"I'm good. I'm just nervous," she whispered back.

"Don't be," I said as we turned to face the preacher.

"Before we begin, does anyone have any reason these two should not be joined in holy matrimony?" he asked.

When no one spoke up, he continued, "All right then. We are gathered here today to join Adam and Amber in marriage. I've spoken to this couple only a handful of times, but even I can see how much love and affection they have for each other." He smiled. "Now, let's begin."

"Finally," I mumbled, unable to hide my grin.

The preacher laughed. "Adam, please face your bride and repeat after me."

I turned toward Amber and smiled down at her.

"I, Adam, take thee, Amber, to be my wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and I promise my love to you forevermore," he recited.

I carefully repeated each word, my eyes never leaving Amber's. "I, Adam, take thee, Amber, to be my wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and I promise my love to you forevermore."

He looked at Amber. "Amber, repeat after me."

I listened as he and then Amber repeated the same words I'd said only moments before.

"Can we have the rings, please?" the preacher asked.

Drake stepped forward and handed them to me. Amber took my ring and tightly clutched it in her hand.

"Adam, place the ring on Amber's finger." I took her hand in mine and slowly slid the ring onto her finger. "With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee honor, and all my worldly goods, with thee, I share. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

I repeated the words.

"All right, Amber, it's your turn. Please place the ring on Adam's finger."

Amber slid the ring onto my finger, her hands still shaking slightly.

The preacher said the same words as before.

"With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee honor, and all my worldly goods, with thee, I share. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," Amber said softly.

There was a brief pause before the preacher spoke again, "By the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Before he finished speaking, I had Amber in my arms. I kissed her so passionately that I was worried for a split second that we might just make another baby right here in front of everyone. Wolf whistles ensued as I continued to kiss her for far longer than necessary.

Finally, I pulled away. "You look beautiful today, wife. I'm not sure if I've told you that or not."

She smiled. "You look pretty good yourself, husband."

We turned and faced everyone as husband and wife for the first time. Our friends and family stood and started clapping. Amber's mom carried Gabriella up to us and placed her in Amber's arm. I wrapped my arm around Amber and pulled both of them close. I kissed Amber's forehead before leaning down and kissing Gabby, too.

My life, my soul, my everything-that was what these two were to me. Life had thrown so much in our path, but it hadn't mattered. In the end, Amber and I had found happiness with each other.

Want to read more by K.A. Robinson? Click here: http://bit.ly/1iKUVbz Kandace Miller is a star student who stays on the straight and narrow path of her perfectly planned life.

Olivier DuMarche always chooses the shortcut in life, wanting the easy way in and out of every situation.

One room.

One beautiful American.

One sexy Frenchman.

Five days in Paris.

That's all it takes to ignite a spark into a flame. But when two opposites attract, can the language of love keep them together or will they be Lost in Translation?

2014 S. L. Scott.

Prologue.

I was in Paris for less than a week, but it was the beginning of everything, everything that mattered.

We lived in the here.

We lived in the now.

Everything in between was fire and passion.

The beginning of our romance was not that long ago. It was how I always hoped I would meet my soul mate, how all great love affairs happen, or at least how they did in my favorite old movies. I booked the trip wanting to see the city I daydreamed about my entire life. I just didn't actually expect to meet Olivier. We didn't know each other long, but it was long enough to change the course of my life forever . . . Yet, like a flame that flickers, fighting against the wind, would the end of summer bring an end to us?

Chapter 1.

Mid-November.

The travel guides failed to capture the emotion I felt as the cab driver swerved through traffic, taking me to the hostel. The lines on the roads that kept the lanes separated at home didn't seem to exist here, so I snapped my seatbelt across my body. Happiness bordered on nausea due to the wild ride.

It doesn't matter that he had Spanish music playing and no French accent. The only thing that matters is that I'm in Paris, making the year and a half of scrimping and saving worth it.

My head hits the window when the driver takes a sharp corner, then raises his voice as if I've done something wrong while shaking his hand in the air. With a nod of disapproval, his eyes go back to the road instead of reprimanding me in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

I do a double take down a cobblestone street, thinking I just got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but we're driving too fast for me to be sure, the street long gone. I sigh, a heavy disappointment coming over me. A poster of the Eiffel Tower has hung on my wall for the last six years. I'm ready to see the real thing.

Four days. I have four days in the City of Lights, so I know I'll see it. I'm lurched forward as the taxi comes to an abrupt halt before I can worry anymore about French monuments.

"Your hotel," the driver points toward a building across the street.

Nodding, I smile. "Merci."

After paying and stepping up onto the sidewalk, I straighten my yellow cotton sundress, adjust my wool coat, and flip the tortoise shell framed sunglasses down over my eyes. The driver mumbles something that sounds as though I've angered him in some way as he lugs my suitcase to the curb. He walks away waving his arm in the air before getting into his car and speeding off, his music blaring even with the windows closed.

Looking across the street, another disappointment sets in as I stare at the front of the hostel. The photographer definitely captured it in its best light from the online photos. But it was the cost that sold me. It's a hostel, so I didn't expect the Four Seasons, but . . . With a heavy sigh, I grab the handle of my suitcase and pull it toward the soot covered building highlighting the worst of 1980's design. I was hoping for historical French architecture, but I guess for twelve Euros a night, I get the eighties.

When I walk into the lobby, I stop, sliding my sunglasses back to the top of my head. The room is tiny with a dingy, stained green loveseat against the wall and a beat up metal desk in the corner. Nobody is here to greet me or anywhere to be found until a door leading to a hallway opens, slamming against the wall, startling me. I lean my head to the side and see a guy press a girl against the back of it. His hands are roaming her body and her arms are around his neck. Their lips are fused and I look away, so I don't get caught staring. Okay, I peek one more time, then clear my throat.

With his tongue still in her mouth, his eyes open and he looks at me. Pushing her back just a bit, she protests in a series of frustrated moans. Something is said in French, too fast for me to understand. But when the girl glares at me, I realize it must have been along the lines of 'We have company' or something like that.

She whispers and then kisses him quickly before heading out the door. He watches her with a fixed smirk on his face until the door closes and just the two of us are left standing here.

"Bonjour," I say awkwardly.

"Americain?" Even after one word, his accent is thick . . . and kind of dreamy. It's his attitude that sucks.

"Yes. Do you speak English?"

"Do you?" he replies sarcastically.

I roll my eyes. "I'm here to check in. Do you know if I need to wait here or call someone?"

He walks to the computer on the desk and begins typing. Leaning over the keyboard he hunts and pecks while muttering something in French, but I hear 'Americans' mixed in. Again, not in a good way. Looking up, he eyes me from head to toe, then asks, "Kandeese?"

"Kandace. Kandace Miller."

"That's what I said."

More mumbling is heard as I approach. "Sorry."

"We have one bed left-"

"One bed? I reserved a room."

He flips through a notebook and drags his finger down a page with today's date on it. After two hard taps, he says, "We overbooked. Veronique put a couple in that room just this morning, but we have the bed. C'est Oui?"

With exhaustion weighing my shoulders down, I nod. "Oui."

Holding a key in the palm of his hand, he says, "Quatre. Room quarante-deux."

I pull out my pocket guide and flip through it, but he interrupts me and says, "Forty-two. Fourth floor. Room forty-two."

"Merci."

"Pas de probleme." I must look confused because he clarifies, "No problem."

"Ah. Oui." That French night class I took has not helped in real world situations at all.

Taking my suitcase, I walk toward the stairs, looking for the elevator, but don't see one. "Is there an elevator?"

"Non."

I was afraid he'd say that. Picking my suitcase up by the handle, I open the door and start up the four flights. I have to stop on the first level to rest. The case is heavy and my flat shoes do not provide stair-climbing support. One of the doors above opens and then I hear footsteps coming down quickly. The stairs are not wide, smaller than we have in the States, so when the footsteps get closer, I move to the side.

It's one of those moments . . . like the ones in movies. He rounds the corner and I see him, my breath catching, my gaze fixed on him. His broad shoulders draw me in while his six plus foot build leaves a lot of body to cover in the mere seconds I have before it's considered rude. Medium brown hair, olive skin, strong arms. His coloring is not entirely different from mine. I'm paler though with a few freckles left over from summer. I have a lighter version of his hair. When his eyes meet mine, a smile appears. "Bonjour."

"Bonjour," I manage to reply like a native, though my heart is racing.

"Americain?"

Frustrated my attempt failed, I say, "Yes. Bad attempt at French is always a dead giveaway."

With a grin that stops somewhere between fully amused and just slightly, he looks down at my case and offers, "Would you like help?"

This is a surprise. Not wanting to drag it up three more flights by myself, I anxiously nod before I even reply. "Yes, thank you. Merci."

He comes down the remaining five steps and takes the case in hand before turning around quickly and heading back up. "Floor?"

"Fourth floor."

Without hesitation, he's off carrying a fifty-seven pound suitcase like it weighs nothing, which I find quite impressive. And watching him from behind isn't bad either. He looks almost as good from this angle as he does from the front.

When we reach the fourth floor, he asks, "What's your name?"

"Kandace."

"Kandeese," he repeats with no inflection that doesn't tip me off to how he feels about it or me.

"What's your name?"

There are four doors on this floor. He looks back to me, waiting.

"Forty-two. Quarante-deux," I say, breaking out my French again. I've always heard the French appreciate the effort. Yet no one seems to here.

"Quarante-deux," he says with a big smile on his face. A little section of hair flops down in front of his eyes and he puffs twice, trying to blow it away.

That's when I notice his eyes, really notice them-a blue that can't seem to decide if it wants to be cornflower or steel. I bet the color changes depending on what he's wearing.

Walking with purpose down the slim hallway, he heads straight for the second to last door on the left. He pulls a key from his pocket and opens the door. I stop a few steps back, and question, "Why do you have a key to my room?"

I follow him inside, cautiously waiting by the open door as he drags my suitcase into the room and props it against the only closest. "Because I checked in two days ago. You take the top because I'm sleeping on the bottom."

"What? We're sharing a room? But you're a guy."

With a wry grin and a wink, he says, "Oui, all man, my Americain Rayon de Soleil." While he looks down at his watch, I stare at him in disbelief.