Mouth still open with apologies on the tip of my tongue, I watch as he walks away, leaving via the big doors I just came through. I’m starting to think Siena was playing a sick joke on me when she told me French men are flirtatious. So far, they just hate me.

  By the time I manage to open the building door and take the stairs up to the top—that’s right, there’s no elevator, and I’m on the fifth floor—I’m breathing like I just completed a triathlon. But I’m not over the finish line yet. The three medieval keys in my hand weigh a metric ton (look how French I already am, using the metric system!), and I still have to remember which one goes to this particular door. I am woefully inexperienced at recognizing the subtle differences in ancient key design.

  After five minutes of finagling, I’m ready to give up. Apparently, I will spend my nights on this apartment landing because I’m not smart enough for Parisian doors.

  I give it another go, determined to take a shower and a nap before I see Josh. The struggle continues, though, and this nightmare door is like the wind that turned my Mary Poppins umbrella inside out so I can’t float anymore.

  I might lose my mind. I just want to get inside, for the love of Pete.

  Why does Paris hate me so much? I’ve been trying to stay upbeat, but it feels like the universe is telling me to get out of Dodge. I’m not someone to cuss, but plenty of four-letter words are pinging around my brain when my phone starts vibrating.

  I scramble to take the phone from the side pocket of my backpack and hurry to answer. “Josh!”

  “Hey, Mads.”

  I let out a relieved sigh. The familiar sound of his voice is exactly what I need. Everything is going to be okay. I’m in Paris. With my boyfriend. Soon to be fiancé.

  “Sorry I missed your call,” he says. There’s chatter in the background like he’s in a crowded place. “Everyone went to the hotel café after we arrived, and it was pretty loud, so I didn’t hear my phone ring.”

  “No worries,” I say. “I can’t believe we’re both here!” Well, not here here. But he knows what I mean.

  “I know, right? So sorry about your luggage.”

  “It’s okay.” I toss away his sympathy as if I have no need of clothes. I packed my carry-on full of my toiletries, shoes, and boots so I could stay under the checked luggage weight limit. In retrospect, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea.

  I’m feeling rejuvenated by Josh’s voice, so I balance the phone between my ear and my shoulder, sticking the key back in the lock. “You won’t believe what a crazy day it’s been, though. The lady at the lost luggage place looked like she was trying to shoot me with eye lasers—”

  “Mads,” he says, “I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta run. It looks like we’re going to have a little impromptu meeting. But I’ll call you right after.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, trying not to betray that I’m deflating like a balloon. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Love you.”

  The phone clicks, and, mercifully, so does the door. It squeaks loudly as it opens.

  Victory! Who knew the hardest part of traveling to Paris would be unlocking my apartment? I’m assuming the hotel Josh is staying at doesn’t have this sort of key, but honestly, nothing is as I expected so far, so I’m going to go ahead and refrain from placing any bets. Especially because I’m a hundred euros poorer than I was a half-hour ago.

  I pull my suitcase inside and shut the squeaky door, feeling accomplished. Triathletes ain’t got nothin’ on me. I look around, taking stock of my new digs, wondering if I should have hired MTV Cribs to come film me.

  But no. I definitely shouldn’t have, and not just because the Cribs crewmembers are probably old enough to be retired by now.

  Let’s just say, this place used all its wow factor on the curb appeal.

  The apartment is . . . small. And bare. The courtyard gave me Downton Abbey expectations; reality looks more like my freshman dorm. There isn’t a single thing on the walls, which, honestly, could really use some pictures to cover up the places where the paint has peeled off. There’s a couch up against the window with a scraggly blanket thrown over it, a small coffee table, and a galley kitchen to my right. More like half of a galley kitchen. Or half of a half of a galley kitchen. Also, is that a washing machine in there?

  I take in a breath. Okay, so the place isn’t winning any interior design awards, and Chip and Joanna Gaines would definitely not dub it an “open-concept floor plan,” but if this is what Josh chose, I’m sure it was the best option. I’d choose location over luxury anyway.

  My phone tells me it’s almost 2 o’clock in the afternoon. I blink, realizing how heavy and weird my eyelids feel. I eye the blanket on the couch, which is trying to cast a sleep spell over me. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to run over, drape it over my body, and lie down.

  I’m haunted by the view of myself in the taxi rearview mirror, though, so a shower must come first. Once I’m clean and have an hour or so of rest, I will be ready to take on Paris and leave all the travel drama behind.

  THREE

  MADI

  Nothing is easy here. Figuring out how to turn on the shower was like Unlocking the Door 2.0, but there were no dungeon keys, just dials, buttons, and a mysterious, dangling pull string. Whose idea was it to put an electric device in the same cage—an accurate description of this tiny shower—as a steady stream of water?

  At least I’m free of the airplane and travel grime, even if the host only provided men’s body wash and shampoo. In my rush to shower, I didn’t realize until I was sopping wet that I forgot my toiletries in my carry-on. Having no conditioner means my hair will be a giant knot to comb through.

  Bracing myself for electrocution, I press the button to turn off the water and reach past the shower curtain for a towel.

  A loud grating noise makes me pause. That sounds way too close to be coming from anywhere but the apartment. It happens again, and I realize what it is. After how long I spent trying the key in the lock, I’d know the sound anywhere.

  Sure enough, the squeak of the front door reaches me easily in the bathroom. I freeze with my hand on the towel, my heartrate kicking up to Taken-appropriate levels.

  Footsteps approach. I might faint any second.

  I tug the towel from the rack—if I’m going to be murdered, I’ll at least be halfway decent when I do it—and wrap it under my armpits. My hands are almost useless, they’re shaking so badly, but I manage to secure the towel in place.

  There’s an imperative knock on the bathroom door, followed by a question in a foreign language.

  Oh gosh! It’s a man. I reach out of the curtain, fumbling for my phone sitting on the small porcelain sink basin. The man in my life closest to a Liam Neeson figure is Siena’s dad, and I’m praying he’s awake. My wet butterfingers can’t grasp the phone, though, and it clatters to the floor, tumbling toward the door.

  The man repeats his question, louder and more urgent this time. Ugh. How is it possible to take three years of a language and not be able to recognize whether that’s what’s being spoken?! Why it matters which language he’s speaking, I couldn’t tell you.

  I look around and grab the only weapon within arm’s reach: a shampoo bottle. I pull the shower curtain closed just as the door opens, and I do the only thing a person can possibly do in this scenario: scream.

  The unintelligible speaking begins again, and I’m pretty sure it’s French. If I die today, someone please inform Madame Wilson of my small linguistic victory.

  For a second, I’m torn between the need to stay in my fortress, which is a .00005-inch-thick shower curtain, and to face my assailant. I’ll have to either squirt the shampoo in his eyes or throw the bottle at his head, and for either scenario, I’ll need to see what I’m doing.

  The second option seems best. Somehow I don’t imagine a bit of eye stinging will deter this guy. Anyone who can unlock the apartment door that quickly is a foe to be reckoned with.

  I cock my arm back and rip open the shower curtain, hurtling the shampoo bottle toward the door.

  The man’s got lightning-quick reflexes, and he ducks, avoiding my assault like a black-ops ninja. Whatever that is. The important thing is this is not his first rodeo, not that the bottle would have hit him anyway. I’m a photographer, people, not Jason Bourne.

  He straightens again, hands up, looking at me like I’m a lunatic. Me, the lunatic! Can you believe this guy?! Also, at the risk of betraying how sheltered my life has been, I was not aware that cold-blooded killers were so young and attractive. The man has an impressive jaw covered in the perfect length of 5 o’clock shadow. Or 2:45 shadow, I guess, based on when I last checked my phone. Maybe that’s the perfect length?

  “Stay away,” I say, holding the shower curtain up to me in case my towel decides to abandon me. I reach behind me for the body wash, keeping my eyes on the man. Geez. He’s really young—like mid-twenties. How did he get caught up in this life?

  He’s got his hand up to protect his face, but he’s averting his gaze rather than looking at me. For some reason, it almost seems like he’s doing it to give me privacy, but more likely, he’s trying to shield his eyes in case I execute Plan B and squirt them with shower gel.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.

  Either my French abilities are way better than I gave myself or Madame Wilson credit for, or the man is speaking English. Safe to say it’s the latter option. But I mustn’t be lulled into a false sense of security.

  “Here,” he says. “I’ll close the door so you can change.” True to his word, he shuts it.

  Unexpected move for a man trying to kill me? A bit, yes. I’m beginning to second guess myself, but I keep hold of the body wash bottle just in case.

  Changing into something more secure than this small bath towel—seriously, it barely covers the essential areas—is tempting, but the idea of him charging back in while I’m mid-change keeps me in place.

  “There should be a key in the cabinet,” he says from behind the door, as though he can read my thoughts.

  I step out of the shower, keeping an eye on the door as I open the cabinet. Sure enough, there’s a key there. I insert it into the keyhole, praying that these doors lock more easily than they unlock.

  I let out a large sigh when clicks tells me I’ve succeeded.

  “I just want to talk,” he says from the other side. If it weren’t for the tiniest hint of a French accent, I might have thought he was American.

  With a tug on the handle to ensure it really is locked, I pick up my clothes—worn, wrinkly clothes—and set them on the counter. “Why are you here, and what do you want from me?”

  “I just want to know how you got into this apartment.” He sounds like he’s trying to talk down a crazy person.

  “With the keys,” I say. Does he think I Spiderman’d up the façade and slipped through a window? It was hard enough getting in the normal way.

  “Wait,” he says. “Are you Josh?”

  My hand goes to my sopping wet hair, and I glance in the mirror. Do I look like a man? Do most French men wrap a towel under their armpits to cover their pecs after showering?

  “No, Josh is my boyfriend.” Realization dawns on me. “Are you the host?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But the booking was only for one person.”

  “Yeah. Me. Madi.” I clasp my bra, then reach for my shirt. “Josh isn’t staying here. He just made the booking for me.” I don’t understand why this guy cares so much. I looked in the bedroom, and there’s a bed big enough for two there.

  I pull on my leggings and cringe. No one should ever have to put on yesterleggings. They’re like the clothing equivalent of soggy cereal—formless and droopy. But since my other clothes are partying it up in Morocco, I’m stuck with them.

  “We weren’t expecting you, you know,” the host says. “Or anyone. The second part of the payment never went through. We’ve been trying to get a hold of . . . your boyfriend, but we haven’t had any luck, so we figured no one was coming. That’s why I was so surprised to hear someone in the bathroom when I got here.”

  I pause with a droopy sock in my hand. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” Here I thought this guy was the criminal, but it’s me. I have no right to be here.

  “Go ahead and finish up,” he replies. “We’ll talk when you come out.” His footsteps fade away.

  I’m basically dressed, but I look in the small, round mirror on the wall and comb through my long, brown hair with my fingers. Without my usual conditioner it’s like trying to comb through a crocheted blanket. I’ve looked better, that’s for sure, but now is not the time to worry about that. This guy wants his money (I’m sensing a trend here in Paris), and for all I know, he’s out there holding my suitcase hostage like the taxi driver did.

  I pick up my phone from the floor—no notifications from Josh yet—and open the door, stepping out. The Airbnb host is sitting on the couch with an open folder on the coffee table in front of him. He’s looking over it with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on and a red pen in hand. It’s a very non-murdery picture. If I’d seen this view of him, I probably wouldn’t have felt the desire to summon Mr. Neeson.

  I head to the bedroom, glad the guy is occupied enough that I can manage to drag the comb through my hair before talking money. Maybe Josh will call by the time I brush through the tangles.

  “That’s my room,” he calls over to me.

  I stop in the doorway, hesitating for a second. Is that an informational comment? “Yeah,” I say with a laugh, cuz why is he making this weird? I turn to him and smile. “I promise I’ll give it back when I leave.”

  He stands up, pulling off the glasses and setting them on the coffee table. “No. I mean, you aren’t sleeping in that room.”

  Sheesh. This guy is a kill-joy. Is money all he cares about? I swipe to unlock my phone and press Josh-wah’s name. “I’ll call Josh and have him try the payment again.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Hold on,” I say as it starts ringing. I turn away, and he stops talking. If it’s as loud at Josh’s hotel as it was earlier, I’ll need all my focus to hear.

  But it goes to voicemail. I clench my eyes shut. Why can’t Josh just answer his phone every once in a while? I try him three more times, sending my host reassuring smiles over my shoulder. They get less convincing with every unanswered ring.

  So I shoot Josh a text in case he’s still in the meeting and can’t take calls, and then I watch for those three dots to tell me he’s responding.

  Nope. Nothing.

  “Why don’t we try my credit card?” I’m not particularly hopeful, since my hundred-euro payment didn’t go through less than an hour ago, but I need to do something.

  “Sure,” the guy says, pulling out his phone.

  I open the Airbnb app and navigate to the payment section, inputting my credit card details. My eyes bulge at the sum listed: over three hundred euros. And that’s only part of the total. You’d think for that much, you’d get some conditioner and a couple of throw pillows.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” I hurry to say. After chucking a shampoo bottle at this guy’s head, I’m thinking he won’t need much motivation to send me packing. I press the submit button. “There.” Josh will pay me back. In fact, we’ll be sharing finances soon enough. I’m just praying the engagement doesn’t last as long as the dating phase has.

  The guy looks down at his phone and swipes to refresh the app. He looks up at me and shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

  I look down at my phone and, sure enough, a message pops up telling me the payment declined.

  Panic starts to set in. I can’t get a hold of Josh, I have no baggage, Paris refuses to acknowledge my American credit, and I am currently trespassing on private property.

  “Lemme try on my computer,” I say.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. He’s as skeptical as I am that it’ll do anything different, but I’m desperate, and I’m secretly hoping Josh will call back while I stall. I grab my laptop out of my backpack and, after inputting the longest, most convoluted WiFi password in the history of homo sapiens—the guy has to read it to me three times—I try the payment online.

  The host stands in front of me, waiting for his money, probably ready to chuck my carry-on and precious camera gear out the window and onto those cobblestones the second it declines.

  I can already see on my end that the payment failed. You know what else failed? Whatever physiological mechanism keeps me from tearing up. My eyes are filling, and I’m about to water this laptop keyboard. I blink like a madwoman to get rid of the tears.

  “It didn’t work,” I say, shutting the laptop far too enthusiastically for someone who is about to be homeless in Paris. “I think my credit card company thinks it’s fraud.” Or maybe they just know I can’t pay them three hundred euros plus 24% interest. “But Josh should call any minute.”

  My host isn’t fooled by my brittle optimism. He’s looking at my shiny eyes, taking stock of me. He nods. “I can show you around the apartment while we wait.”

  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it all—it’s not very big—but I agree to this without hesitation. Anything to delay my eviction.

  He shows me the living area, which might as well be an IKEA display, since I’m fairly certain every single thing is from there, but it’s all worn down. We head to the kitchen after. It’s barely big enough for the two of us, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he shows me where to find the crockery and utensils. It doesn’t take long—there aren’t many of them. The fridge is hotel-room size with a freezer that might fit a frozen pizza or two if it wasn’t overgrown with freezer burn.

  “And this is the washer,” he says, pointing to the machine I noticed earlier.

  “Cool. And the dryer?”