Madi raises her brows, and I can see the curiosity spark in her eyes. As we start walking, I’m feeling a weird mixture of nerves and anticipation. If it wouldn’t be weird and a bit reckless, I’d blindfold Madi with the scarf she’s wearing. I just know the look in her eyes when she sees our destination will be worth it.

  Suddenly, she stops. I do, too, wondering if she’s onto me. But Madi doesn’t know the city, and there’s no way she knows what’s one minute away from us. She’s staring at something right behind me, though, so I turn around, looking for whatever has captured her attention.

  “Wait, are you taking me to the metro?” she asks.

  I frown for a second, then spot it: the stairs leading down to the nearest station.

  “Is this your plan to force me to experience Paris properly?” Her voice is teasing, but I can’t miss the wariness in her eyes.

  “What? No. I wouldn’t do that to you.” What kind of a guy does she think I am? “You’ll like this. I promise.”

  She relaxes a bit and smiles. “Okay, lead the way.”

  We start walking again, and I can’t help looking at her, hoping she’s not looking at the signs around us that tell her exactly what site we’re near.

  She looks up at the buildings to our right. “Is Paris always this magical? Or is it a Christmas thing?”

  I grimace. “After Christmas, this place is just a pile of rubble.”

  She laughs and elbows me.

  What is it about getting hit in the ribs like that that feels so dang good?

  Stop, Rémy. She’s got a boyfriend.

  I force Josh’s face into my mind. Now it’s me who wants to throw an elbow, though, and the destination is not his ribs. Is my level of dislike for the guy disproportionate to what I know of him? Maybe.

  “Okay, turn around.” I take Madi by the shoulders, and, giving me a weird but curious look, she obeys as I guide her backwards.

  “Rémy,” she says, laughing a bit, “I have a hard enough time walking when I can see where I’m going.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let you run into anyone. Or anything.” Keeping my hands on her shoulders, I guide her across the street when the light changes for us. Her eyes are fixed on me, full of trepidation and adventure. She can’t stop laughing, and it’s contagious.

  People are looking at us, but I ignore them. I’ve seen way weirder things in Paris, and I know that, like me, people will just chalk it up to living in a city full of weird tourists.

  We head into an arched stone passage, and Madi’s eyes go big as it gets darker. She grabs my hands on her shoulders and stops. “Oh my gosh. Rémy, are you taking me into that underground tunnel with all the bones?”

  I try to ignore the way it feels to have Madi’s hands covering mine. I didn’t wear gloves, but I can feel the warmth of her hands through hers. “The catacombs?”

  “Yes! Siena told me about them. They sound terrifying.”

  “They’re actually really cool. But no. I’m not taking you to the catacombs. Come on.” I urge her to start walking backward again. “We’re almost there.”

  We walk a bit farther, navigating the crowds of people coming the opposite direction. Madi keeps her eyes trained on me and her hands on my forearms to stabilize herself as she shuffles backward. I have to adopt a sort of penguin waddle to avoid hitting her feet with mine. Both of us are smiling as I try to help her navigate the uneven stone ground and the tourists too busy filming live TikToks or coming up with a clever photo caption to watch where they’re going.

  In hindsight, I realize that this is not the most platonic idea I’ve ever had, but I can’t find it in myself to regret it. It’s impossible to regret anything that makes Madi smile or her eyes light up like this.

  We come to the edge of the arched passageway, and I stop us, taking my hands from her shoulders with more regret than is strictly necessary. “Okay. Turn around.”

  She holds my gaze for a second like she might get a hint from my face about what she’s going to see. Then, she turns.

  FIFTEEN

  MADI

  The Louvre Pyramid is lit up from inside, its crisscrossing pattern reflecting on the pool around it like a pristine mirror. Everywhere I look is the massive complex that is the Louvre—an enormous square of perfectly symmetrical buildings with gray rooftops, a thousand windows, and ornately carved stone, all lit by a line of tall lamp posts running around the whole plaza.

  It looks like something I dreamed up, not a real place.

  Rémy reaches over and, using the edge of his finger, he pushes up on my chin, closing my mouth.

  I smile guiltily. “Stars and stripes showing again?”

  “A little.” He’s smiling back at me. “Not as much as those people’s are, though.” He jerks his head toward two girls twenty feet away from us. One is standing on top of the stone rim of the fountain. She’s putting her finger out, pointing downward while her friend squats to take a picture. It’s supposed to make it look like she’s touching the top of the pyramid.

  “Are you saying you refuse to take a picture of me like that?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  I can’t even pretend to be mad. I’m already distracted by the fountains starting up near the pyramid. “How much is it to walk around?” I’m on a tight budget, but I’m thinking it’ll be worth it to spend a few euros just to take this all in.

  “Zero euros.”

  I look at Rémy. “You’re kidding me.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Anyone can just walk around this place? Any time? For free?”

  “Between 7 a.m. and 11 p.m., yes. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  I could see Chris Hemsworth shirtless and not be as starstruck as I am right now, walking around the Cour Napoléon, as Rémy informs me it’s called. I can’t believe places like this really exist—and that they’re free.

  Rémy’s a great tour guide. He gives me bits of information every couple of minutes, but for the most part, he lets me do my thing, which is walking around and snapping photos when I see something I can’t resist capturing. He doesn’t hang around my side and make me feel rushed. In fact, he seems to be taking it all in himself, and I can’t help but grab a couple of shots of him while he does it. He makes a dang good model. The lights from the lamps highlight the lines of his face—the square jaw, the full lips, the deep brow, the shadow of his stubble.

  I’m admiring him as a photographer. It’s perfectly normal to take note of beautiful things. Science, like Siena says. To pretend Rémy isn’t one of the most attractive people I’ve ever met would be as unnatural as pretending this isn’t the most beautiful place I’ve ever set foot. And of course I want to capture a beautiful person in a beautiful environment. It’s decreed by whoever decides the laws for photographers, and I am a law-abiding woman.

  “What’s that?” I point to the enormous ferris wheel sitting outside the square we’re in. It’s got festive red, white, and green lights fanning out from the center. At the base is a line of small booths with Christmas lights draped from each gabled rooftop.

  “It’s the Tuileries Christmas Market,” Rémy says.

  “A Christmas market? Right here?”

  He nods, his eyes twinkling as he looks at me.

  “How do you have IKEA, the Louvre, and a Christmas market within a couple minutes of each other? Doesn’t that violate some international zoning code? There should be a certain distance between amazing things to protect people from a dopamine overdose.”

  Rémy shoves his hands in his pockets, laughing.

  “I know, I know,” I say with a sigh. “My stars and stripes.”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “They’re growing on me.”

  I cock a brow at him. “More like growing in you. You’re half American, remember? Under that shirt of yours, you’re probably wearing a Captain America suit.” Stop talking about what’s under his shirt, Madi. “You’ll claim us someday. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yup. You’ll be singing God Bless America, waving around your own Old Glory, and snarfing down a supersize order of McDonald’s fries when I’m done with you.” My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, still looking at Rémy to make sure he knows I mean business. It’s a text from Josh.

  Josh: I’ll be there in 15.

  The text kills my mood like a bug zapper to a fly. “Shoot. How long does it take to get back to the apartment from here?”

  “On foot? Twenty-five minutes if we hurry.”

  I bite my lip, looking around. I don’t want to leave. I could sit here for hours admiring the view and people-watching. This is the most romantic place I’ve ever been—no contest. I thought I’d be sharing it with Josh. But I don’t even know if I want to share it with him because he clearly doesn’t care about that.

  And the realization that this is what I’ve been missing, sitting in the apartment, waiting for him to take me around—or sitting next to him while he snores softly on the couch—makes me feel a flash of resentment. It’s not entirely his fault, of course. It was my choice to walk back home instead of going on the metro today, but that’s the thing. I didn’t think I’d be touring Paris on my own.

  But being here at the Louvre makes me determined not to waste another second. I don’t want to go home with regrets. I want to experience everything that makes Paris, Paris.

  I take in a deep breath. “How long would it take on the metro?” My experience there yesterday was pure chaos, but like Rémy said, I can’t do Paris without the metro.

  He looks at me for a second. “About half the time.”

  It’s not a big deal if Josh has to sit outside the apartment waiting for us for a few minutes while we walk home—it’s not like I haven’t waited for him longer than that on a regular basis—but it’s not just about Josh. I’ve got to get over my fear of the metro if I’m going to see this city, and better to do it now while I’ve got Rémy to guide me through it than trying by myself tomorrow.

  “Let’s take the metro.”

  He holds my gaze for a second, then smiles and nods. “This way.”

  We head back the way we came, but this time, I’m walking forward, and Rémy’s hands aren’t on my shoulders, which makes it a lot quicker but also a lot less fun. When we get to the arched passage, there’s a couple in the middle of the exit, liplocked while one holds a cell phone out to capture their makeout session with the Louvre pyramid behind.

  “Americans,” Rémy says.

  “Hey. How do you know they’re Americans? The French are the ones known for being romantics.”

  The girl lowers the phone. “Let’s check it out,” she says to her boyfriend in a distinct American accent.

  Rémy looks at me and smiles. “We are romantics. But we have a different definition of romance.”

  “That definition being . . . ?”

  He shrugs. “What’s between a man and a woman. Being in the moment together and forgetting everyone around you. And that”—he jerks his head back toward the couple—“is the opposite of romance.”

  I look back at them. They’re going for round two, with the phone at a different angle this time. I can’t help but agree with Rémy. There’s not much I find romantic about choreographing camera angles to make sure your makeout video gets the most likes on social media.

  I almost want to ask Rémy what he considers a romantic date in Paris and whether he’s ever brought his girlfriend here. I still don’t know if he has a girlfriend or not—he didn’t really answer when I gave him the chance at IKEA—so I’m just going to assume he does because 1) how could he not? and 2) it’s better that way.

  We cross the street and reach the green, quirky sign that says Métropolitain. I stare at it for a second, then take in a deep breath.

  “You sure?” Rémy asks.

  I nod. If I’m going into the Paris metro with anybody, Rémy is the right person.

  It’s Friday night, and it’s every bit as busy as it was when I made my failed attempt this morning. As we make our way down the stairs, people file down all around us, jostling me and making my chest feel tight.

  I stop at the bottom, letting a group of tourists speaking a foreign language brush past. Rémy stands in front of me, facing me, like my own personal buffer.

  “Sorry.” I chuckle nervously. “Small spaces and heights.” I feel dumb for making it a big deal—I know some people have legitimate and much bigger fears for better reasons, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s not an experience I take pleasure in. I try for a smile. “I’m working on it. Last night, I only had one nightmare about falling off the bunkbed.”

  Rémy does not look amused. “Madi, you don’t have to sleep on that bed. I didn’t realize it was so uncomfortable for you.”

  I cock a brow at him, determined to keep this light.

  “Okay, yes,” he says, “it looks really uncomfortable, but I didn’t realize it was keeping you from sleeping. Does Josh not know you’re afraid of heights?”

  “He does. He just . . . thinks I need a little push to conquer my fears. He’s always challenging himself to do more and be more in life and at work. It’s how he’s risen in the ranks so quickly.”

  Rémy frowns. It makes him look like the brooding hero of a movie I’d love to watch. “We don’t have to do this, Madi. We can walk. We could even rent bikes.”

  I’m momentarily distracted. “Bikes?”

  “Yeah, they have a system here. It’s easy to use, and it’d be faster than walking.”

  I take in a breath. “No, it’s okay. I wanna do this.”

  Rémy leads the way to the ticket machines. It takes him less than sixty seconds to get a ticket for me. Typical.

  He seems to know just what I’m thinking as he turns to hand me mine. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  We make our way to the next machines—the ones that eat the ticket, then spit it back out on the other side of the gate you walk through. There are a zillion people waiting to pass, and I’m not looking forward to it being my turn. Rémy has me go first, talking me through it calmly as if we have all the time in the world rather than the world waiting behind us.

  I have to take off my thick gloves to handle the little paper ticket. I should have done that while we were waiting.

  I hurry to stuff the gloves into my coat pocket.

  Rémy puts a hand on my arm. “Take your time. People can move to one of the other ones if they need to.”

  Someone waiting a few people behind me says something in French, clearly directed at me. It doesn’t sound nice. Rémy responds with a few pithy words. I mean, technically, I have no idea what he said or how many words it was, but it must have been a great comeback, because the guy shuts his mouth and doesn’t say anything else.

  “He hates me, doesn’t he?” I slip the ticket into the machine.

  “He’s just a jerk,” Rémy replies.

  I hurry through the turnstile and grab the ticket as it pops up on the other side, then wait for Rémy. He’s such a pro at this that he has a card he just taps once to let him through.

  With that obstacle over, Rémy leads the way toward . . . honestly, I don’t even know where. I’m like a kid at a theme park, entirely reliant on him to get us where we need to go. I should probably just have a stroller, maybe even one of those leash backpacks.

  In a lot of ways, though, this does feel like a theme park. The crowds are intense, and Rémy and I get separated as people crisscross to get to their various destinations.

  My muscles are tensing and my chest is tightening as I try to keep track of him amongst the chaos. I try to hurry my pace to catch up with him again, but a group of young and unusually tall adolescents cuts in front of me, and I lose him entirely.

  SIXTEEN

  MADI

  It’s not rational, feeling like I’m going to be swallowed up in this crowd and disappear or get trampled or something, but that’s what my body and mind are telling me is going to happen. I can’t see Rémy anywhere, and I’m trying to calm my building nerves, to remind myself that I’m an adult and, if the hooligans who just cut me off can handle this, so can I.

  It’s not working great, though, and my eyes search the people around me frantically, seeking familiarity.

  Suddenly, the crowds part, and Rémy is right in front of me. He grabs my hand with his, and our gazes catch for a second, his apologetic and reassuring. I really am like a five-year-old at Disneyland, because that hand is my lifeline right now.

  Rémy forges a way through the crowds and leads us down some stairs, through a hallway, and finally to an open space with an empty train track, never letting go of my hand. The crowds are much thinner here, with people spread out along the platform on both sides of the tracks, waiting for the trains to come.

  We find a free space to stand, and I glance down. My heart skips a beat at the image of our hands. So far, Rémy holding my hand was just a kind gesture—a really kind one, of course. But there’s no need for it anymore. And yet, I don’t really want to let go.

  I glance up at him, and he’s looking at me like he knows what I’m thinking because he’s thinking the same thing.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s like an electric shock, and I jerk my hand away, my conscience zinging.

  Josh: Might be a few minutes late.

  “He’s gonna be a bit late,” I say, looking up at Rémy as I slip my phone back into my pocket.

  He nods, but the smile he gives me looks the tiniest bit forced as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

  A low rumbling and the blinking zero on the countdown sign farther down the platform tells me that the train is coming. Not a moment too soon. We get lucky and snag two seats next to each other, but I’m not so sure it is luck because I’m aware of every inch of space—there are three of those inches—between my leg and Rémy’s.

  We sit in silence, though it might be because the rush of the train is so loud it’s hard to talk over it unless you want everyone within ten feet to hear your conversation.