I actually have to look away to catch my breath. This guy is my husband.

You look amazing, I want to say.

How did I find someone so easy and perfect in Las Vegas of all places? I want to ask.

But instead, I stay quiet and let him show me how this night is supposed to go.

“I think I was stood up,” he says, and now that I’ve composed myself, I turn back to face him.

“That’s terrible. They didn’t call or text?”

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, righting it again. “It’s probably for the best,” he says with a resolute lift of his chin. “I don’t think we are that compatible anyway.”

I angle myself toward him. “Was this supposed to be the first date?”

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, pausing when the bartender stops in front of us. “Un whisky-soda s’il vous plaît,” he says to the man before turning to me expectantly.

“Um . . . gin et . . . tonic?” I phrase it as a question and the bartender smirks before walking away.

Ansel gives a lingering stare to the bartender’s back, then clears his throat before continuing. “We’ve been together for a while but—” He stops abruptly, shaking his head. He leans closer, dropping his voice when he says, “No, ignore that. I don’t want to pretend to cheat.”

I bite my lip to hold in my grin. Jesus, he’s cute.

“What I mean to say is that we had talked on the phone a few times?” he says, his eyes searching mine as if this cover story works better. “It never felt totally right but I thought if we met in person . . .”

I hum in response, shaking my head in sympathy. “Sorry she’s not here.”

He takes a deep breath before relaxing his shoulders, and his lips push out in an edible pout. “What about you? You said you’re not meeting anyone. Are you dining alone?” Holding up his hands, he adds, “And I ask that in the least stalkerish way possible. Please don’t call security.”

I laugh, spinning my phone on the bar in front of me. “I’m new to town,” I say. “It was a long day at work and I needed a drink. A friend said this place had the best view around.”

“‘A friend’?”

“Just this guy I know,” I tease.

Ansel smiles and looks over his shoulder. “Your friend might be wrong. Not sure you could beat the view on top of that,” he says, motioning to the Eiffel Tower.

The bartender sets our drinks in front of us and I reach for my glass. “No alcohol up there, though.”

“Ahhh, but yes. There’s champagne on the top level. Served in the finest plastic stemware around. Don’t want to miss that while you’re here.”

“You make me want to brave the terrifying lines and claustrophobic elevators.”

“You must make sure to do it before you leave,” he says. “It’s a touristy thing, but it’s sort of required at least once in your lifetime.”

“Actually, I did see the top,” I admit, and take a sip of my drink. “I went alone on one of my first days in town. I didn’t know they had booze there, though, or I’d have stayed a lot longer.”

“Maybe someone can go with you next time,” he says quietly, apology darkening his expression. He’s guilty that I’m alone so much. I’m guilty for interrupting him. We’re both living so much in our own heads, no wonder we pretend.

“Maybe,” I answer with a smile. “And you live here? In Paris.”

Ansel nods and takes another sip of his drink. “I do. But my mother is American. And I traveled around the States after college.”

“Just traveled around?” I tease. “Backpacked your way across America?”

“Close,” he says with a laugh. “The summer before law school I participated in a program called Bike and Build. Have you heard of it?”

I shake my head a little, saying only, “I’ve heard the name . . .” Of course Ansel has mentioned it before, but I feel a bit guilty never having asked him more about it.

“It’s basically a group of people—mostly university-aged—cycling across the country for three months, stopping en route to work on various building sites.”

“I went to Vegas after I graduated from college. I think you win.”

“Well that could be fun, too,” he says meaningfully, eyes teasing as he takes a drink from his glass. “I hear there is plenty of adventure to be had in Vegas.”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “But three months? On a bike?”

Ansel laughs. “Three months. Well, eleven weeks to be exact. Riding about seventy miles a day.”

“I would be dead. You’d have to call my mother to collect me by about day four.”

He makes a show of looking me up and down appreciatively. “You look like you could handle it.”

I shake my head. “I assure you, I am not good on two wheels. So, tell me. Did you sleep in hotels or . . . ?”

“Sometimes,” he answers with a shrug. “Some groups stay in churches or other places. Maybe a group of families. My group had a sort of . . .” He pauses to search for the word, his brows drawn together. “Sleeping outside in a tent?”

“Camping,” I say with a laugh.

He snaps his fingers. “Right. We’d usually be in one place for a few days while we worked, and so we’d set up a kind of traveling camp. Three or four of us sharing a canvas tent, sleeping on the worst cots you can imagine.”