, “although all the boys are hard-working students. It’s one of my rules for our parkour sessions. I’m proud of them.”

  I see the boys preen at Simon’s praise, which tells me more about their relationship. They value Simon’s opinion and want to make him proud.

  “Si j'avais une femme aussi jolie qu'elle, je ne lui montrerais jamais cette merde,” a stocky, dark-haired boy says, and the others roar with laughter.

  Samuel translates for me. “Raphael says that if he had a girlfriend as pretty as you, he’d never show her . . . us.” They backhand each other enthusiastically, laughing more.

  “No, I’m glad that I get this chance,” I tell them. “Really. I want to learn about all of Paris . . . and Simon.”

  They hoot at that, teasing Simon in French that no one translates, but it must be good because Simon blushes slightly. The tallest of the boys looks at me with keen interest. “You are . . . most beautiful woman I see.”

  The compliment is delivered haltingly as he translates in his mind. But he also seems intense, his dark eyes almost diving into my soul.

  “Aww, thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Tristan,” he says, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles much the same as Simon did. I wonder if Simon is teaching them some of his charm too. “You have made my day good.”

  “You romancer,” Samuel teases his friend, grinning.

  Wanting to get onto a safer topic, I ask, “What do you typically do when Simon visits?”

  “He normally tries to show us athletics,” Raphael says, winking as he adds, “and we let him feel nice about it. He’s good . . . for an old man.”

  “Oh, is that how you want to be?” Simon asks, throwing a few fake gut punches which Raphael blocks with taps to Simon’s fists. “Fine. What shall we do?”

  Tristan suggests, “Basketball.”

  The group of them, Simon included, agree loudly. They hop and run toward a court that’s slightly cracked and has faded lines.

  “Come on, old man,” one of them shouts. My guess is that they use that ‘insult’ with him frequently.

  “I’ll show you old,” Simon answers easily.

  They divide up three on three, Simon teaming with Raphael and Claude against Samuel, Tristan, and Theodore.

  It’s a spirited game, filled with lots of hard play . . . and lots of trash talk. Most of its in French as the boys focus on giving each other a hard time and not practicing their English with me. But Tristan seems to be showing off for me specifically a few times.

  “Get that shit out of here, maddafakka!” he roars after rejecting Claude’s attempt at a layup. He rips off his shirt, tossing it toward Claude, who bats it away without a comment. Tristan roars again, flexing around, but especially in my direction, and to be nice, I give him polite applause for the maneuver.

  I can tell Simon doesn’t like the way Tristan is behaving. Whether it’s that Tristan seems to be showing off to impress me or that he’s embarrassing one of his friends, Simon has had enough. He takes off his own shirt, handing it to me . . . and I have to admit I feel a rush of heated desire as I take it.

  He truly is a man among boys. All of them are athletic and lean, but Simon’s muscles are fuller, more mature, more capable. And Simon uses them, taking it to Tristan in a low post battle that has both of them exchanging hard body checks and tough physical battles for rebounds.

  I’ll hand it to Tristan, he doesn’t back down. If anything, each time Simon ups his game, Tristan’s there to try and re-up against him, doing his best to prove who the king of the court is. Each time Tristan makes a move, he locks eyes with me, smirking as if to say look who the real man here is.

  I get worried as Simon and Tristan keep going at it, but Simon keeps his cool. In fact, he baits Tristan in the end, drawing Tristan into a hard block near the rim before tossing the ball out to polite, cheerful Claude, who takes the ball and drops a neat jump shot over Samuel to win the game for his team.

  “That’s game!” I call, clapping. “That was great, all of you.”

  “It was. Good game, guys” Simon tells them, shaking hands with Theodore and Samuel. “Tackle every obstacle the same way. Fight hard.” He holds his hand out to Tristan, who glares at him.

  Reluctantly, he shakes Simon’s hand, his attitude clear. “Elle a un beau cul,” he says mockingly, and before I know what’s happening, Simon has shoved him in the chest.

  Tristan comes back, but before a fight can break out, I get in between them. “Both of you, cool it!” I yell. I glare at Simon disbelievingly. “Did you seriously push him?” Tristan smirks, thinking he’s finally gotten one over on Simon. I point at him too. “And the next time you say something about my ass, say it to my face! Don’t hide behind a language you think I won’t understand and tell him like I’m nothing more than his property.”

  Tristan freezes, turning red as he realizes I understood him. “I am . . . sorry.”