I have a sister, no brothers, and my mom's been single most of my life. I have never shared a space with a man before. I purposely chose the women's dormitories freshman and sophomore year, so I could lounge around without makeup. Fears of snoring, his or mine, or both come to mind. Or worse . . . what if he brings a girl back here to have sex and I have to listen to it. "Surely there has to be another available room." Remembering what the guy at the desk said, 'We have one bed left.' I sigh. This is not how my trip was supposed to go. After years of dreaming of the perfect Parisian adventure, it's falling apart before I've even had a chance to see the Eiffel Tower.

"I think they're full, but I can check for you." With his hand forward, I take it to shake. His touch is warm and strong, his grip gentle but unrelenting. My eyes travel from where we're bonded up over the fitted, vintage rock tee that covers his chest past the two, or maybe three days of scruff covering his defined jaw to his full lips that hold a slight tinge of pink. His tongue slips out to wet them and my gaze darts to his eyes. He leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks, lingering longer on the right, then says, "Bonjour, je me presente. Je m'appelle Olivier DuMarche."

I don't understand most of what he just said, but I do know that Olivier DuMarche is gonna be trouble of the best kind if I'm not careful.

Chapter 2.

In high school I was salutatorian, and I'm still a little bitter about it. My position on that graduation stage had come down to one paper. I earned a perfect score. I thought I had the top title in the bag until I found out the valedictorian got a 103 by doing extra credit I wasn't aware we could do. That first major loss shaped my college career and my outlook on life. I refuse to come in second place again. So this dream trip is my last break before school starts in three weeks, my last time to let loose before the intensity of senior year kicks in.

Olivier had grabbed his leather jacket and left me alone to unpack or settle in or whatever it was I supposed to do upon arriving. But after a few minutes of freshening up, my adrenaline was overcoming any jet lag I was supposed to be having. I'm too anxious to explore to sit here any longer. My dream of being in France is too powerful to let a tired body hold me back.

After adding a pair of tights under my dress and putting my coat back on for warmth, I wander down to the street not sure which way to go and today, I don't mind. I have no schedule and no aim. It is all about living life like the French. Living the phrase 'Joie de vivre' for the first time in my life.

With all the pre-planning I've done, the carefree feeling I felt didn't seem to weigh down on me now that I was actually here despite the sensation being new.

Walking down the cobblestone street, I absorb everything-the architecture, the smells, the sounds, and the soul of Paris, breathing it in. When I turn the corner I pass a florist with buckets of colorful flowers filling the sidewalk. My mind has already committed me to daydreaming of living in Paris one day. If I lived here, I would always have fresh flowers, ones that I bought from the neighborhood florist like this. A cafe sprawls out ahead, patrons filling the tables despite the chill.

"Kandace?"

I turn toward the sound of my name and see Olivier sitting at a table near the door. He waves me over and I go with a bigger smile on my face than I want. I'm still undecided if he has earned this grin, so I try to contain it. "Hi."

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour," I say.

"Join me?"

"Merci." I sit down, then cross my ankles.

"You are sightseeing, oui?"

I nod. "I just left the hostel. Any recommendations of places I should visit in the area?"

"Kandace, you must learn to slow down and enjoy. It's a beautiful day made for enjoying, not rushing around. Have a drink with me. We can celebrate your arrival."

The way he says my name and the excitement in his eyes makes me want to stay exactly where we are. "You're right. I have days."

"And tonight."

I catch his eyes on me, intense with a spark of something more. With all the possibility that resides in the blues of his irises, it's easy to be attracted to him. Sidetracked might be a better word though, so I turn away. Looking out over the quiet street, the sun hits. Just as I reach into my purse to pull out my sunglasses, he says, "You have beautiful green eyes. Tis a shame you must cover them, my Americain Rayon de Soleil." Self talk is a standard for me, but in this moment, all advice I'd normally give myself silently, leaves me under his compliment. "You blush so easily, like a rose," he says.

"I'm not used to compliments."

"Non? But you're so delicate and . . ." he waves his hand as if the gesture is all that is needed. "Enchanting."

"You're too kind."

"I only speak the truth. There is no reason to hide behind pretenses. We are friends. Oui?"

"Oui," I reply.

"Tres bien."

The waiter arrives and as Olivier speaks I'm drawn to the sound of his tongue as it slides over the words so provocatively. I find myself staring at his mouth until words end and a cocky grin appears. When I look up, he asks, "Distracted?"

"Very much so." I clear my throat and try to do the same for the dirty thoughts crossing my mind. "I just remembered I forgot to turn off my iron," I lie. "I should probably call my roommate and make sure the apartment is still there." I start to stand, so embarrassed, but stop when his warm hand lands on mine.

"Stay. I just ordered for us."

"You did?" He nods once while his eyes stay directed on me, seeming to see through my lie. I ease down again, relaxing back into the chair again. "I want to see the Eiffel Tower."

"Ahhh, the elusive Tour Eiffel."

I laugh. "You're being sarcastic."

"Just a wee bit."

"Don't mock me. I've waited my whole life to be here. I plan to do the touristy thing. I need to see it all."

"I could show you a few sites."

The waiter arrives with wine, a baguette and butter before I think too deep into the offer. He fills our glasses then leaves again.

"Wine? Are you trying to get me drunk in the afternoon?"

He laughs. "Will a few glasses of wine get you drunk?"

"Probably."

"Bottoms up." Holding up his glass, he says, "a la votre."

Tapping mine against his, I say, "a la votre."

One bottle leads to two and I'm toast. All the bread in Paris can't stop the world from spinning. With Olivier's arm around my waist and my arm over his shoulder, together we stumble back to the hostel before the sun sets. It's innocent enough, though I find my body leaning on him more than I probably needed to.

The redhead waiting in the lobby for him is not as amused by our laughter or that we're touching, much less draped on each other . . . even if platonically. She yells at Olivier in French as he smiles, dropping his arm from me to go to her. As he speaks, his voice is calm and I can just make out that he's telling her we are only friends. Even with a cloudy mind, it sounds more like placating if I'm judging, which I am. The redhead slaps Olivier across the face and pushes between us to exit.

When the door slams closed, I turn to him, wide-eyed and in shock as he rubs his cheek. His lids grow heavy again as if that was merely a disruption and he offers his hand out to me. When I take it, he starts walking and says, "We must sleep together."

Stopping instantly, I shake my head. "Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. No."

"Whoa?" he questions, confusion coloring his expression.

"We can't sleep together." My voice gets pitchy and my words come out faster. "I'm not going to sleep with you."

His words slur, the wine winning. "Kanndeeese, sleep," he says, closing his eyes, but not releasing my hand in a half-attempt to show me what he means. When he opens them again, a big smile appears. "Sleep. Comprendre?"

Nodding, I reply, "Sleep. Oui."

My heartbeat picks up speeding past our pace as we take each step of the four flights. His hand remains warm as I feel my body begin to freeze up from nerves. It's been months since I had a date much less held hands or 'slept' with someone. With a quick glance over his shoulder, our eyes meeting in the moment, he smiles-confident, but comforting. The door is opened and our hands fall apart. I walk past him and go to my case to dig out my toothbrush, paste, and pajamas as he silently takes his jacket off. Holding the brush and toothpaste in the air, I say, "I'll be back," as if I need to explain to him why I'm leaving.

I hurry out of the room and into the hallway while rolling my eyes at myself. The awkwardness I was dreading when we came up here takes over my body. Walking down the hall, I go inside the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Leaning against the hollow wood door, I look in the mirror. Maybe it's the drunk goggles I'm looking through, but I don't look as bad as I thought I would.

After brushing my teeth and finishing up in the bathroom, I enter the room again. Closing the door softly behind me, I wait in the dimly lit room, unsure if Olivier is still awake. When my eyes adjust to the low light, I tiptoe forward. His body is still as he lays on the lower bunk bed. With just the little nightstand lamp on, I see him turn. The energy we had earlier alters into something else causing my breath to slow like my pace. My gulp is hard, but I hope he doesn't hear. I tuck my toiletries back into the bag on top of my suitcase.

"Come here," he says, watching my every move.

Going against all my typical instincts, I walk closer and sit down on the bed near his feet. He takes my hand and says, "Trust me. Sleep. That's all."

There's a saying that you shouldn't trust people who say trust me. As my mind runs over all the reasons I shouldn't climb into bed next to him, my body is already going against the rationale. He lifts the covers as I lift my legs and slip under the sheet. I try not to think about how many people have slept in this bed or used this pillow or the thin, scratchy blanket, and I definitely don't want to think about the redhead who slapped him. Instead I lay here, the top of my head leaning against the side of his. His fingers intertwine with mine. His skin is a little rough, something I hadn't noticed on our walk home, but I like it.

He clears his throat, then whispers, "Are you tired?"

"No," I whisper back.

While staring up at the bottom of the top bed, I feel his breath before I feel his forehead against my cheek. I stay still. His lips press lightly to my skin, alighting every nerve in my body. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the subtle touch right before it disappears. I keep my eyes closed a moment longer so I don't seem desperate.

"Bon soir, my Americain Rayon de Soleil."

I exhale a shaky breath as quietly as I can, and reply, "Bon soir."

The lamp is turned off and we lay there in the dark, wide awake, trying to regulate our breathing to sound normal. Judging by my racing heart, I'm anything but normal right now. Every sound in the room and noise from the street below is magnified until he squeezes my hand. The gesture is reassuring and I settle down, closing my eyes again.

My first day in Paris and I'm falling asleep next to one of the most handsome men I've ever seen and he's French. I swoony-sigh, then eventually fall asleep next to Olivier.

Chapter 3.

The bed dips and I feel cold. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

I was wide awake at three in the morning. Just after five I fell asleep again. I never moved from my spot. It felt too good in the nook of Olivier's arm, pressed against his body, so I stayed.

The door shuts and I stare at the back of it. While he's gone down the hall, I quickly cup my hand in front of my mouth and huff, smelling my breath. Fortunately it's not bad. Phew! I pull my t-shirt down to cover my waist just as the door reopens, startling me.

"You're awake," Olivier says. He stops just inside the room and looks past me toward the window. "I need to go. I have work. D'accord? Sorry," he says, running his hands through his shaggy morning hair. "Okay?"

I look at him, but remain lying down and pull the covers up to my neck, suddenly feeling too exposed and vulnerable in the light of the new day. "Okay."

He walks to a chair and grabs the shirt he wore last night. As he pulls it over his head, I admire his body. His stomach is more defined than any of the guys I've dated before. I can tell he's more into how he looks, and puts effort into it, staying in shape more than my last boyfriend who was a bio-chem major.

As he tugs at the long sleeves of the blue Henley, I ask, "What do you do? For work?"

"Odd jobs for cash. Today, I'm working down at a flower shop on La Rive Gauche." With socks and shoes in hand, he sits on the end of the bed and asks, "What about you, Kandace?"

"I'm in school. University."

With a nod, he looks back down and finishes getting dressed. He stands up. "What university?"

"Barnard College."

"Ahhh, New York City."

"Yes, how did you know that?"

He laughs, but I'm not in on the inside joke. Grabbing his jacket that hangs from the corner of the bed frame, he says, "I hope you get to see le Tour Eiffel. Au revoir." Leaving the room before I have a chance to say goodbye, I'm left totally confused by him. But confusion over men is nothing new. I've spent time on my future. Men have always come secondary or even third or fourth. Most days they don't make my list of priorities at all if I'm completely honest. I'm looking for love that sweeps me off my feet.

Tired of analyzing my dating situation, I flip the covers from my body and get out of bed. I lay my suitcase on the floor and open it, getting my stuff for the day out of it because Paris awaits.

I stop into a bakery for a croissant, feeling more like a local just having the French pastry in my hands. Walking along the narrow street, I turn a corner and look in all directions. I'm not sure where I am exactly, but I know where I want to go. Sitting down on a nearby bench, I pull my small map out of my purse and try to get my bearings without being obvious that I'm using a map to do so. I wish my phone worked over here. I could GPS it so easily, but I don't have it, so old school it is.

When I figure out which direction I want to go, I walk with purpose.

The Louvre is even more beautiful than I ever imagined. I take the long route and wander the halls, losing hours to the beauty of art and design. Extra time is spent with the Venus de Milo statue-the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, admiring her beauty and seeking her strength.

I leave the museum when the sun is low in the sky. I'm not sure how I'm getting back to the hostel, but considering it took me so long to walk here, I can't do the same walk back. Tucking my camera into my bag, I head to the nearest side street away from the chaos of the Louvre crowds and hail a cab.

The cabbie looks at me in the mirror as I slide inside, "Where you going?"

"You speak English," I ask, surprised.

The cab driver rests his arm on the back of his seat, turning toward me. "Here's a little tip for you. Most French speak English. They just choose not to let you in on their secret." He turns back and laughs. Looking at me in the rearview mirror, he asks again, "Where to?"

I show him the piece of paper with the address written on it. He doesn't say anything, but takes off so fast that I fall back in my seat. Fifteen minutes later, I exhale loudly, relieved we're alive. I don't think I'll ever get used to the driving here.

After paying, I enter the hostel. "Kandeese," the guy who checked me in greets me with a wide smile. A different girl from yesterday sits on his lap on the green sofa. He physically picks the girl up and sets her down next to him before standing. "We did not officially meet yesterday." With his hand out, he says, "I'm Stefan." When I take his hand to shake, he immediately turns it, bringing it to his lips. If I'm not mistaken, I feel his tongue touch my skin . . . and I'm totally grossed out. "Enchante," he adds.

"Bonjour," I manage to say just as the door to my right opens. We turn and see Olivier enter. He looks tired. His eyes go from Stefan's and my adjoined hands, then we make eye contact but he doesn't say anything. He walks past us, the door hitting the wall after he opens it, and he goes upstairs.

Pulling my hand and wiping it down my skirt, the girl on the couch says something. It sounds a lot like she's upset with Stefan. She stands and walks to the door, Stefan immediately following with his hands in the air in frustration as he gripes back at her.

Not wanting to stay for the rest of their show, I head upstairs. I stop on the third flight, my feet still throbbing from dressing for style instead of comfort while walking the large museum today. The door is cracked open. The room is lit by the lamp instead of the overhead light. Feeling like I'm interrupting the silence, I walk in slowly, then shut the door behind me. "Hi," I whisper.