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butter, fresh mussels, and crispy fries. Two porcelain cups of ink-black coffee sitting on the white tablecloth rounded out the perfect Parisian picture.
    "Heaven," Alexa sighed between bites. She'd been craving a visit to Flore. The fabled corner café, with its brightly lit sign set amid a spray of flowers and its crowded, mirrored interior, was one of Alexa's favorites. Legend had it that Picasso used to hang here, so in years past, Alexa would linger over her espresso, smoke a few Gauloises (Alexa didn't smoke, but in Paris, she liked to indulge occasionally), and imagine she, too, was a famous Left Bank artiste. Alexa did fancy
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    herself a photographer. She'd photographed Paris before, but she hoped she'd have a chance to take some interesting new shots of the city this week.
    "Mmm," Diego agreed, reaching for a fry. He was smiling, Alexa observed, and seemed to have recovered from the whole attack-of-the-twin-beds trauma.
    "See? Aren't you glad you're not cramming for midterms?" Alexa laughed, lifting her delicate coffee cup to her lips.
    Although Diego had been totally into the idea of a Paris trip, his spring break fell a month after Alexa's. So it had been a huge effort on Alexa's part to get her stubborn boyfriend to pause in prepping for his biology exams and agree to join her.
    "I guess," Diego chuckled, giving Alexa an affectionate look. "If I were at school now, I'd be, like, suffering in the library, instead of sitting here with you -"
    "Eating the best food ever" Alexa interjected around a mouthful of baguette.
    "Though not the healthiest," Diego pointed out. His brow furrowed in concern as he examined the salt-speckled fry between his fingers. "Do you realize how much sodium is in one of these babies?"
    Alexa swallowed the last of her coffee, feeling a spark of impatience. Diego was premed at Princeton and loved showing off his vast medical knowledge.
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    Usually, his drive and dedication turned Alexa on, but now she was un peu peeved.
    "Relax, Doctor Mendieta," she retorted, toying with one of her oversize silver hoops and glancing out the window at the ritzy passersby on the boulevard. A light drizzle was falling, shrouding the elegant, cream-colored buildings in a thick fog. Alexa had forgotten that Paris in the springtime sometimes felt more like late winter. But what was it her father always said? Our city is stunning in any season. It was true; the rain only added to the romance.
    Alexa, who hadn't brought her cell along, figured she should find a phone booth and check in back home; Diego had called his parents in Miami earlier that day to tell them he'd arrived safely. But Alexa knew her very French, very chill father wasn't the type to fret over her. And her ambitious American mother, busy being a Manhattan fashionista, had barely remembered to punch Alexa's trip into her BlackBerry. Alexa was an only child, and her parents' culture-clash marriage had crashed and burned soon after the move from Paris to the States. As Alexa liked to joke to Diego, the upside of her occasional loneliness was that she had the freedom to do pretty much whatever she pleased.
    Sort of the opposite of Holly Jacobson's life, Alexa mused, thinking of her old friend and wondering how she was faring across the Channel.
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    "So where to next?"
    Diego's voice startled her. Alexa glanced at her boyfriend, who was impatiently drumming his long fingers on the table as he glanced around for their waiter. Next? she wondered. They'd only been at the café for an hour.
    "There he is!" Diego said, furiously signaling to their waiter. "Can we get the check?" he shouted across the café. A rail-thin woman in a Dior trench coat glanced up from her espresso and Paris-Match with a scowl.
    Alexa cringed. Couldn't Diego at least attempt to speak French?
    "What's the rush, baby?" she asked as the waiter disdainfully dropped the tissue-paper-thin bill on their table. She was perfectly content to sit here all afternoon, people-watching and