“Hop on,” Noah says, handing me a helmet and jutting his chin to the spot behind him.

The only thing his scooter has in common with the sleek two-wheelers Parisians favor is its general shape and presence of a motor.

“Did you find this… thing at Les Puces?” I ask, climbing on behind him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s in a better shape than it looks.”

Once I’ve adjusted the helmet, I put my arms around his waist, and off we ride into the hubbub and exhaust fumes.

By the time we’re on the Périph’—the main ring road around Paris—I’m a wreck.

I knew the journey would be rough because of all the noise, traffic, and pollution along the way. Specifically, I’d anticipated muscle pain in my neck and shoulders because I’d spend the entire ride tense with fear that we would collide with a truck or fly off our iron horse on a sharp turn.

But an altogether different fear stiffens me.

As we slalom between cars, buses and bikes, I worry Noah could hear my heart pounding like crazy in my chest. What if he misinterprets it? What if he assumes I’m squeezing his hips between my thighs not because I’m hanging on for dear life, but because I enjoy the contact? The embarrassment of it! Just to think he might imagine that the constant friction between said hips and thighs excited me.

It does not.

And what if he assumed the reason I’m hugging him tight, my breasts flat against his back and my cheek pressed to the back of his neck, is not to increase my chances of survival, but because he aroused me?

He does not.

Nobody does.

What I’m feeling is adrenaline—not arousal. There’s no way it’s arousal. I don’t do arousal. Never felt it before and not going to start now. Besides, the way I envision my future, I have no use for it.

Twenty or so minutes later, Noah turns off the Périph’ and parks the scooter in front of a row of bric-a-brac stalls.

“Et voilà,” he announces removing his helmet. “Welcome to Les Puces of Saint Ouen!”

I hand him my helmet and look around. “Where’s the entrance?”

“Here,” he says pointing to the cluster of scruffy peddlers selling knock off watches and handbags.

“Is this some kind of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and we’re supposed to walk right through these people?”

He chuckles, shoving our helmets into the saddlebag. “I suggest we go around them. There’ll be two or three pretty gates inside the market.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“All right, then.”

“Shall we?” He motions toward the stalls. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

I nod and follow.

For the next hour, we wander between booths displaying old stamps, kitchen gizmos, costume jewelry, vinyls, and all sorts of knickknacks. To some of these items, time has been as kind as to Jane Fonda. Others haven’t aged quite so well.

I halt in front of a small boutique that sells vintage wedding dresses.

Ooh-la-la, they’re pretty.

I’m not speaking about the 80s monstrosities with puffy sleeves and nylon skirts whose white has veered to gray. What I’m gawking at are the cream-colored ones cut in raw silk and lace.

The day I marry the man of Dad’s dreams, I’ll wear a dress like this.

When we pass a stand with dozens of severed doll heads organized by size and color, I wince and glance at Noah.

He shrugs. “To each his own bad taste.”

“Let’s move on,” I say. “They creep me out.”

“Did you know this is the largest flea market in the world, and one of the oldest?” Noah asks as we amble on.

“Really?”

“It was established back to the 1880s by ragmen called biffins.”

I quirk my lips. “Someone’s spent time reading up.”

“Just doing my job as your guide for the day.”

Another hour of exploring the main artery of Les Puces called rue des Rosiers, and the alleys that branch off it, and I find what I came here for. Actually, Noah was the one to spot the booth selling framed vintage posters. I picked an adorable, red and white affiche of a fifties movie Mon Oncle.

A dozen stalls further down rue des Rosiers, we stumble upon a furniture shop that carries folding chairs. They’re in good condition—and cheap.

“Perfect,” Noah says, tucking them under his arm. “Time for a well-deserved musical lunch at Chez Louisette.”

“Aren’t you buying anything?”

“I was hoping to find a toy for Oscar,” he says. “But no luck.”

“Who’s Oscar?”

“My dog.”

“You mean your imaginary dog?” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ve been to your place twice and didn’t notice any pets.”

His lips curl up. “I’m flattered you think I’m a guy who’d have an imaginary dog. But Oscar is real.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“He’s vacationing in Brittany at the moment.”

My second eyebrow goes up.

“With my neighbors,” Noah adds.

“Of course.” I school my features into a polite expression. “Has he sent you a postcard yet? Is he enjoying himself?”

“Last time I had him on the phone, he definitely was,” Noah says, unfazed.

“Glad to hear it. What else did he say? Has he done any sightseeing?”

Noah grins. “I wasn’t joking, you know. Oscar uses different sounds to express his emotions and needs, and I’ve learned to decode the most basic ones.”

“So you speak Dog.”

“I understand it.”

“Give me an example.”

“OK.” He scratches the back of his head. “Let’s see. He uses a unique frustrated growl to say, My toy is stuck under the couch and my paws are too short to get it.”

I smile. “One more.”

“A high-pitched whining sound means I need to pee.”

“Another one?”

“When he purrs, it roughly translates as I like what you’re doing. Please continue.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Oscar purrs.”

“Oh yes.”

“And you’re sure he’s real.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Err… No.”

“OK.” He purses his lips. “Let’s bet. If Oscar doesn’t exist, you get a front-row seat for the first game of the season we’ll be hosting.”

“And if he does?”

“You’ll join me and two of my friends for a dinner at the Moose.”

“What kind of place is that?”

“A Canadian sports bar.”

I agree to his terms before it hits me that no matter who wins this bet, Noah and I will have to see each other again.

For the next few minutes, we follow the GPS on his phone that leads us to Chez Louisette.

“In business since 1930,” Noah says in a deep TV announcer’s voice as he opens the door for me.

I step inside—and tumble into a time warp.

The place is rundown as if it hasn’t been refurbished since 1930, but it glitters like a Christmas tree. Tacky garlands, pom-poms, and ribbons in red and gold hang from the ceiling. Mirrored balls and chandeliers dangle between the ribbons.

As if all of that wasn’t enough, gaudy string lights add to the kitschy oomph of the room, drawing the eye to the performers’ corner where a pudgy old lady belts out Piaf’s “La Vie en rose.” A gentleman of matching build and age accompanies her on the accordion. Some of the diners sing along.

In the space between the tables and the bar, three or four couples dance a fast, bouncy waltz I recognize from old French movies that Mom and I watch sometimes.

I can’t believe this place is real.

We sit down and order a beer for Noah, a sparkling water for me, and today’s special for both, which is some kind of simmered dish.

The singer finishes “La Vie en rose” and moves on to the equally famous “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

“Do you have friends or family here in Paris?” Noah asks.

“My mom lives here.”

“Are your parents separated?”

“Divorced.”

“Mine, too,” he says.

“Is your dad in France?”

Noah smirks. “His grave is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“He was a nasty piece of work,” Noah says.

“That’s harsh.”

“Why? My father was debauched, unreliable, tightfisted, and mean.”

“Really? All of those things?”

“I’ll give you an example. Several years after the divorce Maman needed money, so she swallowed her pride and asked him for help. He said no. So I swallowed my teenage pride and asked if he could please help her. The answer was still no.”

“Was he broke?” I ask.

“Yes, but not in the usual sense of the word,” he says cryptically, a grim look on his face.

My heart goes out to him. Despite my parents’ divorce, I enjoyed a sheltered, happy childhood with both Mom and Dad doting on me and rich enough to get me almost anything I wanted. Noah, on the other hand, sounds like he grew up in poverty and rejected by his dad. It must’ve been hard for him.

“How was living on a shoestring?” I ask.

“We weren’t poor,” he mutters, turning away.

Great. Now I’ve hurt his pride.

Our food and drinks arrive, offering a much-needed distraction.

“How did you come to play water polo?” I ask, changing the topic. “Is it a popular sport in Nepal?”

His face crinkles up in a smile. “Nepalis prefer elephant polo.”

“Have you played it?”

He shakes his head. “I guess I’m too French for that. Besides, I love water and swimming, and I love ball games like handball and basketball.”

“You’re sure tall enough for basketball.”

“I did play it for a short while in middle school. But the day I tried water polo, I knew it was my sport.”

The singer, who’d left the room momentarily, returns to her spot. She nods to the man on the accordion and starts crooning, “Padam… Padam….”

“It’s my favorite Piaf song,” I say.

A middle-aged man and a woman two tables to our left stand up and launch into a bouncy waltz in front of the bar.

“Isn’t this dance called la java?” I ask Noah.

“No clue,” he says. “Want to give it a try?”

I blink at him. “Can you dance it?”

“Nope. But it doesn’t look too complicated to me.”

The temptation is too strong, so I set my glass on the table. “I might step on your toes.”

“Step away.”

He offers his hand, and we head to the improvised dance floor.

As we begin our clumsy stomp and whirl, all I can think of is Noah’s hand holding mine, snug and tight. His other hand settles just above the low waistline of my jeans. His palm is huge. It wraps around my hip gently, but I can sense the strength in it, and I can certainly feel its warmth through the thin fabric of my tee. My skin prickles. What’s weird about this is that I find his touch… pleasant.

“What’s your function on the team?” I ask to take my mind off that troubling thought.

“Goalie.”

“Was that your choice?”

“It was more by chance than by choice,” he says. “When I joined the team in college, my coach needed someone to man the cage. I was the biggest guy on the team and, as it turned out after a few games, a natural at blocking.”

“I envy you,” I say. “I’ve been good at most things I’ve tried, but I’ve never been a natural at anything.”

He gives me a wink. “Keep trying things.”

When the song ends and we return to our table, Noah pulls out his smartphone. “So, let’s get that bet settled.”

“Now?”

He nods, tapping and scrolling on his phone until he finds what he’s looking for. Holding up the phone, he shows me a dozen pictures of him and his furry companion. Then he shows me a short video of him scratching the dog’s throat.

Oscar tips his head back and purrs. The sound he makes is low, soft and continuous, and it’s definitely saying, Oh yeah, right there, so good.

“All right,” I say, looking up at Noah. “You win.”

He grins.

“So who are these friends of yours that I’ll have the honor of meeting?”

“One is Uma,” he says. “My best friend. She’s arriving from Nepal this weekend.”

“For a visit?”

“No, for longer.” He gives me a weird look I can’t read. “Forever, I hope.”

His last words rattle me inexplicably.

“And the other one?” I ask.

“Zach, my team captain.” Noah’s gaze is trained on his beer as he adds, “He’s a successful businessman and an all-around great guy. Zach is looking to meet a lovely young woman… like you.”

Hey-ho.

I force a smile. “That would be great.”