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I follow the signs to the Metro. I’ve already worked out the route to the studio I’ve rented in the Marais district, and I’m pleased to see a sign directing me to the exact train I need to take right above the staircase down to the tracks. If my hands weren’t so full with suitcases, I would reach around to pat myself on the back. Meticulous planning and a can-do attitude for the win! And then…the universe knocks that self-satisfied grin right off my face. Or rather, a young couple managing a stroller down the stairs knocks me ass over kettle down the stairs. I’m all legs and arms and suitcase handles, and the fall seems to last forever. I have to choose between protecting my head or holding onto the suitcases, and after a split-second decision, my head wins. I land with a loud grunt at the bottom of the first landing and watch one of my suitcases tumble a few feet after me and down the next flight of stairs. Parfait.
I take a few beats to assess the damage. My body feels fine, and it seems I’ve avoided injuring myself much at all. I won’t be surprised to find bruises in the morning, though. My suitcase is no worse for the ware and I send up a silent thank you to the Gods of TJ Maxx for offering me these luxury suitcases at bargain basement prices. Hopefully the other is unscathed. The only injury I’ve suffered is my pride. When I look up, the faces of smirking Parisians walk past me, one after the other, shooting pitying and humored glances in my direction. Not exactly the grand entrance into Paris I’d imagined, but oh well, I guess I’ve arrived.
“Permettez-moi de vous aider,” I hear from above me, and inches from my face is a hand. A man’s hand by the look of it. I take in the rather expensive looking watch and brass monogrammed cufflink at his wrist—CB. My eyes follow that arm all the way up to a face, a gorgeous face, and I’m torn between utter mortification and the feeling of being in my very own rom-com. I blink a few times like a cartoon character.
“Êtes-vous blessée?” he asks as he scrutinizes my face. My French is limited, but I get the idea. He’s offering help.
Ignoring his hand I stand up and dust myself off. “Merci,” I say. “I’m sorry, my French isn’t great. Do you happen to speak English?”
He smiles good naturedly and says, “Better than that, I speak American like you. But really, that was a nasty fall, are you okay?”
“What, that? I’m fine. It was really nothing,” I say, feigning complete nonchalance and composure.
“Well I’m glad you’re not hurt,” he replies, walking away from me and taking the stairs down two at a time. Au revoir tall, dark and handsome, I think. I don’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue me, but I wouldn’t mind staring at his hot face a little longer. And just as the thought passes my mind, he’s back, my wayward suitcase in hand. He sets it down by my other and flashes me a megawatt smile. “I’m Chris,” he says, extending his hand toward me again. “And you are…?”
“Fine. I am fine,” I say, although I realize I’m being a little too defensive and unfriendly considering the guy is going out of his way to help me. Softening, I extend my hand to shake his and say, “Weaver. I am Weaver and I am fine. Thank you, though. Between you and me, that fall wasn’t exactly on my Paris getaway itinerary.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Weaver. I’d hate to see an encore of that performance, so let me help you down to the turnstile,” he says. Before I can protest, he’s picked up both suitcases and heads down the last flight of stairs. All I can do is follow him, any protest caught in my throat as I take in the way his jeans hug his ass. I might not need a knight in shining armor to save me, but I’ll take watching a knight in perfectly snug denim carry my suitcase down a couple of dozen steps.
We stop in front of the ticket kiosk and I stare dumbly for a second at the screen. “I suppose it won’t spit out a ticket for me if I scream one billet, s’il vous plait at it,” I joke.
He laughs back and says, “In my experience, it won’t. Let me help you.”
Chris talks me through the steps of buying my metro ticket, and helpfully suggests I choose the tourist ticket since this won’t be my last ride on the metro. “Just promise me you’ll take those steps slowly, okay?” he says with a wink. I’m sensing some metro flirtation in the air.
