Grasping the edges of the boards for balance, we lower ourselves into seated positions. I have him extend one end of his paddle to me, then give him the end of mine, so our boards are connected. We float side-by-side, bobbing on the waves while looking up at “La Dame de Fer,” as the Parisians call La Tour Eiffel.

“This is bad. This is really, really bad,” Siaka says in a low voice.

“Why?” I search his face for what could possibly be wrong.

“I’ll have to up my game if I’m going to beat floating on the Seine at daybreak.”

I grin. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

He reaches out, across the water, for my hand. We lock gazes, and I am struck by the desire once again, this time searingly strong, to get as close to him as possible.

“Holding hands is alright between us. Right?” His eyes flash with amusement.

“Totally,” I reply, with all the false confidence I can muster. “Hand-holding’s nothing like kissing. Still extremely platonic.”

“Extremely?”

“Slightly platonic,” I correct.

“It’s a good thing we’ve got a few inches of polluted river water between us.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to risk falling in.” I give in and let myself stare at his lips. They are full and soft, and I want to press them with my own.

He gives me a knowing grin. “Nope. Not taking any risks.”

We fall silent and hold hands, gazing up at the tower.

This is as close to perfect as I think I’ll ever find. Me, Siaka and the quiet lapping of the water against our boards. Just...perfect.

Chapter Eighteen

We could sit in silence for another hour before heading back, but there’s so much I want to know about him. Still, bobbing on boards in the middle of Seine, nothing seems serious, and I feel the courage to ask him the questions I’ve been pondering.

“Were you born here or in Mali?” I begin.

“Here.” He shifts his gaze from the tower to my eyes, and letting go of my hand, leans back on his elbows. I keep a grip on the paddle so we won’t drift apart. “My mom and her sister came from Mali when they were in their twenties.”

I settle back to listen. Finally, I’m getting his story.

He looks back toward the twinkling tower. “My mom’s family lived on the Niger River in a village known for its pottery. Her people had been guérisseurs in that area for generations. Several of my ancestors were called upon to heal important people—kings even—and had been offered palaces to stay in. But after healing each patient, they always came back home, no matter what riches they were offered.