“Come on,” I said. “Are you telling me that you have considered yourself in a serious relationship with every girl you’ve ever kissed?” I held his eyes challengingly. “No one-night stands in your history?” That wasn’t credible. He must have had women falling at his feet since he was about fourteen years old.

“That’s different,” he said impatiently. “I can’t believe you’re even comparing—are you going out with other men right now? Are you kissing other men right now?”

I folded my arms, a little awkwardly what with my bouquet of cabbages and all. Its yellow paper wrapping crackled madly. “I can if I want to.”

“I’m not going out with other women.”

I beamed, and he relaxed. “Well, I’m not either. Or other men. But that doesn’t mean I’m your girlfriend!”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “I don’t understand the American dating system at all.”

“That’s okay, none of us do.”

“Let’s practice how a girlfriend says hello to her boyfriend again,” he said and bent his head. “It’s not on the cheek.”

In the Métro, he amused the heck out of himself by pretending it was too crowded. “I’m so sorry,” he said, backing me against the inside track doors—the ones that rarely opened—and squeezing closer, his hands pressed to the wall either side of my hips. “There are so many people.” He grinned down at me.

It was a little crowded, but it wasn’t that crowded. What a great game. “Oh, sorry.” I bumped forward against him full-body and back and gazed up at him innocently. “I lost my balance.”

He laughed and nudged closer.

“So where are we going?” I asked. I was really going to have to mention Cambridge soon. But it was such a non-issue. I mean, I almost never managed to go out with someone for longer than a month.

“My friends Éric and Virginie asked us over.”

“What?” Had I dropped down the dating rabbit hole? “You’re introducing me to your friends already?”

He looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘already’? They asked us over. It’s normal that I bring my girlfriend.”

“Okay, try to remember that I’m not your girlfriend. We’ve barely met.”

“Thank God I didn’t grow up trying to date in the U.S.,” he said. “I would have gone insane, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘too’?” I asked, and he “tripped,” pressing me for a half second against the wall with his body before straightening and pulling back about three inches.

“Oops, sorry.” He grinned. “I lost my balance.”

“So, I bet your friends are French, aren’t they?” I began uneasily.

“Putain de merde!” a male voice exclaimed behind him. “Salope, can’t you watch where you’re going?”