“I’m glad you’re not wearing heels,” St. Clair interrupts. “Then you’d be taller than me.”

“I am taller than you.”

“Barely.”

“Please. I’ve got three inches on you. And you’re wearing boots.”

He nudges me with his shoulder, and I crack a smile. “Relax,” he says. “You’re with me. I’m practically French.”

“You’re English.”

He grins. “I’m American.”

“An American with a English accent. Isn’t that, like, twice as much for the French to hate?”

St. Clair rolls his eyes. “You ought to stop listening to stereotypes and start forming your own opinions.”

“I’m not stereotyping.”

“Really? Please, then, enlighten me.” He points to the feet of a girl walking ahead of us. She’s yakking in French on a cell phone. “What exactly are those?”

“Sneakers,” I mumble.

“Interesting. And the gentlemen over there, on the other side of the pavement. Would you care to explain what the one on the left is wearing? Those peculiar contraptions strapped to his feet?”

They’re sneakers, of course. “But hey. See that guy over there?” I nod toward a man in jean shorts and a Budweiser T-shirt. “Am I that obvious?”

St. Clair squints at him. “Obviously what? Balding? Overweight? Tasteless?”

“American.”

He sighs melodramatically. “Honestly, Anna. You must get over this.”

“I just don’t want to offend anyone. I hear they offend easily.”

“You’re not offending anyone except me right now.”

“What about her?” I point to a middle-aged woman in khaki shorts and a knit top with stars and stripes on it. She has a camera strapped to her belt and is arguing with a man in a bucket hat. Her husband, I suppose.

“Completely offensive.”