And just about had the wind knocked out of her when someone slammed into her side.

Swearing out loud as she was spun around, she put her arm out to catch herself. A pimply teenager was mumbling what sounded like elaborate apologies, but with her evaporating tenth-grade knowledge of French, he could have been telling her off for running into him, for all she knew. She was going to choose to believe it was the apologizing thing.

Embarrassed, she waved the kid away, gesturing as best she could to show that she was fine. As he gave one last attempt at mollifying her, she glanced around. A shockingly attractive guy with dark hair and the kind of jaw that drove women to paint stood behind her, perusing a French-language newspaper with apparent disinterest and a furrow of impatience on his brow. The rest of the people in line wore similar expressions.

She turned from the kid, giving him her best New Yorker cold shoulder. The lady at the register, at least, didn’t seem to be in any big rush. Kate managed a quick “Désolé”—sorry—as she moved forward to rest her hands on the counter. She could do this. She smiled again, focusing to try to summon the words she’d practiced to her lips. “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”

Nope, not nearly as pretty as it had sounded in her head, but as she held her breath, the woman nodded and keyed her order in, calling it out to the girl manning the espresso machine. Then, completely in French, the woman announced Kate’s total.

Yes. It was all she could do not to fist-pump the air. She’d been exploring Paris now for two days, and no matter how hard she rehearsed what she was going to say, waiters and waitresses and shopkeepers invariably sniffed her out as an American the instant she opened her mouth. Every one of them had shifted into English to reply.

This woman was probably humoring her, but Kate seized her opportunity, turning the gears in her brain with all her might. She counted in her head the way her high school teacher had taught her to until she’d translated every digit. Three eighty-five. Triumph surged through her as she reached for her purse at her hip.

Only to come up with empty air.

Oh no. With a sense of impending dread, she scrabbled at her shoulder, and her waist, but no. Her bag was gone.

She groaned aloud. How many people had cautioned her about exactly this kind of thing? Paris was full of pickpockets. That was what her mother and Aaron and even the guy at the travel store had told her. An angry laugh bubbled up at the back of her throat, an echo of her father’s voice in her mind, yelling at her to be more careful, for God’s sake. Pay some damn attention. Crap. It was just— She swore she’d had her purse a second ago. Right before that kid had slammed into her . . .

Her skin went cold. Of course. The kid who’d slammed into her.

Tears prickled at her eyes. She had no idea how to say all of that in French. Her plans for a quiet afternoon spent sketching in a café evaporated as she patted herself down yet again in the vain hope that somehow, magically, her things would have reappeared.

The thing was, “watch out for pickpockets” wasn’t the only advice she’d gotten before she’d left. Everyone she’d told had thought her grand idea of a trip to Paris to find herself and get inspired was insane. It was her first trip abroad, and it was eating up pretty much all of her savings. Worse, she’d insisted on making the journey alone, because how was a girl supposed to reconnect with her own muse unless she spent some good quality time with it? Free from distractions and outside influences. Surrounded by art and history and a beautiful language she barely spoke. It had seemed like a good idea. Like the perfect chance to make some really big decisions.

But maybe they’d all been right.

Not wanting to reveal the security wallet she had strapped around her waist beneath her shirt, she wrote off all her plans for the day. She’d just head back to the hostel. She still had her passport and most of her money. She’d regroup, and she’d be fine.

“Mademoiselle?”

Her vision was blurry as she jerked her gaze up. And up. The gorgeous man—the one with the dark, tousled hair and the glass-cutting jaw from before—was standing right beside her, warm hand gently brushing her elbow. A frisson of electricity hummed through her skin. Had he really been this tall before? Had his shoulders been that broad? It was just a plain black button-down, but her gaze got stuck on the drape of his shirt across his chest, hinting at miles of muscle underneath.

His brow furrowed, two soft lines appearing between brilliant blue eyes.

She shook off her daze and cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she asked, lilting her voice up at the end in her best—still terrible—attempt at a French accent.

He smiled, and her vision almost whited out. In perfect English, with maybe just a hint of New York coloring the edges, he asked, “Are you okay?”

All those times she’d been annoyed when someone spoke English to her. At that moment, she could have kissed him, right on those full, smooth lips. Her face went warmer at the thought. “No. I—” She patted her side again uselessly. “I think that guy ran off with my wallet.”

His expression darkened, but he didn’t step away or chastise her for being so careless. “I’m sorry.”

The woman at the register spoke up, her accent muddy. “You still would like your coffee?”

Kate began to decline, but the man placed a ten-euro note on the counter. In a flurry of French too fast for her to understand, he replied to the woman, who took his money and pressed a half dozen keys. She dropped a couple of coins into his palm, then looked around them toward the next customer in line.

“Um,” Kate started.

Shifting his hand from her elbow to the small of her back, the man guided Kate toward the end of the counter and out of the way. It was too intimate a touch. She should have drawn away, but before she could convince herself to, he dropped his arm, turning to face her. Leaving a cold spot where his palm had been.

She worked her jaw a couple of times. “Did you just pay for my coffee?” She might be terrible at French, but she was passable at context clues.

Grinning crookedly, he looked down at her. “You’re welcome.”

“You really didn’t need to.”

“Au contraire.” His brow arched. “Believe me, when you’re having a terrible day, the absolute last thing you should be doing is not having coffee.”

Well, he did have a point there. “I still have some money. I can pay you back.”

“No need.”

“No, really.” Her earlier reservations gone, she reached for the hem of her shirt to tug it upward, but his hands caught hers before she could get at her money belt.

His eyes were darker now, his fingertips warm. “As much as I hate to stop a beautiful woman from taking off her clothes. It’s not necessary.”

Was he implying . . .? No, he couldn’t be. She couldn’t halt the indignation rising in her throat, though, as she brushed aside his hands and wrestled the hem of her top down. “Stripping is not how I was going to pay you.”

“Pity. Probably for the best,” he added conspiratorially. “The police are much more lenient about that kind of thing here than they are in the States, but still. Risky move.”

Two ceramic mugs clinked as they hit the counter, and the barista said something too quickly for Kate to catch.

“Merci,” the man said, tucking his paper under his arm and reaching for the cups.

For some reason, Kate had to put in one more little protest before she moved to grab for the one that looked like hers. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Biceps flexing, he pulled both cups in closer to his chest, keeping them out of her reach as she extended her hand. “But it sure did make it easier for me to ask if I could buy you a cup of coffee, didn’t it?”