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my feet didn’t touch the ground the whole way home.

Chapter Six
    VINCENT WAS WAITING FOR ME BY THE MÉTRO entrance. My heart caught in my throat as I wondered (not for the first time) why this too-gorgeous-to-be-true guy had any interest whatsoever in plain old . . . okay, maybe slightly pretty, but by no means beautiful on his level . . . me. My insecurity crumbled when I saw his face light up as I approached.
    â€œYou came,” he said as he leaned in to give me the bises , those double-cheeked air-kisses that Europeans are famous for. Though I shivered when his skin touched mine, my cheeks were warm for a good five minutes afterward.
    â€œOf course,” I said, drawing on every drop of my “cool and confident” reserve, since, to tell the truth, I was feeling a bit nervous. “So, where are we off to?”
    We began walking down the steps to the subway tracks. “Have you been to the Village Saint-Paul?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
    â€œPerfect,” he said, seeming pleased with himself but giving no further explanation.
    We barely talked on the train, but it wasn’t for lack of conversation. I don’t know if it is just a cultural thing, or because the trains themselves are so quiet, but as soon as people step into the car from the platform they shut up.
    Vincent and I stood facing each other, holding on to the central steel pole for balance, and checked out the other passengers, who were busy checking us out. Have I mentioned that checking people out is the French national pastime?
    As we turned a corner and the train jerked to one side, he put an arm around my shoulders to steady me.
    â€œWe haven’t even gotten there and you’re already making a move?” I laughed.
    â€œOf course not. I’m a gentleman through and through,” he responded in a quiet voice. “I would throw my coat over a puddle for you any day.”
    â€œI’m no damsel in distress,” I retorted as the train pulled to a stop.
    â€œWhew—well, that’s a good thing,” he said, breathing a fake sigh of relief. “How about opening the door for me, then?”
    I grinned as I flipped up the metal door-release lever and stepped onto the platform.
    We emerged from the Saint-Paul stop directly in front of the massive classical church called the Église Saint-Paul. “I used to come here when I was a kid,” I said to Vincent as I peered up at the decorative facade.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah. When I came to visit my grandparents during the summer, there was a girl I used to play with who lived just there.” I pointed to a building a few doors away. “Her dad told us that this street was used for jousts in the Middle Ages. Sandrine and I used to sit on the church steps and pretend we were in the middle of a medieval tournament.” I closed my eyes and I was back, ten years ago, reliving the sounds and colors of our imaginary tourney. “You know, I always thought that if the centuries and centuries of Paris’s ghosts could materialize all at once, you would find yourself surrounded by the most fascinating people.” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed that I was spouting off to this guy I barely knew with details about one of my several dreamworlds.
    Vincent smiled. “If I were riding to the challenge, would you give me your favor to display on my arm, fair lady?”
    I pretended to dig through my bag. “I can’t seem to find my lace kerchief. How about a Kleenex?”
    Laughing, Vincent threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly. “You’re amazing,” he said.
    â€œThat’s a definite step up from ‘amusing,’” I reminded him, unable to prevent my cheeks from reddening with pleasure.
    We headed to a side road leading down toward the river. Halfway there, Vincent stepped through the large wooden doorway of a four-story