I was running a little late. When I bought the hydrangeas, the man working at the flower stall had been a little too friendly and had talked for a little too long, but I arrived at the Cathedral de Notre Dame just as the famous bells began to ring, marking 4 o'clock.

I love Paris. The wide streets, the statues, the gardens, the river, the bridges, the food. The sky always seemed bluer here, and in my mind, I could hear Debussy, Satie, and Saint-Saens everywhere I walked. I know it's a cliché, but I love Paris.

I looked up at the gothic towers and at the intricate stonework around the arched doors, taking in every detail as the ringing of the bells echoed across the island. I didn't look away even as I saw a man—a young, tall, handsome man—approach in my peripheral vision.

"Hydrangeas? Now there's a sight that reminds me of home."

I turned to look at him. So this was Joe Solomon's best friend, the infamous Flatwater, the kind, clever, and charming pavement artist who had been recruited as a freshman at Georgetown, plucked from the middle-of-nowhere, Nebraska. His posture was a little slumped, his clothing a little wrinkled and bland. To most people, he would have been lost in the crowd of tourists, but his eyes were bright and sharp his smile was warm and friendly and just a little flirtatious, and of all things, he had the most perfect jawline. A part of me—the part that controlled that warm, fluttery feeling in my stomach, the part of me that I would go to my grave denying existed—found it hard not to notice him.

Here I was, on a mission in Paris on a beautiful spring day, with a handsome man.

I thought back to the late nights when I was at Gallagher, when my gathered in our common room late at night, weaving wild stories about the adventures we would go on after graduation while we wore pajamas and ate popcorn smuggled from the kitchens.

I am a legacy—I always knew I wanted to join the CIA, like my dad, and I've always wanted to work in the field. I wanted to travel the world. I wanted excitement and action, and as silly as it is, I wanted glamor. I wanted to be the agent who sat at a cafe, sipping coffee in the sun in one moment, and was disarming a nuclear warhead the next.

Paris was always the setting for my stories, and I was always joined by the best, most interesting—and typically handsome—partners. After all, I've never believed in doing anything by halves—why shouldn't my daydreams be ambitious?

But this?

I fought to keep from smiling.

If the girls at Gallagher could see me now.