His hard ridge against my backside, imprinting my flesh with its shape…

The scent of his sandalwood aftershave enveloping me…

His face a few inches above mine, his heart racing and his breathing ragged…

The feel of his tall, strong body pressed into mine—broad chest, flat stomach, muscled thighs…

I shake my head to drive away those images. Thoughts of that nature aren’t just unusual for me—they’re unheard of. They’re weirding me out.

Besides, they’re totally inappropriate in the workplace.

Grabbing the documents Véronique asked me to photocopy, I scoot down the hallway toward the pair of ever-humming machines behind the cluster of artificial fig trees.

This part of my job sucks.

But hey, I’m an intern and that’s what interns do, right?

Except, unlike other interns at Millennium III—the biggest real estate group in France—I have the privilege of owning an actual property in an up-and-coming arrondissement of Paris.

How I convinced Dad to buy me a one-bedroom apartment here is a tumultuous saga that deserves at least three volumes.

The first one would be called The Impossible. In this installment, Dad says things like “It’s out of the question” and “You’re a total rookie with no real knowledge of what this business involves.”

The title of Volume Two would be, Dogged Perseverance and Relentless Nagging and would cover the period between December and February of last year. That’s when Dad resorts to more technical arguments such as “French real estate prices have been stagnant since 2008” and “I’m not convinced about investing in Paris, given the risk of another terrorist attack and how it might affect the market.”

I had to dig up data showing that select French cities—in particular, Paris—still delivered a good return on investment. As for my knowing next to nothing about the business, I invoked my GPA as proof of how good a learner I can be.

The third and final installment of the saga would be called The Impossible Comes True.

In this volume, Sophie Bander finds the apartment and Ludwig Bander begrudgingly purchases it. They agree that she’ll personally manage it during the six months of her internship in Paris from July through December. Then she’ll return to Key West, asking Millennium III to take over.

Sophie is ecstatic.

Ludwig is happy that she’s happy.

End of Saga.

The photocopier begins to spit page after page into the tray.

As I watch it do its thing, I tell myself I’m lucky in more than one way. My boss here is a top-performing agent who believes interns should do more than make copies or serve coffee to clients. Véronique actually involves me in her real work. Last week, she took me along to show an apartment to a prospective buyer. On Monday, I attended a negotiation. Two days ago, she asked me to draft a lease agreement and compile an inventory.

I had applied for this internship during my final semester in Miami, and received the offer the day of graduation. When I told Dad I was going to spend six months in Paris working for a real estate firm, his eyebrows almost crept under his hairline.

“May I remind you, princess, that I own a real estate firm right here in your hometown?” he said, vexed.

“I know, Dad.”

“Do you?” He arched an eyebrow. “Do you also remember that I’d be thrilled to offer you a junior position in it?”

I looked down at my feet. “Uh-huh.”

“So why on earth do you need to spend six months slaving for someone else in Paris?”

As I searched for the right words, comprehension lit his eyes. “It’s your mother, isn’t it? You just want to spend more time with Catherine.”

His expression softened as he said Mom’s name so much so that you’d think he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Catherine himself.

But I know better than to nurture false hopes.

It’s been several years since I stopped fooling myself that my parents would ever reunite.

Anyway, Dad was right. Being closer to Mom was a big part of why I was going to Paris. I don’t see nearly enough of her. Summer holidays and an occasional Christmas or Easter break just don’t cut it.

When my parents divorced ten years ago, I chose to stay with Dad in Key West. My friends were there. I loved my school. I loved the weather, the town, and the island.

But that choice came at a price—going through my teenage years without my mom by my side. Oh, we did talk on the phone, daily. We texted, emailed, and Skyped. All of that taken together, I’ve communicated with Mom a lot more than with Dad over the past ten years.

But all those disembodied conversations couldn’t replace the comfort of her physical presence.

I missed those magical evenings, when I’d sit on the front porch to read, and she’d come out with her own book and two frosty glasses of virgin cranberry cooler. I’d move over, and we’d just sit quietly next to each other, sipping our drinks, and reading.

Her Parisian apartment doesn’t have a porch or even a balcony. But no matter. I wanted as many of those quiet evenings with her as I could get before returning to Key West and putting my life plan in motion.

Said plan is, by the way, the other reason I’m spending six months in Paris.

I want to learn the ropes of Dad’s business. But I want to start by learning them as a regular intern in a big agency where no one knows me, and no one will go easy on me. Dad’s is the biggest agency in the Florida Keys, but most of his staff have known me since I was a toddler, and all of them treat me like a princess. It’s sweet but not very helpful.

The second biggest agency belongs to our main competitor and sworn enemy Doug Thompson. For some weird reason, Doug is extra nice to me. Every time we bump into each other on Duval Street or at Cuban Coffee Queen and he greets me with a warm smile and a “How are you today, Sophie?” I barely nod in response. How can I be friendly with a man who’s at war with Dad? Not just a rivalry, but a real merciless, no prisoners, no cease-fires, no-holds-barred war for dominion over the Keys.

Needless to say, applying for an internship with Doug wasn’t an option.

I stick the scanned contracts into a manila folder and remove the staple from the asbestos survey report for copying.

As I feed it into the machine, I recall my last words to Dad before boarding the plane to Paris. “Six months is nothing in the big scheme of things. I’ll be back before you know it.”

His eyes drilled into mine. “Will you?”

“You bet.” I gave him a bear hug. “I’ll become a real pro and I’ll make you proud.”

He ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and wished me a good trip.

My heart pinches.

I love that man more than the world. What a shame his marriage fell apart!

Since Mom left, I spent countless hours poring over her and Dad’s Parisian Polaroids from before I was born. The pics show an ethereal northern blonde and a strapping black dandy posing on Champs-Elysées, in Tuileries, in front of the Louvre, and in other landmarks of the French capital. They hold hands. Sometimes his arm is wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his waist. In my favorite picture they gaze into each other’s eyes with such passion you’d think nothing could kill it.

I’ve never felt as much as a spark of passion for anyone, no matter how hard I tried.

Just as well—no good comes of it anyway.

I wonder why thinking of those old photos has reminded me of yesterday’s encounter with Noah Masson. The man is eye candy, no doubt. But beyond his height and athletic build, my blue-eyed tenant looks nothing like Dad.

Not to mention that no one in their right mind would call me a northern blonde.

And yet… what is it about Noah that made me spend an hour last night looking for a mistake in his rental agreement that would warrant a revision? I ended up finding it—qui cherche trouve, as Mom likes to say. The previous owner had leased the apartment as unfurnished, even though she’d equipped it with everything from a bed to a vacuum cleaner. Dad bought it together with all the movable property, and Noah’s new contract is for a furnished lease. But we’d neglected to change the notice period from three months to one.

While the copier reproduces the termite survey, I pull out my phone and tap.