"Bonjour," Olivier responds quietly. He lies on the bed, his legs sprawled out, his shoes still on.

Not sure what to do-check on him, go to dinner and give him some time alone, ignore it all and go to bed, I go to my suitcase and pretend to busy myself. Considering I just got here yesterday, this is already feeling too heavy. I get my sneakers out, then slip them on. Grabbing my purse and a sweater, I'm about to head for the door to leave, when he calls me. "Kandace?"

Standing at the end of the bunk beds, I look over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

The springs of the mattress protest as he gets up, coming closer. He stops right in front of me. He leans in so close, his lips almost to mine. I stop breathing and close my eyes. I hear shuffling as he reaches past me. I open my eyes. He's holding his jacket that was hanging behind me and he asks, "Do you have plans tonight?"

I exhale louder than I mean, my breath coming out as a sigh. "No. I'm hungry, so I thought I'd go out and find a restaurant nearby."

With a firm smirk in place, he asks, "Can I come with you?"

His sexy ways are gonna be the death of me, but he's totally irresistible, so I reply, "Yes."

With my heart still racing with a million and one different emotions, I grip my sweater and purse tighter as he slips his jacket on and we walk out the door together. The small lobby is empty and we leave, silence holding us together.

Once outside, I put my sweater on and let him lead since he knows Paris. With my hands tucked in my sweater pockets, I ask, "Why are you here?"

"I like you. I wanted to spend more time with you. It's easy to be with you."

"I'll take the compliment, but I meant Paris staying in a hostel. Are you not from Paris," I say, nudging him with my elbow playfully.

"Why does anyone end up in Paris-debt, a girl, bad guys, parent problems, the draw of the big city."

"That's a lot of reasons."

He replies with a laugh, but it's tethered to deeper emotions. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

I stop walking and gasp, shocked by the question. With my hands on my hips, I ask, "Do you think I would have slept with you if I had a boyfriend?"

This time his laugh is hardy and loud, causing me to look around to verify we're not making a scene on the street. Stepping closer, Olivier takes my hands from my hips fighting the resistance on my part. When my body finally slacks, he holds my hands in his and smiles at me. "I don't think anything bad about you. I do think you're ehhh, how do you say, virginal, not deflowered."

My mouth drops open. "Oh my God, we can just stop with this conversation right now."

He's even more charming than usual when he seems so concerned about me. "I make you uncomfortable?"

"You make me uncomfortable. Yes." I pull my sweater tight as I cross my arms over my chest and begin walking again.

Jogging to catch up, he bumps into me. "Kandace, I'm sorry." His accent seems to thicken through the sincerity of his words. "I do not mean to make you feel this way. I only meant, I do not think you are slutty."

"Ugh. Just stop already. It's getting worse, not better. I think there's a language barrier or this whole conversation is lost in translation. It's best if we just end it and get some food." I walk away hoping he joins me though I'm still a little frustrated being called a virgin by him. How would he know anything about my sexual history? I've had sex and I don't have to prove otherwise to him. If I don't come off easy, that's not a bad thing in my book.

This time he moves in front of me, forcing me to stop and face him. His eyes roam my heated face and I involuntarily lick my lips when his blues focus on them. There's no assured smile that follows. Instead, he looks me in the eyes and says, "I meant no offense." His accent is so light that I don't notice it at all. I realize in twenty-four hours I'm already getting used to him. He's become a part of my Paris world so much so that no matter how out of sorts I momentarily feel, being around him also brings me comfort. "I'm sorry."

"Merci," I reply, trying to get us back on track and get myself back in the spirit of the country I'm visiting. After eyeing the bistro up ahead, I smile, feeling better already. "How about this place?"

"Tres bien." And like that, the captivating Frenchman has wooed me back into his good graces.

Chapter 4.

"Vous etes vingt et un?" he asks. Bizarrely, this is one of the phrases I remember from the class for some reason.

"I'll be twenty-two in two days."

"Birthday in Paris. Sounds planned."

"Very much so."

We paid our check already, but have half the bottle left to finish. He leans forward, the bottle of sparkling wine and two plates with no food left on them remain on the table between us. Resting his head on his hand, he looks me over again. I blush, still not used to how intensely he stares at me. "Why are you alone in Paris on your birthday?"

I turn the champagne glass around on top of the small wooden table. "Because I couldn't find anyone to come with me."

Sitting back, he scans the bistro. When I look around, I notice it's crowded, more so now than when we arrived. Couples surround us, their love evident by how they speak to each other in whispers and body language. I ask, "Who was that girl yesterday?"

By how his eyes stay focused on his lap, I determine this might be a touchy subject, but the slap is a bigger indicator than that. Topping off my glass, he says, "An ex-girlfriend."

"When did you break it off with the ex?"

Waving his finger, affirming my point, he replies, "I might have forgotten that step."

With a laugh, I pick up my glass, and say, "It's an important step." I take a couple of sips and set the glass back down.

Olivier rubs his cheek as if he can still feel the burn. "I have learned that lesson."

"The hard way." When he looks at me curiously, I quickly add, "That's just a phrase. You got slapped. That's the hard way to learn a lesson."

"The more painful way."

"Yes."

"And you? Are there exes in your past?"

Shyly, I look back at the bubbles in my glass. "One or two."

"No more than that?"

"I study. A lot."

"For what?"

After taking another sip, I reply, "For me. I have to be the best."

"Why?"

"Because coming in second sucks."

He chuckles. "You are tight, Kandace."

"Tight?" I try to figure out what that means. "Ohhh, you mean uptight?"

"Yes, this uptight. That is you. Have you ever not planned and just acted before?"

"Sure," I say, shrugging and hoping I believe my own answers.

"What about love? Have you loved? Deeply?"

"I've loved," I reply a little on the snarky side and with a half eye-roll.

"I don't know if I believe you."

"I don't care what you believe." I direct my attention outside to the sidewalk and the people passing by.

"I think you do, but that's neither here nor there." He waves his hand dismissively. "I can show you what it means to be free from the shackle you've placed around your heart and then, only then, will you discover how to really live life."

"I don't have a shackle around my heart. Just because I like to work hard and for that hard work to pay off doesn't mean I'm not living."

"That's the shackle speaking."

"Shackles don't speak." Defensively, I snap, "And I do not have a shackle around my heart." Leaning forward and with an irritated, hushed tone, I add, "So kindly refrain from talking about my heart or me when you really know nothing about either."

Running his hand through his hair, his expression warns me I've hit a nerve as his aggravation takes over. "Americaine typiquement tetue. Meme si elle a les yeux verts les plus sexy qui soient et un corps a faire rever, elle est frustrante! " Spoken too fast for me to interpret, he then stands abruptly holding his hand out and says, "We shall leave now."

"All of that meant you want to leave?"

"No, it meant . . . never mind. Let's go."

With the acceptance of his hand I know I'm agreeing to more than leaving the restaurant. Maybe it's the champagne taking over my brain, but I'm okay with that. This passionate man has stirred all kinds of new sensations within me and if I'm not careful, I just might end up in his bed for more than sleeping tonight. "C'est la vie."

Hand in hand, we walk out the door. Outside, we walk down the street in the opposite direction of the hostel. "Where are we going?" I ask.

"C'est la vie, Kandace."

And like that, I let Olivier lead.

The last place I expected to end up was in a loud, extremely crowded neon light flashing nightclub in the bowels of some dirty part of Paris. This is what I get for trusting a stranger . . . practical stranger. Whatever Olivier is to me now.

I stand against the wall where he left me to retrieve drinks. The couple next to me are so up on each other that I'm not sure laws aren't being broken. But maybe French law is looser . . . like them. I shake my shoulders hoping to loosen up a bit myself. When I look toward the bar again, I've lost sight of Olivier. Panicky, I scan the entire length of the metal bar, but don't find him. Lifting up on my toes, I search the club for his head above the crowd. When I still don't see him, I work my way through the club in the direction of the last place I saw him.

My heart is racing as I hurry around, thinking he might have left me here. I stop at the edge of the dance floor, wondering if he decided to dance with someone . . . someone other than me.

I'm grabbed by the waist suddenly and his voice is at my ear. "Miss me?"

Calm washes over me as I turn in his arms. "Might have."

"Good." He holds me tightly, our faces close, our lips even closer. "I ran into friends. Our drinks are at their table. C'mon."

I follow him until we're standing in front of a grouping of modern leather white benches. Olivier slips around the coffee table and three people part letting him sit down. He scoots to the side and pats the bench while looking at me. "Pardonnez-moi," I say, stepping over their feet and squeeze in next to him.

After introductions they start talking, but it's loud, too loud to really hear what they're saying and I don't think I would understand anyway. And here I thought a quick semester of basic French would get me by. I didn't realize how submerged I'd be in the culture. I feel fortunate to see the 'real' lives of the French people and a little embarrassed of what I imagined their lives to be. I pictured everyone leading glamorous lives. They are just like my friends back home. I giggle to myself and Olivier bumps me. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing really."

"I like seeing your smile."

I turn to look at him. "Really?"

"Yes. Really." His eyelids dip closed before slowly reopening. "I think you're-"

He's grabbed by the girl next to him before he finishes his sentence. Her hand remains holding his arm as I wait patiently. I watch as he leans in and she presses her mouth to his ear. He nods and smiles. She laughs with a head toss of her hair. I touch my own hair wondering what it looks like and hoping it's not gone frizzy.

Olivier laughs, his attention still on the other girl, but then his hand lands on my leg, giving me a little squeeze. He says something to her, then sits up bringing his body closer to mine again. "My apologies," he starts. "As I was saying, I think you're very beautiful, but you know this, Kandace."

He may have said that before, but it will never get old. When I look down, my face heating from his sweet attention, the side of my head rubs against his cheek. I stay, momentarily, liking this too much, liking him too much. When my eyes meet his again, I see the devil. Trouble never looked so tempting. My breath weighs down on my chest and I lick my lips in preparation . . .

His gaze lands on my mouth and I can almost feel the sweet pressure of his lips kissing mine. "Drink?" he asks, holding his empty glass.

"Olivier?" the guy on the other side of me calls him, shaking his empty beer bottle.

They chat a moment and he stands. The moment is lost, so when he looks to me again with questioning eyes, I reply, "Oui." Meaning yes to anything and everything with him, but I'll take a drink for starters.

As soon as Olivier is gone, the guy next to me leans closer. "Only English?"

"Juste un peu de francais." I smile and use my hands to show just a little French.

"My name is Savi." His own smile is big, but a little on the smarmy side. "I've been to LA and Las Vegas."

"I've never been to either. I'm an East Coast girl. Are they nice?"

"They are fun. Pretty women." He holds his hands in front of his chest to signal big boobs. Fortunately, he doesn't say it.

Feeling uneasy, I shift. "I should help Olivier carry the drinks."

His words are rushed, but I hear him say, "Do you like sex?"

Shocked, I ask, "What?

"Make love. Have you let a Frenchman make love to you?"

I stand. "I've gotta go." Working my way out of the group, I head toward the bar. I find Olivier just as he turns. His expression coats my insides, making me wonder if it's possible to fall in love with someone in less than forty-eight hours. Maybe anything is possible in Paris. It is the most romantic city in the world, after all.

With the drinks between us, he leans in and whispers, "One more drink, then we go."