Champagne and French Kisses: A

fish-out-of-water sweet romantic

comedy (Falling in Paris Book 3) Elsie
Woods
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Champagne and French Kisses
ELSIE WOODS
Copyright © 2023 by Elsie Woods

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 Contents
1. Gina
2. Gina
3. Gina
4. Benoit
5. Gina
6. Gina
7. Benoit
8. Gina
9. Gina
10. Gina
11. Benoit
12. Gina
13. Benoit
14. Benoit
15. Gina
16. Benoit
17. Gina
18. Benoit
19. Gina
20. Benoit
21. Gina
22. Gina
23. Gina
24. Benoit
25. Gina
26. Benoit
27. Gina
28. Gina
29. Benoit
30. Gina
31. Gina
32. Benoit
33. Gina
34. Benoit
35. Gina

“Coucou” from Elsie

Also by Elsie Woods
About the Author
To a very Fancy lady and a bunch of Jens who only ever give a hand up.
CHAPTER 1
 Gina

GINA CAME to Paris with caviar dreams and a French fries budget.
#dont-be-gina
That’s my unsolicited advice, offered by the girl who dared to show up in France with ten bucks
to her name. Gina Marie Collins, and yep, that’s me.
I’d figured I would get a job. I’d figured that living with five of my besties in a shoebox apartment
would make the cost of living affordable. I’d figured I would meet Monsieur Oh-La-La Charming.
I’d figured a lot of things that turned out to be as true as a breakdancing unicorn.
Still true, however, is that Paris is the stuff of dreams.
The avenue of the Champs-Élysées shines in the late morning sun as my girls and I stroll like they
did in The Wizard of Oz. Six Texans stepping in time, laughing at nothing because that’s what old
friends do best. Without Laura, Natalie, Annelise, Jessica, and Chrissy, I don’t know where I’d be.
The move to France has been extra hard for me compared to the rest. Since coming here, I’ve
volunteered at an outdoor bridge tournament for senior citizens and a clean-up-the-parks operation,
but my favorite was dog walking at the local shelter. Those pups make me so happy. Adele, who runs
the shelter, said she would have loved to hire me, but they just didn’t have the funds.
While I love my volunteer gigs, I need a paying job. Fast.
Maybe it was lack of planning. Or maybe my poor money management skills are biting me in the
butt again. But getting a job has been harder than training a cat to swim. I’ve never had much to weigh
my wallet down, but these days I don’t even need a wallet. If it hadn’t been for the blessing that is my
friend Laura, I’d either be begging on the corner or on a plane back home a month ago. Seems a shame
to come all this way for a year to ultimately only stay a few months.
But here I remain, thanks to Laura’s charity loans—at least for now. I’m soaking it all in, because
if my situation doesn’t change and quick, that return flight just might be my only answer.
That’s why I’m determined to enjoy every second of this national holiday with my girls. What the
holiday is for, I’m not sure. They seem to have an awful lot of them in this country. No complaints.
When in France, do as the French… which in our case means yet another fabulous picnic under the
Eiffel Tower. It’s just about the only thing that gets me out of the apartment these days, since
wandering the city alone gives me a racing pulse and shallow breathing, not in a good way.
As the majestic architecture rises around us, the cobblestones under our feet feel as old as time,
like we are a part of the living, breathing history of this incredible city.
The laughter surrounding street performers mixes with the hum of conversation from café patrons,
creating a lively concert that weaves through the horns of passing traffic. Even the cranky beeps sound
more musical than usual today, but that might just be me.
 “How ’bout a smile,” Laura says, hooking her arm in mine, and I give a grin to her waiting eyes.
It’s the least I can do.
On the outside, I am the picture of poise. On the inside… let’s not go there. I’ve been enough of a
burden to these girls as it is. No one needs a Debbie Downer on a national holiday.
"Y'all, look at those macarons!" Natalie squeals, pointing to a display of pastel-colored treats in a
bakery window. "They're almost too pretty to eat."
"Almost," Chrissy grins, her eyes twinkling with delight. "I don't think anything could stop me
from devouring them."
“With goodies like that,” I salivate in front of the window, “I could find myself living the life of
Sweets Lady.” Sweets Lady is my name for the woman who lives on the floor below our tiny studio
apartment shared by us six Texan girls. Every day for the past four months, Sweets Lady comes home
with a big box full of some kind of pastries and eats them on the balcony below us. She shares a bite
with the occasional pigeon, but she sure does love digging into those pastries. Watching her almost
feels naughty, but the French are dramatic like that.
Sweets Lady is only one of my regular people-watching folks. I love to people-watch when I have
time… and these days I have a lot of time. Even the animal shelter where I walked dogs on Tuesday
and Thursday evenings said things slow down during the summer and gave me a pat on the back. Time
is what I have way too much of.
“Let’s grab a few things.” Chrissy skips to the door like there aren’t bakeries on every corner,
though this one does stand out from the rest of the street. It is painted a warm pink and adorned with
intricate gold trim. The window is lined with colorful displays of delicious pastries. The inviting
aroma of fresh croissants and pain au chocolat fills my nostrils, tempting me to dash inside and
spend all my four euros on French treats.
The situation is getting critical. Laura has lent me enough to get me through, but everywhere I turn
are reminders that I've got to get a steady job, and asap.
"Hey, Gina, grab a picture of Sissy Chrissy and me in front of that Eiffel Tower cake," Jessica
calls out, posing with her identical twin, Chrissy, who is giving her a proper scowl for using the
dreaded nickname. “Cheer up, sis. Just look at that cake!”
The intricate pastry masterpiece is a sight to behold, and I try not to imagine what would happen
if Jessica lost her footing and the cake came falling down and then we’d have to dedicate the next
year to working at the bakery to pay for the ten-foot baked piece of art.
I snap a shot with the two of them and then get a close-up of the gorgeous tower of yumminess.
“Gina,” Annelise points at an especially colorful assortment of macarons, carefully arranged in
the shape of a heart. "Think your followers would like it?"
"Absolutely," I reply, snapping another photo for my account.
My small but loyal following on Instagram is one of my life’s great joys. They are ridiculously
supportive and enthusiastic about my adventures, leaving comments with emojis and sweet words that
remind me there still are good people out on the internet. My little online community knows nothing of
my trials and tribulations, just the good stuff, the funny stuff, and the downright what-in-tarnation stuff.
I try to capture as many super-French moments as I can and post them. Others go on guided tours of
the city, but I try to catch as much as I can during my ninety-minute morning runs. Jogging is both free
and good for offsetting the croissants.
I fiddle with some old-timey filters that suit the atmosphere. "This is going to make a great
addition to my hearts theme. You're such a sweetie, Annelise."
“You know you’re the only one who would ever dare say that.” Annelise scowls. “You’re bad for
my brand.”
“Don’t try to hide under your armadillo exterior.” I nudge Annelise with my shoulder. “You know
you don’t fool me.”
Annelise throws up her hand with a paper bag of bakery goods and marches out. “No
sentimentality before lunch, that’s the rule!”
“What are you going to get?” Natalie asks, drooling over the display case.
I’m not ready to tell her that I could barely afford the baggie of carrots I contributed for the picnic.
"We've got enough for lunch," Laura announces, saving my hide. "All we need for nibbles under
the Eiffel Tower is right here." She taps the picnic backpack and gives me a knowing smile.
Laura is the only one of the group who knows my situation. I didn’t mean to tell her—it all
tumbled out of me one night as she was navigating the woes of her accidental marriage when my
tummy growled like an angry toddler. She’s lent me money ever since, but nothing weighs on a girl’s
heart more than feeling like a burden to her closest friends.
“Let’s get to our destination already. Girl’s getting hungry!” Laura announces and leads us down
the Champs Elysée like a woman on a mission, which is a good way of describing Laura's permanent
state of mind.
The air buzzes with laughter and chatter as tourists and locals alike enjoy the bustling atmosphere
of the Champs Elysée. Even if I managed to stay a lifetime, this place would still get to me: the ornate
facades of elegant buildings, the colorful flowers cascading from window boxes, and the
mouthwatering scents wafting out of every bakery.
"Post this, Gina!" Jessica sprawls herself across the statue feet of a guy who must be famous, or
else they wouldn't have carved him so big.
"Got it!" I snap the pic from below, creating a perspective where it looks like Jessica is holding
the statue in her hand.
We continue down the street, Jessica leading the way with her infectious energy. Natalie may be
the ring leader who got us all to Paris, but Jess has always been the life of the party, and it's no
different here in Paris. She twirls in the middle of the sidewalk, Marilyn Monroe-style.
“How about this pose, Gina-girl?”
"I said I got it." I shake my head with a smile. Jessica's endearing ridiculousness gets me every
time.
"Are you gonna post it?" Jess runs to me and peeks over my shoulder. "I'm sure your followers
will love the pirouette."
"All one-hundred and six of them." I tap the button and voilà, it’s posted.
With the Arc de Triomphe in front of us, the framing for a pic is too good to resist.
"Say 'fromage,' y'all!" I call out, turning the camera on myself and my friends. I catch artistic shots
of Laura marching, Natalie jumping like a starfish, Jessica and Chrissy side by side since no two
twins are as identical as they are in pictures. I post the shots, adding the tags "#ChampsElysees" and
"#LivingOurBestLifeInParis" for my cheerful following.
"Okay, Gina," Natalie teases, "remember we talked about enjoying the surroundings and not just
documenting them."
She's not wrong. All that people watching I do? It’s 99% through my phone’s camera and 1%
stuffed on the metro at rush hour where I can’t move my arms.
"Come along, Gina-girl." Chrissy wraps her arm through mine. "Don't let her get you down. Enjoy
the scenery through the camera if you want."
The Arc de Triomphe rises before us, grand and imposing. It's as if someone took a slice of
history and added a whole bag of yeast to bake it larger than life. It reminds me of our school trip to
the Alamo. I’d never seen anything so fancy-looking, but then again, I’d never left our little town of
Sage, Texas before that trip. But this arch is on a whole different scale with its intricate carvings
etched into stone.
“Shhh,” Jess nods her head toward a group of American tourists on a guided tour—who I now
realize are easier to pick out of a crowd than a porcupine in the petting zoo—and we tiptoe over to
them.
“We didn’t pay,” Annelise says. “I’m not sneaking in.”
“Suit yourself,” Jess hangs her arms over my shoulder and we strut into the group as if we were
always there.
“Gather up!” The tour guide calls as a sea of Hawaiian shirts and Lycra shorts huddle up. Must be
Floridians. The tour guide himself seems more American than French with his fanny pack and quick-
dry shirt. “Ladies and gentlemen, behold the majestic Arc de Triomphe, an iconic symbol of French
national pride and identity. Standing at the western end of the Champs-Élysées at the center of Place
Charles de Gaulle, this colossal monument is an architectural masterpiece. Built in the early
nineteenth century on the orders of Napoleon Bonaparte to honor the French army, the Arc is covered
with intricate carvings and inscriptions, each detailing historical battles and generals of note. Take a
look over here.” He points, and like good students, we all lean to see the sculpture. “The Departure
of the Volunteers depicts France’s first citizen army who marched off to protect their newly reformed
country from invasion. Just look at that militant angel, leading them into battle.”
That’s right, there’s massive history even in a big stone arch stuck in the middle of an intersection.
Even if Sage grew to be more than the metropolis of a single high school, Paris is about as far away
as anyone can get from my hometown.
The tour guide continues. “A climb to the top will reward you with panoramic views of Paris, a
sight that truly embodies the city's grandeur. Remember to visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
beneath the Arch, its eternal flame a poignant reminder of those who gave their lives during World
War I and whose identities remain unknown. This is not just a monument, my friends, it's a testament
to history and a symbol of the French spirit.”
As we stand under its shadow, it strikes me how much this feels like a buckle of a belt, connecting
the city’s bustling avenues in a show of grandeur and dominance. In that way, it sure reminds me of
Texas, bold and not afraid to say it. It's the spirit of 'Go big or go home', just in a French accent.
But that’s me getting all sentimental again.
Even if my pockets are lighter than a prairie dog on a diet, standing under this towering marvel, I
feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
And that’s when I see him.
A man at the base of the Arc, clipboard and measuring tape in hand, looking right out of place.
The tour guide continues, but my attention is now firmly on Clipboard Guy. He possesses the kind
of lean, muscular build that could only be honed by years of discipline and intense physical activity.
His body screams "Olympic athlete," every muscle defined yet not overly bulked. In a fitted sports
shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms and snug outdoor trousers, it leaves little to the
imagination and I am not complaining
Despite his casual, practical attire, there's a grace to his movements, an elegance that must be in
the water in France. Something in the way he moves—leaning forward quickly and then back in place
—is like a coiled spring. He seems so alive and powerful, like I could reach out and touch him, even
from all the way over here. And I’ve only seen him from behind.
 "Wow," Chrissy breathes, echoing my thoughts. "It's even more amazing up close."
I bet he is, I think but don’t dare say it out loud. The last thing I need is the girls teasing me for
getting all googly-eyed over Clipboard Guy.
"Definitely worth the walk from the Champs-Élysées," Annelise agrees, eyes wide with wonder.
"So,” I start casually, “what do you think that guy’s doing over there?" He’s taking measurements
near the base of the arch now.
"Which guy?” Laura lifts onto her toes. “There are hundreds of guys here."
"Over there. The one with the measuring tape and clipboard," I reply, pointing him out to my
friends. I squint, trying to make out the details of his face. All I can tell is that he is one tall drink of
water in the west Texan desert.
“Oh,” Laura’s eyes widen. “That guy.”
"Go on, Gina," Jessica nudges me, her eyes alive with mischief. "He's as handsome as a prize-
winning stallion at the State Fair, and you are due for a bit of French excitement. Go say hi." She
nudges me with her shoulder and I stumble a bit. Despite my state medal in cross-country, balance is
not my strong point.
I cast a sidelong glance at Clipboard Guy with his dark hair that's just begging for a run-through
with my fingers. His strong jawline has the unmistakable mark of determination. He's the embodiment
of a sports drink commercial, and my parched heart is buying it.
But I’m not that kind of girl.
"No can do, Jess," I try to brush it off, but my voice sounds more like a squeaky toy than the
southern belle I'm aiming for.
Natalie sidles up to me, her grin mischievous. "Come on. You’ve been saying for ages that you
need to get out of your comfort zone."
“I meant take a cooking course or unicycle lessons.”
“Natalie’s right.” Laura crosses her arms and paces. “You need something fun, something light,
something to get you into the French state of mind. What better than some harmless flirting with a
Frenchman?”
"Nah, I just… I mean… what would I say?" I stammer, heat creeping up my cheeks.
“Gina, you've roped in bigger calves than him," Natalie teases with an overused joke—my
parents have cows on their farm. "Just trot on over there."
“I can’t!” I squeal and hide my face in Chrissy’s shoulder. I know she’ll have my side.
But Chrissy drops the gauntlet. "Let’s make it a dare. I’ll give you ten euros if you go over there.”
Tempting, but no. “I caaaaaaan’t.”
“Go on,” Jess nudges me. “It’s harmless! I’ll throw in another ten euros.”
“Noooooo,” I curl deeper into Chrissy’s shoulder as she laughs.
Annelise clears her throat. “I’ll give you fifty euros if you do it.”
No one speaks.
The stakes are set. With only four euros in my pocket, that's an offer too juicy to pass up.
“Fine.”
They cheer.
“Maybe this is your destiny.” Natalie wiggles her eyebrows dramatically enough that I roll my
eyes.
“Destiny,” I groan. “Yeah, right.”
“Just go with the flow,” Jess hooks her arm in mine. “Be friendly, be you, play along.”
She pushes me forward. I stumble but quickly regain my footing. It’s not awesome to break one’s
nose on the way to one’s destiny. I take a deep breath for heaven-sent strength. The cobblestones
beneath my boots give a comforting solidity to my wobbly courage, even if they threaten to catch my
toes and send me flying.
"Remember, Gina," Laura chimes as I slowly step away, her voice steady and soothing. "You
wanted to step out of your comfort zone, and that's exactly what you're doing. It doesn't matter what
happens. Just have fun with it."
"Right," I say, nodding slowly, my eyes dead-set on the hunk of man. "Fun. I can do that."
"Of course you can," Jessica teases, grinning widely. "Now go get 'em, tiger!"
"Alright, y’all. Hold onto your cowboy hats. This filly's going in."
With the cheers of my friends behind me, I change my step from sauntering to a march, straight
over to Clipboard Guy before I lose my nerve. The butterflies in my stomach are flapping like crazy,
but with each step, I feel more determined.
All of a sudden, the Arc de Triomphe towering over us feels like a big ol' mama bird, spreading
her wings to keep us safe while its monster-truck stones pass me their strength. It's as if it's
whispering, "You've got this, doll,” in my daddy’s voice.
My gaze drifts back to Clipboard Guy. He’s studying his notes, but then his eyes meet mine.
A jolt of connection ricochets through me. It’s like a sudden summer thunderstorm, unexpected and
exhilarating.
"Bonjour, Clipboard Guy," I say, and just might actually die on the spot.
Clipboard Guy? What is the matter with me?
He cocks his head, looking surprised but pleased, and my heart leaps.
“I’m Gina.”
“I had a feeling it was you,” he says with the sweetest of French accents, and a smile breaks out
across his lips.
Be still my Lone Star heart. I’m about to be romancified by a French Adonis.
“You did?” is all I manage to get out before my face stops working entirely.
“It had to be you, Jeannie.”
“It’s Gina,” I whisper.
“Gina.” He drops the clipboard into a shoulder bag and reaches his long muscly arm out. He
touches my shoulder and gently guides me forward. Thank goodness because my body was likely to
crumple into a pile of former woman at his feet. He lifts his hand into the sky and signals something to
someone but I’m lost in the moment, living out a Hollywood movie. “Mathieu will bring the car
around.”
“The car?” Yes, girl, that’s what he said.
He laughs quietly and it occurs to me that despite this scene of epic proportions, he’s looking
shyly at his feet. “It would be hard to walk where we’re going.”
I can hardly keep my heart in my chest. Finally, something is happening. To me. The girl who
worked on a farm her whole life, who barely graduated high school, who’s yearned for anything to
make the future a more exciting place than working on her parents’ farm… it’s starting now. I can feel
it, destiny laying itself at my feet like a flying carpet. Even though a part of me is petrified, a bigger
part knows that this is how all the movies start.
Just then, a fancy-dancy car—I’m talking a proper black stretched sparkle-in-the-sunshine
limousine—pulls up in front of us.
And this man of my dreams opens the door.
“After you.”
I don’t know what in the name of heaven is happening, but I am getting into this limo.
CHAPTER 2
 Gina

"WHOA, NELLY!" Jess hollers, her Texan drawl becoming more pronounced in her alarm. She's
halfway to me in a dash, worry etched into her forehead. "Don't you step another foot into that there
limo, Miss Gina!"
I’m stuck between the Arc de Triomphe and my unknown future that starts in this limo with
Clipboard Guy.
Laura reaches us right after her, heels clacking on the cobblestone. Annelise and Natalie are hot
on her trail. Annelise’s voice is a hiss as Clipboard Guy talks with the driver on the other side of the
car.
"This isn’t some kind of fairytale, Gina. You can't just waltz off with a stranger, no matter how
handsome or French he is. This is exactly how those true crime shows start."
"Aw, come on," I reply, nearly laughing at their melodrama. "You're the ones who dared me to talk
to him in the first place! I’m sure we’re just going to take a spin in his limo. No biggie." I shrug one
shoulder to show how no-biggie it is.
Except that this is big. It’s huge. It’s the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me in
France. Heck, it’s the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me in my life. I’d thought being
in France would change everything, but up until this moment, I was barely a speck in a giant city that
could swallow me whole. If it hadn’t been for Annelise introducing me to a volunteer agency, I’d
hardly have left the apartment. The city is scary, especially when all the girls are out at their jobs or
attending classes or doing whatever it is that Annelise does when she leaves every day alone. I was
nobody in this city.
Now I’m becoming somebody.
"When we dared you to talk to the guy, we didn't plan on you riding off into the proverbial sunset
with him, did we?" Jess counters, her usual sunshine clouded up with a frown.
At that moment, Clipboard Guy ambles over to us with a warm jillion-dollar smile. "Mesdames, I
assure you, everything is above board.” He snaps his fingers. “I hope this will set your minds at
ease."
The driver, a gentleman in a smart suit, strides over with a silver folder thingy in his hand that I
think they call a ‘folio.’ He clicks it open and selects a business card, the bright white contrasting
with the silvery surface. He extends the card to me with a polite nod. It's so unexpected, so James
Bond-like, that we are all momentarily speechless.
Clipboard Guy, for his part, simply grins.
“Thank you.” I manage to say as Jess plucks the card from my hand.
Clipboard Guy clasps his hands in front of him, patient with us given the suspicion in the air. “I
know there remain several vague aspects about me and the situation, but I promise that it will all
come clear when I explain in the car.” Clipboard Guy looks at his watch—likely not a knock off—and
inhales deeply. He looks back at me, soft baby blue eyes crinkling in the corner. “I made an
appointment. I would appreciate keeping it, depending on what your entourage…”
“Gina!” Jess whispers as if we don’t all hear her, Clipboard Guy included. “Look.” She nods her
head to her phone and we all gather around her.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” I say to Clipboard Guy, who raises a curious eyebrow in return. I
huddle the girls a few yards away from him.
"Sweet Moses," Jess exclaims. "Gina, he isn’t some rando. He is Benoit Alaflamme, and he's a
big deal!"
Laura reaches out to grab the phone, her eyes scanning the page. "The man's a veritable celebrity."
“Let me see this.” Annelise grabs the phone and clicks away at it. “We need to triangulate.”
“He’s waiting,” I say, glancing back at the man I now know is Rich Clipboard Guy, who is now
observing the Arc de Triomphe as if imagining… I have no idea what he’s imagining. But whatever it
is, it must be something important. He seems like that kind of guy.
“Dude can wait a little longer. This is your physical well-being we’re watching out for,” Annelise
says before sighing and passing the phone back to Jess. “Yep, he seems legit. Venture capitalist and
amateur sportsman. Seems he almost made the Olympics.”
“What?” I hiss. “The Olympics?”
Natalie, reading over Jess's shoulder, chuckles. "Gina-girl, looks like you've snagged a big one
this time."
Annelise nudges me, her face unchanged while the others gawk at the gorgeous hunk of Clipboard
Guy standing by the limo. “Check in. Every hour.”
“Every hour? Annelise—”
She points a finger in my face. “Every hour!”
That seems unrealistic, but I have an idea. “How about I post on Insta every hour. That way you
can track it all, and there’s even a public trail. You know, in case he goes all true crime on me.”
They gasp.
“Joke, girls, joke.” I stride away from them, my confidence completely faked but such is life and I
am taking this bull by the horns.
Rich Clipboard Guy, now also known as Benoit Alaflamme, sees me walking toward him and a
wide smile breaks across his face. I don’t know why he thinks he knows me or if this is just how fate
operates in France, but I’m rolling with it.
“You’ve looked me up. Great. It gives you an idea of what’s in store.”
Um, what?
“Matthieu,” Benoit calls and then looks at me. “Do you speak French, Jeannie?”
“It’s Gina. And, um, oui?” I reply.
He laughs. “So we’ll speak in English then. That suits me fine. New York served me well during
my four years. Mathieu! We’re ready.”
The door to the limo remained open since my destiny got interrupted by a Sage-tervention. I look
back at my girls who are a combination of wide-eyed and dreamy with some worry and a scowl. The
scowl belongs to Annelise.
I blow them a kiss and drop into the limo, where the seat is surprisingly lower than I expected.
My landing is anything but graceful. Benoit shifts on the seat as I bounce, but his smile continues.
“Shall we?” he asks.
 No idea what we are shall-ing. “We shall.”
He leans forward and knocks on the glass that separates us from Mathieu the driver and off we
roll.
I never thought a leap of faith would involve a rich dude in a limo in Paris, but y’all, I am here for
it.
“So…” I begin, because what is a girl supposed to say who’s just hopped into a limo with a
stranger.
Stranger.
Oh Lord, all the warnings my mama gave me about stranger-danger are popping back into my
mind.
What in the name of sweet tea am I doing?
We pull away from the scene, the Arc de Triomphe looking like a Lego piece behind us while
Benoit taps on his phone.
I clear my throat and try again. “So, care to fill me in?” I try to say it in a cutesy way, but the
terror in my tummy is burning up the back of my throat.
Benoit glances up from his phone and a gentle look comes over his face. Not exactly one of
unending love, but as quickly as those nerves come, they disappear again.
“Poor Gina. I haven’t told you much, I know.” He rubs his hands together before looking at me
again, his head cocked to the side. “I hope you will forgive me for the show back at the Arc. The truth
is that I have been waiting for you.”
He has? Waiting for me?
“This next phase of my life would be incomplete without you. I understand that now more than I
ever did before. That’s why I couldn’t be completely open at first.” His nervous smile puts me at
ease, I’m not the only one feeling awkward here. “I need you, Gina.”
He reaches into the pocket of the limo door. Goodness gracious me, a voice in the back of my
head knows exactly what’s going to happen, because I’ve seen this movie.
Benoit Alaflamme is about to propose.
Maybe he needs to take a wife in order to make the Olympics. Maybe he has a family inheritance
that he can’t touch so long as he’s unmarried. Maybe he wants to skip the whole getting to know you
phase and go straight for the gold band. Rich people do all kinds of funny things, as Cinderella can
attest.
Oh Mama, what am I doing? I haven’t known him for more than five minutes, in the literal sense of
the word, and although I dreamed of moments like this as a little girl, the reality of what’s happening
is too much, it’s too big.
Sure, there was an instant connection between us, but am I ready to commit the rest of my life to
someone I don’t even know?
But if we don’t take risks in life, then what is life for? We could always divorce, it’s not the end
of the world, but maybe we could truly make a go of it. We could get to know one another without the
pressure of ‘do we marry or don’t we marry,’ because… we’d already be married.
A thousand thoughts have raced through my brain before Benoit’s hand pulls out of the pocket, but
I am ready to greet my future. It’s boiling up in me like a zillion cinnamon candy hearts and by the
time Benoit turns back to me, I’m going to explode.
“Gina—”
“Uh-huh?”
“Will you—”
 “Yes!” I cry with reckless abandon.
“Wow.” Benoit laughs, deep and full. “I never expected anyone to be so happy to be a social
media manager, but after everything I read in your resumé, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
CHAPTER 3
 Gina

RESUMÉ ?
I choke on air. Seems my tongue just expanded to five times its normal size, and I need a moment
before my lips work. “Sorry. Come again?”
"You see," Benoit continues, his voice now all business, "I never liked social media. I find it
invasive and tedious. However, if I am to stand any chance of achieving the title of Extreme
Sportsman of the Year, then I will have to create a splash as much with my persona as with my
audacity.” He sits back in the seat with a long exhale. “And that’s why I placed the ad in New York
City. I was intentionally ambiguous in the posting, because I didn’t want someone trying to join my
team for the wrong reasons." He clears his throat. “If you accept the position, you’ll find I’m
habitually skeptical of others, and that’s intentional. I wasn’t even sure you would show up with the
lack of detail I provided. I figured if you came, then it was meant to be.”
Wait, wait.
So I'm not to be his sweetheart, his future blushing bride. Instead, I'm about to be turned into his…
social media manager?
Oh. Jeannie. Heaven knows where this Jeannie is, or what she’s thinking, or if she even came to
France, but it’s me here now and I’ve got no words to explain to this man who I really am.
But I’ll try. “So I think that maybe there might be some confusion—"
“I really need you, Gina.” Benoit observes me across the leather upholstery of the limo, his eyes
as blue and intense as the Mediterranean, expecting some sort of response.
Be still my heart.
"I see, Mr. Benoit," I manage to reply, my voice sounding much steadier than I feel. Internally, I'm
as stirred up as a cat in a dog kennel. A social media manager? I mean, sure, I'd handled the Hot n’
Saucy Tacos Facebook page back home, and I’ve got my little Insta community, but this is a whole
different league. "That sounds… interesting."
Desperate to keep my wits about me, I channel my Daddy's old poker nights. I may be the fourth of
seven kids, but I’m the only girl and he was determined I could play poker with the best of them. And
I can.
"Gina," Daddy said, "when the chips are down, that's when you gotta bluff."
So I do.
I roll my shoulders back because that’s what Laura does when she’s about to take on a big work
project, and I nod like I know what I’m doing. “Tell me more.”
Benoit seems to appreciate my response, a light of satisfaction in his eyes as he leans back against
the leather seat. His shoulders relax, and he takes a deep breath before beginning to speak.
 "You know," he starts, his voice a soft, velvet whisper, like a night breeze rustling through a wheat
field, "venture capital has been the beating heart of my professional life. I've invested in businesses,
seen them grow and flourish. There's joy in that, a sense of accomplishment, one that I’ve always felt
inside me. It wasn’t just about the money, though that helped. Money was a concrete measure of
whether or not I had achieved what I set out to do."
He pauses for a moment, his eyes distant as if watching an unseen memory play out on the wood
interior of the limo. Actual wood. The corners of his mouth lift in a half-smile, and I can almost see
the years of boardroom battles and stock market victories in that one expression.
"But," he continues, the reminiscing glimmer in his eyes fading, replaced by a fervor that’s got my
one-hundred percent attention, "ever since the incident, I have seen that I have to reposition myself. I
have already conquered the world of acquisitions. But I cannot accept defeat. The obstacle to
overcome—is Mother Nature herself.”
Didn’t see that coming.
“You want to conquer Mother Nature?” I ask, regretting that I hadn’t eaten before following my
so-called destiny into the limo because I’ve got one heck of a cramp gurgling in my gut.
Maybe it’s not hunger. And note to self, I need to find out what this incident is all about.
“Conquer? No.” Benoit looks past me, out the window. “I would not be so presumptive. But
achieve beyond the bounds of the human body… yes.”
“Achieve beyond the bounds of the human body?”
“That’s right.”
I’d say he’s living in an alternate universe, but he’s described my current sensation perfectly. I am
quite sure that I have left my human body and am circling in outer space somewhere, because the last
hour of my life has been nothing short of extraterrestrial.
He looks me straight in the eye. “And that’s why we are going to jump off a cliff.”
“STOP THE CAR!”
I yank at the door as the limo slows to a stop but it’s locked. Either I’m a prisoner or it’s child-
proof, but I will not find myself on a suicide mission no matter how blue sky-like those eyes are.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Benoit calls out, and—to my downright amazement—he laughs. “I’m talking
about bungee jumping. Wasn’t that obvious?”
“Yeah, right. As obvious as a Frenchman in Paris.”
Benoit furrows his brow before his face relaxes. “Ah. It’s a joke. I do like humor in an
employee.”
Employee.
Ugh. This whole thing has taken a left turn at wackyland, and I left my bags at the station. I really
don’t know if I can keep up the charade, and this moment presents the perfect out. The car stops and
the click of the locks opening is all the invitation I need to get out of Dodge and walk back into my
everyday life.
Except…
What life?
I’m living off the generosity of my friend as I desperately try to find temp jobs. I haven’t found my
way into anything that resembles a life in France the way the other girls have done. Natalie got her
dream job and dreamier man. Laura created enough hoopla to wind herself up with a fake husband
turned adoring boyfriend. I’ve got a big old barn of nothin’.
And yet, here I am, a gorgeous hunk of French yumminess wanting to hire me to take pics and post
them as we sit in his limo and head toward a bungee jumping site.
 Nothing like this ever happens to me. Not until now.
I’m staying in the limo.
I fold my hands in my lap and lift my chin, the way I suspect a social media manager would do.
“Monsieur Alaflamme, before we continue, I think you owe me more detail about this assignment.”
“Absolutely. But may we continue toward the site?” He tilts his head to the side, and although I’m
sitting in the backseat, it feels like Benoit is letting me drive the situation.
“Sure. Bon voyage.” I grimace, because I’m pretty sure that you can’t say that if you’re going with
the person. “I mean, bon voyage to us both.”
Benoit taps the glass and the limo pulls away from the curb.
Here goes nothing.
He leans back into the plush leather of the limo, a thoughtful look on his handsome face. "You see,
Gina," he begins, “with my new direction, my athletic career being unseen online is tantamount to
being invisible. If I am to succeed, then it won’t be enough to break world records. I will have to
create a buzz around it, share the journey, the struggles, the victories. That’s what will excite the
sponsors, the media, and the public at large."
He pauses for a moment, glancing out at the dazzling sites flying by outside.
"Social media is the medium of the masses. Whether I like it or not is irrelevant. It connects us to
the world in unprecedented ways. It’s where my fans will be waiting for me to announce my
victories.”
“Fans?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
He sighs. “I have become known in the sports world, but not for what I’d like. There was much
controversy over my last public competition. I thought I was prepared for it, but…” He trails off. “But
I want to turn that reputation around. I want the world to witness my triumph, when I take a seemingly
easy challenge and conduct it in a manner that no one has done before."
“And what manner is that?”
He cocks his head. “You know little of this world of extreme sports record breaking, I see.”
I shrug, hoping it’s cute. “Guilty as charged.”
He crosses his arms and goes all business on me. “I’m targeting the title of Extreme Sportsman of
the Year. It’s a worldwide competition with space for both intense athleticism and creativity. The
premise is simple: contenders must take an activity which is otherwise ‘common’, for example, multi-
day trail biking in the Alps, and turn it into something extreme. Perhaps instead of a mountain bike,
they use a children’s bike, and on top of that they reduce the time normally expected by half, and on
top of that, they carry all their gear on their back.”
“Whoa.”
He chuckles. “It sounds fancy, but that one has already been done. Someone did it three years ago
and won on all scores—athletic, artistic, and civic.”
A civic measure for a competition? I like that. “This is exciting. So what’s gonna be your big
challenge then?”
He wags his finger. “Not so fast. There’s a catch.”
I haven’t had a finger wag in my face like that since Mama caught me dipping my finger in the
blueberry pie filling. Is this a test? He must have figured out that I don’t know what on earth is
happening here, and he’s about to lay down the law.
But instead of a telling-off, he folds his hands in his lap and raises an eyebrow at me.
“If I want to win this competition, then the most important thing is that no one knows what I’m
going to do until just before it is going to happen. Because otherwise…” He gestures with his hand
for me to finish the statement.
The lightbulb goes off in my head. “Otherwise somebody else will try to do it first.”
“Exactly.” He leans back against the leather seat.
“But in the Olympics, isn’t the whole point that everyone is doing the same sport at the same
time?”
His face clouds over and a muscle twitches in his jaw. I’ve touched some kind of nerve.
“Trying for the Olympics was a mistake.” He grumbles the words, half saying them to himself,
then takes in a deep breath through his nose. “I am not a conventional man, Gina. I was trying to fit a
square peg into a round hole. I’ve never been a rule-follower, so why would I ever think that I was
destined for a game which demanded oversight on even the most minor of details?”
I hope this is a rhetorical question.
“Drucard may have sabotaged my chances, but I have to believe it was a gift in disguise.” The
grimace on his face tells me this was no gift, and this Drucard guy better stay far away. “Instead I will
push the limits, test the confines, and create a legacy. The Alaflamme name will be synonymous with
adventurous audacity. I want the world to bear witness to my never-before-accomplished stunts, but
not until it’s actually happening. And then, as it’s happening, let them all watch. My peers and the
award panel, and as many members of the public as possible. I can win on athleticism and artistry,
and the public’s reaction—somewhere between shock and awe and admiration—will complete the
civic score.”
His gaze is lost somewhere in the distance, like he can already see himself bounding over
mountains and flying through fires or whatever it is he does. And I believe him. If Superman were
French, he’d be Benoit Alaflamme.
“If I am to become France’s Extreme Sportsman of the Year—and that is not only my goal but will
be my future—then I need the masses to be on my side. I may not have made the Olympic sailing team,
but I will not bow to the media who said I choked. The Men’s solo sailing event is elite, and they
don’t know the slightest thing about what it takes to manage it on wild Mediterranean swells.
Especially not when your archenemy is heckling you at every turn. I’ll never forgive Drucard for the
way he cut me off at the ten kilometer mark.”
His face relaxes and he turns back to me.
“So this is my chance. I’ll show the national team, I’ll show Drucard, I’ll show those journalists.
Benoit Alaflamme will take on challenges no other man could think of, much less dare. And the world
will see it, with your help.”
No pressure.
“I get it. You want them to see it so that they can be encouraged to overcome anything life throws
at them? Take on challenges they’ve never done before? Conquer their fears because they saw you
and were inspired?” I ask, wishing that I had a notebook.
“Inspired? No. I just want them to see me.”
“See you.”
“See me accomplishing something no one has ever done before.”
“Oh. Okay. Just because.”
He crosses his arms and looks out his window. “Because a man has to make a place for himself in
the world. A legacy. Meaning. Something a mother can be proud of.” He finishes in a whisper.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
I fidget with my hands, scratch the back of my leg with my boot. Scratch my nose, which has
suddenly become unbearably itchy. Maybe I should just come out and say I’m not who he thinks I am,
but this feels like it’s going so well—
“How is your physical condition?” he asks out of nowhere.
“Uh, I work out?” I don’t know why I’m saying it as a question, maybe because if I were on a
dating show, right now would be when I storm out and tell the producers to get a life. But I’m the one
who needs the life right now. I clear my throat. “Cross-country is my sport.”
“Excellent. You’ll have to keep up with me, particularly during training but also during the
challenge itself, which I have to do in one month in order to hit the deadlines for the competition.”
My jaw drops to the floor. “I’ve got to ride a kid’s mountain bike in the Alps?”
He flashes a smile so sincere and unexpected that my jaw finds its way back in place.
“No. You do not have to do the challenge.”
“Oh thank goodness.”
“We’ll have to find ways that you capture it at difference milestones, or perhaps we’ll fit me with
a camera that you manage from afar. That’s what the other contenders do.”
“I’ll be darned if we do what the other contenders do,” I say with some weird assurance that
came out of nowhere. “We’re going to set Benoit Alaflamme apart!”
“That’s the spirit! Now, let me tell you about the others in my team,” Benoit says, and pulls out a
tablet from a leather laptop bag.
The interior of the limo hums with the sound of his voice and the scent of his cologne, a heady mix
of musk and cedar. As he talks about increasing followers and the opportunities this could create for
sponsorship, I paste a confident smile onto my face. I hope it hides the fact that I'm quietly freaking
out inside. The Eiffel Tower is far behind us now, barely an afterthought to the mayhem in my head.
I nod at all the right places, attempting to act the part of the professional social media manager.
My mind stumbles and bumbles through thoughts and questions. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of
the bluff, playing in one of Daddy’s high stakes poker games.
The limo cruises along the Seine, the sun casting shimmery patterns on the water. Benoit's words
include a steady stream of expectations and my mind races to keep up.
“Like in business,” he continues, “I can see you managing my brand persona.”
That clicks something in my head. "So, I'd be like your personal storyteller?"
Benoit looks at me, his blue eyes serious yet kind. "Exactly. As my social media manager, you
will have the power to bring my adventures to life. I cannot do that alone.”
The limo swerves gently, drawing my gaze towards the window.
As we cross the Pont Neuf, I steal a last glance at the Eiffel Tower disappearing behind us. For a
second there, I had thought I was getting a fairytale, a shimmering ring, and a life of Parisian luxury.
Instead, I got a job.
The one thing I’ve been praying for. A job I'm not entirely sure how to do. But Daddy’s words rise
up again.
When the chips are down, that’s when you gotta bluff.
Here I am, getting ready to bluff my heart out.
“Do you have a copy of the contract?”
He reaches into his laptop bag. “I wouldn’t be a very good boss if I didn’t.” He lays the package
on the seat beside me as the limo takes a sharp right turn. “But first, we will do a test.”
“A test?” This is it. It’s all going to come to light—how I’m not who he thinks I am, that I’ve
never social media managed anything but myself, and I’d lay a bet he’s going to make me walk back
home.
“You could call it an action-oriented quiz.” He looks at his phone. “GPS says we’re only a few
minutes away now.”
“Wait… the cliff?” My heartbeat starts to boom in my chest.
He nods. “We’ll bungee jump. I recall from your cover letter that this is one of your favorite
pastimes, right?”
“Yeah, sure it is.”
Kind of like how I enjoy sticking nails in my eyes every third Sunday and have a weekly date
with the dentist for an optional root canal. Bungee jumping? I’d rather fight a rabid rooster.
But the lie is taking on a life of its own.
“You’ll take ‘pics’ and ‘create posts’ during the jump.” He waves his hand in the air like he
doesn’t know what those terms actually mean. “And then we can assess the quality of your work
afterward.”
“Let me check I understand.” The limo slows as it bumps onto a dirt road which was clearly not
designed for limo passage. “You want me to bungee jump and take pics of the surroundings as I do
it?”
“Not the surroundings. We’re not here to build the reputation of the French countryside. You’ll
take pictures of me.”
“Pics of you… while I jump…” I try to imagine me falling from a bridge while Benoit hangs over
it and I’m trying to get a shot of him before my phone flies out of my hands. The practicalities of it
aren’t making sense. “I’m not following.”
“We’ll jump at the same time.”
I cringe. “But what if we don’t fall at the same speed? You’re kind of a head taller and a bag of
bricks heavier. What if we bounce into each other? This doesn’t sound safe.”
He gives a half-smile, bemused, though I’ll be darned if I don’t know what for. “We’ll jump
together. In tandem.”
“Together…”
“Your body will be strapped to mine.”
Whoa, heart, you slow right back down. “Of course. Of course my body would be strapped to
yours.”
This is not the time to go back into fairytale mode, even if that perfect example of the male
species strapped to my body is enough to make me want to douse myself in arctic waters.
“I need to know that you are able to adapt your artistic style to fit the kind of persona I want to
present online. And for that, you need to be right there with me. Given that you enjoy bungee jumping,
it seemed like a good way to start.”
Right now is when the heavens punish me for lying. But thousands of people bungee jump every
year. Heck, maybe even millions around the world. And I bet they almost all survive—
“Here we are,” Benoit says as the limo slows to a stop a few yards before the earth… just…
stops.
Rich Clipboard Guy said cliff, and he sure meant it.

I CAN HARDLY BREATHE, my eyes glued to the ground below us. A platform has been attached to the
side of the bridge we’re on, which for a thirty-minute drive from the city is in a surprisingly rural
area. Paris rises in the distance, but our little apartment in the Quartier Latin feels as far as Texas
itself.
The bungee company seems legit and some dude was jumping just as we arrived, and he lived to
tell the story. But I suppose now is not the right time to tell Benoit that I’m not awesome with heights.
Maybe this is what stepping out of my comfort zone is supposed to feel like?
Benoit’s grin spreads across his face like butter on hot cornbread. “It’s a thrilling view, isn't it?
Exactly what we need for the perfect snapshot of our upcoming adventure.” He slaps my back with
enthusiasm, sending me staggering a step forward.
“Yup, we’re higher than Gramma’s hairdo on a Sunday.” With my heart running wild, I take out my
phone. “All well,” I tap onto Instagram with a picture of the drop. “Just going to do a little bungee
jumping, as one does. Give my boots to my mama if I don’t make it. Just kidding. Mostly. No really,
I’ll be fine.”
I snap a selfie with what I hope looks like a joyful smile, but it might also be panic. Hopefully my
followers enjoy this departure from pics of cakes and coffees and smiley selfies and don’t pull a
Casper and online ghost me. Adventure sports may be Benoit’s brand, but they aren’t mine.
We gear up, me pretending I’ve got my act together when I’m actually shaking like a leaf in a
twister. I try to remind myself that I am supposedly his professional social media manager and I
supposedly have experience with bungee jumping. Faking it ‘til I’m making it.
“So, what kind of shots you looking for? You want a bit of this, bit of that?” Very professional,
Gina-girl.
"Whatever you can make work," Benoit says as the bungee jump staff hook him up. He doesn’t
notice my state of fright. “I’m looking forward to seeing how you would position this online.”
“Speaking of position,” I say to distract from the fact that the bungee guy is attaching a metal clip
to my harness—but then I can’t think of anything appropriate to finish that sentence with. Though I
can’t imagine that he’ll be my boss for long—after this jump, the truth of my not-so-professional
social media skills are bound to appear. “I mean, strike a pose!” I hold up my phone camera.
“How about this one?” He poses, flexing those arms like he's in a Roman coliseum, and I'm his
personal sculptor.
I laugh despite myself, snapping shots like I was born for it. “Now, give me a somber one. You’re
sizing up the world and it’s just about right.”
He complies, his demeanor transforming into a vision of fierce determination. I’m a nervous
wreck, but my finger remains steady on the camera button.
As we inch closer to the sky-high platform, my belly twists into a pretzel. This is it, what we
came for. I could back out, sure… but I want this story to keep on going.
I turn to Benoit, my voice quivering despite my best effort to keep it steady. "So, uh, how do you
do this in France?” Good cover. “Is there a… umm… preparatory stance or something that y’all do?”
He grins, reassuring and calm. "I’m sure this is just like you’ve done before. Once you let go, it’s
pure bliss. Like soaring with the eagles."
“Soaring, huh?” I murmur, locking my gaze on the platform above us. “Good thing I brought my
angel wings!”
My laugh is manic and Benoit’s eyes twinkle like a kid on Christmas morning. “Are you ready?”
"As a hog for slop," I answer, and remember the way the pigs used to rush at me when I came into
the pen. As a six-year-old, it scared me every time.
This doesn’t feel so different.
A muscular man with sun-bleached hair strides toward us. He exudes the confidence and skill of
someone who's spent countless hours in the sky.
 “Benoit, I know this is nothing for you,” he says, “but it’s my legal obligation to spell out the
instructions.”
“Pas de soucis, Eric.” Benoit winks.
"Are you Jeannie?" Eric asks, extending a calloused hand for me to shake. I nod, gripping his hand
firmly in return.
"It’s Gina. Yup, that's me. Ready to soar like an eagle…" The words tumble out and then there’s
the awkward fake laugh again.
With a practiced air of confidence and a gorgeous French accent, Eric claps his hands together.
"Alright, Gina, listen up," he begins, his eyes filled with friendly intensity. "I'm going to give you the
rundown of what you can expect and what you need to do, even if you’ve done this before."
“And I have,” I jump in. “Lots of times. I mean, comparatively. Like to people who’ve never done
it.”
Benoit cocks his head to the side but doesn’t say anything. Probably because I sound exactly like
someone who’s never done this before.
"First thing,” Eric continues, “trust your equipment. These harnesses are state-of-the-art and
designed to keep you safe. Second, when you jump, keep your eyes open.”
“I’ve got to.” I hold up my phone. “I’m on social media duty. Can’t do that with my eyes closed.”
“Not easily,” Eric agrees. “Next, the jump itself. Try not to tense up or fight the fall. It’s natural to
feel a bit scared, but try to relax your body. Like you're a rag doll. It makes the experience smoother
and more enjoyable."
“I’m so relaxed.” I roll my shoulders back. “I’m the most relaxed bungee jumper you’ll ever see.”
"Lastly," he adds, patting the harness strapped around me. "When you feel the cord pulling you
back, just go with it. It's your ticket to solid ground. As you’re doing a tandem jump, if you feel your
bodies slipping too far apart, you can wrap your legs around Benoit’s waist to stay more secure.”
“HA!”
It comes out as a bark and now my cheeks are flushing hot and red. Not sure if that’s because of
the ridiculous sound that just burst from my mouth, or at the idea of being in a compromising position
with Rich Clipboard Guy in order to save my life as we fall into the valley.
“Alright,” Eric says. “The moment is coming, so let’s latch your harnesses nice and snug. Benoit,
mettez vos bras autour de Gina.”
Seems Eric told Benoit to give me a hug, as his thick arms wrap around me. Perhaps as my last
experience of affection before plunging to my untimely death.
“Perfect,” Eric continues. “Now lower your arms so I can hook in the shoulders.”
Benoit follows instructions, his palms grazing my backside as he does so. I’d squirm but there’s
nowhere to go.
“Sorry,” he says and looks over my head. His heartbeat quickens—I know it because my face is
squeezed against his chest as Eric adjusts the straps.
“Okay, you can relax now.” Eric takes a few steps back, and to both my relief and my alarm, we
have space between us. It felt safer in his arms.
“Got your camera?” Benoit asks.
I hold up my phone, which now has a lanyard attaching it to my harness. “Ready.”
That’s the overstatement of the year.
It's as if every cell is screaming in terror, aware of the sheer insanity of what I'm about to do. My
palms are slick with sweat, my stomach churning. A metallic twinge of saliva in the back of my mouth
makes me want to spit, but I distinctly feel like this is not the place nor time.
 We get closer to the edge of the platform, just enough so I can see over the edge. And boy, that
drop's looking mighty. Benoit, for his part, is as solid and as reassuring as a well-built barn in a
storm, and believe me, I have seen some bad barns during bad storms in my twenty-five years.
Suddenly, we're there, the edge of oblivion beneath our toes but we haven’t gone over yet. The
world around me spins in a dizzying whirl of colors and sounds, my senses on hyperdrive. The bit of
humidity in the air. The raucous calls of birds somewhere up high. The rubber of my phone case in my
trembling hand.
"This is it," I croak, the words barely audible above the thunderous beat of my heart—and I’m
chickening out.
No, I tell myself, you chicken out of everything. This time you are staying put.
“Alright, kids,” Eric says. “You are going over in three, two—”
“GERONIMO!” I scream and let myself fall over the edge, taking Benoit with me. "SWEET
BABY ARMADILLOS!"
We plunge, my grip on the phone sporadic at best. My world is only the wild rush of air and the
white-knuckled grip I have on my camera phone.
“Pics!” Benoit cries. “Pics!”
In my panic, I begin snapping pictures left and right, the phone jerking in my hand as we rebound.
I catch glimpses of Benoit's wide grin, the exhilaration in his eyes a pure opposite to the
unadulterated terror I know must be in mine.
“Mama!” I shout, the words ripped from my lungs by the force of the pull up against gravity. The
phone slips from my grasp, smacking me square in the face. A whimper escapes my lips, but before
the phone can fall away, I snatch it back. I’m alive and really living this moment and as sure as that
ground right there, I’m going to take me some good pics.
I am Gina! I am a Texan rancher! By golly, I am a Frenchie social media manager! And I am
not about to let a little thing like a hundred-foot drop ruin my shot!
Snap. Snap. Snap. I capture the wild whirl of the world around us, the wind-whipped look of joy
on Benoit’s face, the incredible spectacle of the ground rushing up to meet us. I feel the pull of the
cord, the exhilarating jerk as we’re launched back upwards, the world flipping on its axis.
And just when I think my heart might actually explode I feel it—I’m flying. We're soaring back up,
Benoit's strong hands on me, anchoring me in the storm.
"Fry me up and call me a catfish, I’m really doing this!" I shout, the words torn away by the wind.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, a wild, hysterical sound. I snap another picture, this one of our feet
dangling with the sky behind them.
And just like that, the fear is gone, replaced by a rush of excitement so strong, I’m breathless. I'm
flying. We're flying. And beneath us, the world spins on, oblivious to the two crazy souls throwing
themselves into the abyss for the sake of a few good snaps.
Benoit’s chuckle echoes in my ears, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through my chest.
I don't know how long we hang there, suspended between heaven and earth, but all too soon, it's
over. We dangle upside down, gravity bringing my face to the same level as his, at which point I
realize—
Oh, Lord. My legs are wrapped around Rich Clipboard Guy’s hips.
“Sorry,” my most sheepish face says as I unwind my human pretzel from his ribs. “I was a bit
caught off guard with this whole tandem thing.”
“It happens,” he says as if it’s completely normal to bounce upside down with a woman’s legs
wrapped as tight as a Christmas bow around his waist. A mild change of subject should help release
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 Books for Young Readers.

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 James Nisbet & Co.’s List.

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FOOTNOTES:
[1] The blaeberry is the English hert.
[2] My English readers ought to know that a bursary is a kind of scholarship,
which not only entitles the holder to free education at the University, but to a sum of
money paid annually during the whole four years’ curriculum.
[3] Now Sir W. D. Geddes of the Aberdeen University.
[4] Pronounced “shees.”
[5] This story is not imagination, but truth.
[6] A kind of floury Scotch roll.
[7] Dulse is an edible seaweed much used in the North, and pepper dulse is a
smaller seaweed with pleasant pungent flavour, that is eaten as a relish along with it.
[8] “How do all these vessels become derelicts, because I thought a ship was never
deserted while she would float?”—“No. When a ship has rolled her masts over the
side, or gets leaking badly, or has a heavy list, or from a thousand and one other
causes gets dangerous, her crew are frequently only too ready to leave her. There are
some notable cases, and only just within the last week or two the Bahama, a fine large
steel sailing vessel on her first voyage, was deserted in the Atlantic, and was sighted
afterwards in an apparently seaworthy condition. But there is to be an inquiry into her
case, so I will say nothing more about her, except that she is not yet charted, and is
knocking about without lights, without foghorn, without anything—in fact, a
tremendous danger to navigation. Over and over again a crew has left a ship when
another crew from the relieving vessel has stayed behind and brought the otherwise
derelict safely into port. Many of these derelicts, I should tell you, are waterlogged
timber ships; and it may interest you to learn, while I think of it, that one of the
United States vessels engaged in sinking derelicts is the old Kearsarge, who fought
and sunk the Alabama in the English Channel.”—Pall-Mall Gazette.

Typographical error corrected by the

etext transcriber:
“your a thrifty lad."=> “you’re a
thrifty lad.” {pg 218}
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