Besides, a man who chooses to name himself after a flower can’t be too picky about his pantaloons.

Whatever their choice in legwear, I was very extremely grateful to Colin’s flowery ancestors. If they hadn’t kept copious journals and letters, I wouldn’t be where I was now: with Colin and the rudiments of a dissertation. I certainly wouldn’t be in Paris.

“Where are we meant to find the shuttle?” asked Colin.

I consulted the instructions the woman from the hotel had given me. “She said it would be outside baggage claim.”

“That must be it.” Colin nudged me towards a van-like conveyance.

The driver pitched his cigarette out the window, wearily extracted himself from the front seat, and trudged around to open the back of the van so Colin could pitch our bags in, a quilted overnight bag for me, a big, complicated leather folding thing for him.

“Hôtel Minerve?” I said hopefully.

The driver grunted and set the car into gear. Okay. I’d take that as a yes. If he wanted to take us somewhere else, that was fine with me.

Just as long as it wasn’t the Georges V.

Jeremy, Colin’s stepfather, who liked to do people favors they didn’t want, had booked us into the famous—and ridiculously expensive—hotel. We had canceled the reservation and booked ourselves into the much cheaper Hôtel Minerve, over on the West Bank. Neither of us was exactly flush with funds, me because I was living on a graduate student stipend, Colin because he was supporting a money-sucking estate. A grad student at the Georges V? So not happening.

Colin’s stepfather hadn’t been pleased by this decision.