Because of its glass facade, the Café Sainte-Lucie’s sunlit interior felt spacious. Its sunny outdoor terrace held a good twenty-five tables, which were usually full. As I made my way toward an empty table in the far corner, I knew this was my café. I already felt like I belonged here. I stuck my book bag under the table and sat down with my back to the building, securing a view of the entire terrace as well as the street and sidewalk beyond.

Once seated, I called to the waiter that I wanted a lemonade, and then pulled out a paperback copy of The Age of Innocence, which I had chosen from the summer reading list for the school I’d be starting in September. Enveloped by the smell of strong coffee wafting up from all sides, I drifted off into my book’s distant universe.

“Another lemonade?” The French voice came floating through the streets of nineteenth-century New York in my mind’s eye, jerking me rudely back to the Parisian café. My waiter stood beside me, holding his round tray stiffly above his shoulder and looking every bit like a constipated grasshopper.

“Oh, of course. Um . . . I think I’ll take a tea, actually,” I said, realizing that his intrusion meant I had been reading for about an hour. There is an unspoken rule in French cafés that a person can sit at their table all day if they want, as long as they order one drink per hour. It’s kind of like renting a table.

I halfheartedly glanced around before looking back down at the page, but did a double take when I noticed someone staring at me from across the terrace. And the world around me froze when our eyes met.

I had the strangest feeling that I knew the guy. I’d felt that way with strangers before, where it seemed like I’d spent hours, weeks, even years with the person. But in my experience, it had always been a one-way phenomenon: The other person didn’t even notice me.

This was not the case now. I could swear he felt the same.

From the way his gaze held steady, I knew he had been staring at me for a while. He was breathtaking, with longish black hair waving up and back from a broad forehead. His olive skin made me guess that he either spent a lot of time outside or came from somewhere more southern and sunbaked than Paris. And the eyes that stared back into my own were as blue as the sea, lined with thick black lashes. My heart lurched within my chest, and it felt like someone had squeezed all the air out of my lungs. In spite of myself, I couldn’t break our gaze.

A couple of seconds passed, and then he turned back to his two friends, who were laughing rowdily. The three of them were young and beautiful and glowing with the kind of charisma that justified the fact that every woman in the place was under their spell. If they noticed it, they didn’t let on.

Sitting next to the first boy was a strikingly handsome guy, built like a boulder, with short, cropped hair and dark chocolate skin. As I watched him, he turned and flashed me a knowing smile, as if he understood how I couldn’t resist checking him out. Shaken out of my voyeuristic trance, my eyes darted down to my book for a few seconds, and by the time I dared peer back up he had looked away.

Next to him, facing away from me, was a wiry-built boy with slightly sunburned skin, sideburns, and curly brown hair, animatedly telling a story that sent the other two into peals of laughter.

I studied the one who had first caught my attention. Although he was probably a couple of years older than me, I guessed he wasn’t yet twenty. He leaned back in his chair in that suave Frenchman manner. But something slightly cold and hard about the set of his face suggested that the easygoing pose was only a facade. It wasn’t that he looked cruel. It was more that he seemed . . . dangerous.

Although he intrigued me, I consciously erased the black-haired boy’s face from my mind, convinced that perfect looks plus danger probably equaled bad news. I picked up my book and turned my attention back to the more reliable charms of Newland Archer. But I couldn’t help myself from taking another peek when the waiter returned with my tea. Annoyingly, I wasn’t able to get back into the rhythm of my book.

When his table stood up a half hour later, it caught my attention. You could feel concentrated feminine tension in the air as the three guys walked past the terrace. As if a team of Armani underwear models had walked straight up to the café and, in unison, ripped off all their clothes.

The elderly woman next to me leaned in to her coffee companion and said, “It’s suddenly feeling unseasonably hot, don’t you agree?” Her lady friend giggled in agreement, fanning herself with the plastic-coated menu and ogling the boys. I shook my head in disgust—there was no way those guys couldn’t feel the dozens of eyes shooting darts of lust into their backs as they walked away.

Suddenly, proving my theory, the black-haired one glanced back at me and, confirming that I was watching him, smiled smugly. Feeling the blood rush to my cheeks, I hid my face in my book so he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing me blush.

I tried to read the words on the page for a few minutes before giving up. My concentration broken, I paid for my drinks, and leaving a tip on the table, I made my way back to the rue du Bac.

Chapter Three

LIFE WITHOUT PARENTS WAS NOT GETTING ANY easier.

I had begun to feel like I was encased in a layer of ice. I was cold inside. But I clung to the coldness for dear life: Who knew what would happen if I let the ice thaw and actually began to feel things again? I would probably melt into a blubbering idiot and return to being completely nonfunctional like I had been for the first few months after my parents died.

I missed my dad. His disappearance from my life felt unbearable. That handsome Frenchman who everyone liked the moment they looked into his laughing green eyes. When he saw me and his face lit up with an expression of pure adoration, I knew that no matter what stupid things I might do in life, I would always have one fan in this world, cheering me on from the sidelines.

As for Mom, her death ripped my heart out, like she had been a physical part of me that was dug out with a scalpel. She was a soul mate, a “kindred spirit,” as she used to say. Not that we always got along. But now that she was gone, I had to learn to live with the big, burning hole that her absence left inside me.

If I could have escaped reality for just a few hours at night, maybe my waking hours would have been more bearable. But sleep was my own personal nightmare. I would lie in bed until I finally felt its velvety fingers sweeping my face with numbness and I would think, Finally! Then a half hour later I was awake again.

One night I was at my wit’s end, head on my pillow and eyes open, staring at the ceiling. My alarm clock read one a.m. I thought about the long night ahead and crawled out of bed, fishing for the clothes I had worn the day before and slipping them on. Stepping out into the hallway, I saw a light coming from under Georgia’s door. I tapped on it and turned the doorknob.

“Hey,” Georgia whispered at me from upside down. She was lying fully clothed on her bed, her head at its foot. “Just got home,” she added.

“You can’t sleep either,” I commented. It wasn’t a question. We knew each other too well. “Why don’t you come out for a walk with me?” I asked. “I can’t stand lying awake in my room all night. It’s only July and I’ve read every book that I possess. Twice.”

“Are you crazy?” Georgia said, rolling over to her stomach. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Actually it’s kind of the beginning of the night. It’s just one o’clock. People are still out on the streets. And, besides, Paris is the safest—”