“I’m free as a bird until Christmas break ends.”

  I smile, unable to stop my relief and the anticipation of spending another day with him. Don’t get me wrong, kissing Rémy blew my mind. But I genuinely enjoy being with him even without being liplocked.

  “There’s just one thing,” he says.

  “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

  He wets his lips, and immediately my shoulder devil is whispering in my ear that maybe the one thing is that we need to kiss again just to, you know, get it entirely out of our systems.

  “I think we might need to set some boundaries,” he says with a little hesitation.

  Poof, shoulder devil.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, totally. For sure. Yep. Boundaries.”

  “Just a few lines to help us . . .”

  “Stay in the lines.” I’m so eloquent.

  “Yeah.”

  “Smart,” I say even as I see Siena wielding a giant eraser and watching us with an evil smile. “What sort of lines are you thinking?”

  He taps a finger on the table. “Well, for one, no kissing.”

  I nod. That’s an obvious one. And yet also somehow still disappointing to hear him say.

  “Hugging should probably be a line.”

  I nod again. I feel like I should contribute something. “No holding hands? I feel like that might have been where this all started for me.”

  “It started before that for me, but yeah . . .”

  That sends a jolt through me. It. I want so badly to follow up on that word, to know what exactly he means by it. And how long it has been going on.

  “I guess that means no metro and no elevators today,” he says.

  “I don’t know. I’m getting better.” Or maybe I’m not. Maybe without Rémy’s hand, without his lips on mine, I’ll be back to square one. “It’s silly, I know. You’d think I’d have grown out of needing to hold someone’s hand when I’m scared.”

  “Do people ever grow out of that? I think we all just figure out how to pretend we don’t want a hand to hold.”

  I meet his gaze, unsure how to respond to that. Josh teased me a lot for the whole hand-holding thing. It wasn’t rude teasing, but it still made me feel childish. But what Rémy is saying . . . it makes sense.

  “Maybe you’re right. I don’t remember much about my dad dying except for being in the hospital a lot and holding his hand whenever I was there. And then when my mom broke the news to us that he was gone, she held my and my brother’s hands. I guess it became a thing for me.”

  Rémy’s mouth is turned down at the sides, his face thoughtful as he looks at me. “If you need my hand, Madi, you can hold it, okay? We’re friends.” He meets my gaze to ensure I know he means it.

  “Thank you.” Even as I say it, I know I can’t do it. Rémy may be able to hold the line while also holding my hand. I don’t think I can. I’m not ambidextrous, people. “Any other lines?”

  “Yeah,” he says, relaxing a bit and sitting back with his arms crossed. “No laughing.”

  I raise my brows.

  His mouth curls up at the side. “Your laugh is . . . well, it just makes it harder for me. So if you could just, you know, not.” He tries to control his amusement by pulling his lips between his teeth. Then he wets his lips again.

  “That.” I point to his lips. “That’s a line.”

  He stops mid lip-rubbing. “Um, okay. I’ll . . . do what I can.”

  “Me too.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MADI

  Operation: Just Friends goes more smoothly than I had anticipated. Overall, at least. There are . . . moments, though, when failure looms on the horizon.

  It is a frigid day, first of all, which makes snuggling up to someone all the more tempting.

  Secondly, four or five times, one or the other of us says “Line!” seemingly out of nowhere to signal that something is making it harder to keep the boundaries we’ve set. In retrospect, I’m not sure calling attention to those things is actually serving our best interests, since whenever Rémy says it, I just want to do the thing more.

  Thirdly, I do not manage to keep from laughing. Far from it. But I don’t feel too bad about it because it’s Rémy’s fault I’m laughing so much and also, friends laugh together. Otherwise, what is even the point?

  Our day consists of a visit to Luxembourg Gardens and the Jardin des Plantes. They’re not as vibrant as they’d be in summer, according to Rémy, but I love them all the same. After that, we’ve had enough of the cold to opt for an indoor activity, which takes us (via metro with no hand holding, I might add) to see the Sainte Chapelle and the Conciergerie, which are an absolute feast for the eyes.

  When Rémy takes my camera in hand and insists on taking some photos of me inside with super tricky lighting, I almost jump off the friend ship altogether.

  We’re warm enough—and hungry enough—after that to make our way to the Christmas market at Notre Dame.

  “What sounds good?” Rémy asks as we stroll past the offerings.

  “Raclette again,” I say. “And another crepe.”

  He looks over at me with a smile that’s made me consider yelling out, “Line!” about seventy times today. It doesn’t seem fair to tell him he can’t smile, though, so I’ve refrained.

  “You are a creature of habit, aren’t you?” he says.

  “What?!” I pretend to be offended. “I’m the very definition of spontaneous and adventu—okay, what gave me away? Is it the baguette and Camembert for breakfast every day? That’s your fault, you know. I was perfectly content with my Kraft singles and Wonder Bread.”

  “Kraft singles?” he asks with a furrowed brow.

  “Don’t ask. They’d obliterate your opinion of America. Same with Cheese Whiz. Though, if you like Finger Lickin’ Chicken . . .”

  He bumps me with his arm, making me stumble a bit to the side.

  “Line,” we say simultaneously.

  I laugh, and he says, “Line” again, but I can tell he’s half-teasing, and that makes me blush. This is one of those moments where I think we’re not doing nearly as well at this mission as we had hoped. Once you’ve crossed a bridge like this with someone, it’s really hard to walk backwards over it and pretend it doesn’t exist. You can ignore it, sure, but you find yourself using stepping stones to get you right back to the other side.

  My phone buzzes with a notification—a private message on Instagram from a name I don’t recognize. I scan it quickly, expecting one of the spam messages I get. But it’s not. It’s a girl named Linnae asking if I’m available to take pictures for her in a few days. She’s offering $500, which is quite a bit more than I charge for a couples’ session. It’s simultaneously flattering and unfortunate, since I could sure use $500.

  Madi: I’m actually in Paris right now, or else I would love to! If you still need someone when I get back, I’d be more than happy to schedule something with you.

  I start to exit the app, but she’s already typing back.

  Linnae: I’m in Paris too! I was hoping you’d be able to do it here. Like you did for Laura.

  “What is it?” Rémy asks, watching my reaction.

  “Someone saw the picture I took of Laura and Luke, and she wants me to take pictures of her and her boyfriend. Here in Paris. For $500.”

  “That’s amazing,” Rémy says. “I mean, it’s no surprise . . .”

  “It is to me.” I twist my mouth to the side, looking at Linnae’s message. “I feel like I should decline. Anyone offering that much money is expecting more than I can safely promise.”

  Rémy takes me by the shoulders and looks straight into my eyes. “I’ve seen the pictures you take, Madi. You are worth every penny of that and more. If you don’t want to do it, don’t. But if all that’s keeping you from saying yes is fear? You’ve shown that you’re more than capable of conquering those over the last few days.”

  Keeping my eyes on him, I nod silently. He believes in me more than I believe in myself, and it makes me want to see myself as he sees me.

  I message back and forth with Linnae a bit more, and we settle on a time to meet. She wants to do the pictures in Montmartre, and Rémy offers to take me there beforehand so we can scope out the location and find the best spots.

  Once we’ve got full bellies and hot chocolates in hand, we decide to brave the elements for a river cruise.

  “It’s a great way to see the city,” Rémy says. “But it’ll be . . .”

  “Frigid? I know. But we can take the metro back home, right? And then we can recover in the warmth of the apartment, so I can survive until then.”

  There is a reason weathermen talk about the “wind chill factor.” This is what I have learned since boarding this Seine River cruise. It’s not like we’re on a speedboat or anything, but we are moving, and it’s fast enough that there’s a definite wind chill to add to the low temperatures. It’s probably why we are two of twelve people on this cruise. The empty seats contain the ghosts of those wiser than us, taunting us for our bad judgment.

  If I didn’t have some distractions—the tour guide’s heavily accented information, for one, and the views of the city, for another—I would be shivering uncontrollably. Rémy has offered me his coat twice, but there’s no way I’m depriving him of it. It’s not like he’s working up a sweat. In fact, I could swear there was one point where he looked longingly at the river, like maybe it would be warmer to swim than continue on the boat, and we all know how Rémy feels about swimming in the Seine.

  We settle for sitting as close as possible to one another to share some arm heat, if nothing else. I can think of a few ways to generate more heat, but not only are they in blatant violation of our rules, but I’m not big on PDA.

  All I want is to sit right next to Rémy, warm from my shoulder to my elbow, but the sites are calling to me, so I reluctantly stand up and head to the side of the boat. I try to operate my camera, but my fingers are completely useless.

  Rémy joins me and gives it a shot. He manages a couple of hard-won pictures that are actually really well done. Sure, I helped him get settings right—night photography is a whole different beast—but his composition ain’t too shabby.

  “You’re doing me proud,” I say, teeth chattering. “A straight-A student.”

  “Too bad I make a living as a teacher,” he replies, pressing the shutter again like all of our fingers aren’t about to snap off.

  It’s so frigid, I feel guilty for leaving my bra outside Rémy’s window in weather like this.

  “Thankfully, I can now also vouch for your teaching skills.” He hands the camera back to me, and I handle it clumsily because my fingers have the same grasping capabilities as my toes right now—if I even have toes anymore. I haven’t felt them for a while.

  “After one French lesson?” he asks.

  “Mais oui,” I say. “It doesn’t take long to know a good teacher.”

  “I can’t just be good, though. I’ve got to be the best.”

  “Rémy,” I say, leaning an elbow on the side rail and looking up at him. “Anybody who has talked to you for ten seconds couldn’t doubt you are the best person for that job at Bellevue. Have a little faith in yourself.” Look at me, giving pep talks about things I personally struggle with. Why is it so much easier to believe in others than it is to believe in myself?

  He stares at me silently for a second, and the way he does it has a red, flashing LINE sign going off in my head.

  “Besides,” I say, turning my gaze back to the city in an effort Hercules would appreciate, “if you don’t get the job, you can always come teach French in the States—fulfill your dream of living in America.” I shoot him a glance from the corner of my eye, and he’s got that lopsided smile it feels like my life mission to produce.

  “Is that right, Stars and Stripes?”

  “Firstly, major line. You know how it makes me feel when you talk about Old Glory. Secondly, yes, it is right. You would do a much better job than a lot of the English teachers I had. And then there’s always the option of being an assistant in my rapidly growing photography empire.” I tap through the photos Rémy has taken from the riverboat.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I stop on a shot of Pont Neuf and stare at it for a second. “Actually, job offer retracted. You’re on pace to eclipse me, and I have a very fragile ego.”

  He looks at me with eyes that twinkle more captivatingly than the Eiffel Tower. If I were confident my lips were at more than 20% functioning capacity in this cold, I would kiss him right here and now. And I could swear he’s having the same thoughts.

  It’s probably for the best that I pre-fired him. If Rémy was my assistant, I don’t think we would get much photography done.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  RÉMY

  Once the cruise ends, we hurry off the boat as fast as our frozen legs will carry us and head straight for the metro, which is surprisingly busy for a Monday night. I glance at Madi as we near the entrance to the station, where the stairs are jammed with incoming and outgoing passengers. Given that she’s making a bee-line down the stairs already, she doesn’t seem to mind.

  It’s significantly warmer once we get out of the stairway, and she rubs her hands together like we’re standing in front of a fire as we line up for the machines. I’m just waiting for her to realize how crowded it is, but she slips through the turnstile like a pro. I don’t even know if she remembers I’m here behind her, honestly, and while that’s no self-esteem boost, I’m also happy for her. It’s a lot of progress in a short amount of time.

  We get to the fork in the path where we have to choose which direction of train to take, and she turns around, looking to me for guidance. I’m not mad about it; it’s nice to know she still needs me a bit.

  When we get to the platform, it’s a zoo. An announcement comes on informing us that there are delays on this line. Bad timing. It only takes a bit of eavesdropping on nearby conversations to understand that there are bigger crowds than usual at this station tonight.

  “Sounds like there was a big Christmas concert nearby,” I explain to Madi. The platform is chock-full as people wait for the next train. Someone brushes past, and I stabilize Madi with a hand on her arm as she gets bumped and jostled. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Okay with it?” she asks. “If you try to take me back outside again, you will have to pull me kicking and screaming.”

  I smile. “Just checking.”

  By the time the train slows to a stop in front of the full platform, there are people lined up all the way from the hall, just waiting to squeeze onto the platform. The subtle but continuous tug on my coat tells me Madi’s keeping a hold on me that way. I don’t blame her. It would be pretty easy to lose each other in this crush.

  The train cars are already pretty full, which means there’s no way in Hades that even half the people waiting can fit on board. Thankfully, Madi and I are close enough that we end up inside the nearest train car. It’s not like we had much choice in the matter. The herd dictated our movements, and I kept my arm around her because it was clear that her hold on my jacket might not be sufficient. Yeah, it’s a line, but I’m more worried about getting separated from her right now than I am about following the rules.

  And now we are sardines, packing as many of us as possible inside while people search for the nearest bar or seat to hold onto. Madi and I find ourselves pushed right up against the one floor-to-ceiling bar in this area of the car. It’s already covered in hands except for a space at the top and one a bit lower down. I have easier access to it, so I slip my hand into the lower space before it gets taken, just as someone takes the upper one.

  The train car jerks forward, and I grab Madi around the waist to keep her from falling into those behind her. That would start a game of dominoes nobody wants to play. Her feet shuffle a bit as she tries to find her equilibrium, just like everyone else is doing, and she holds onto me because it’s either that or grabbing a stranger. Lines and rules are out the window right now. We couldn’t be much closer than we are. If hugging like Americans greet each other is considered the second base of intimate greetings, being in this metro car is a home run.

  I try to draw the boundaries in my mind that are nonexistent for my body, ignoring the slope of Madi’s waist under my hand and the press of her body against mine.

  The train car is swimming with scents—perfume, food, body odor, and minty gum, to name a few I recognize. The body odor is winning out, though, and Madi’s nose wrinkles as she looks at me to see if I’m smelling it too.

  I am. Very much.

  I grimace. The Paris metro in the summer is body odor central, but the winter months are usually a bit of a respite. Not today. Somebody must have gotten too close to the chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

  It’s already toasty in here, and it’s no wonder. Everyone is dressed for freezing temperatures rather than this sudden oven on train tracks. Keeping his hold of the bar, the man next to me starts shrugging out of his coat, as if there’s plenty of room for everyone to be shimmying and wriggling like fish on hooks.

  And then it hits me: a giant whiff of BO. I know it hits Madi, too, because she freezes against me, her nostrils flared, and her eyes alert. Her wide gaze shifts up to me, then to the guy next to us, whose sweat-darkened armpit is hovering directly above us as he holds tight to the bar.

  Madi covers a cough with her hand, ducking her head closer to me, right up against my chest. Suddenly, she grabs the lapels of my coat, using them to pull her up and me down. Oh my gosh, she’s going to kiss me to distract herself from the—

  “I’m just going to be smelling your cologne for the foreseeable future,” she whispers in my ear. “Lemme know when it’s safe to come up for air.” And then she disappears again, holding my lapels and using them as insulators around her head to keep the stench out.