Anton was brief over the phone. Hello… Yes… I’m busy right now… I’ll pick you up at eight. I don’t think he even said good-bye.

Well, at least he didn’t hang up on me.

At eight sharp, I’m downstairs and so is Anton’s black Audi. His driver rounds the car and opens the rear door for me. The windows are tinted, and I’m not sure if Anton is inside until I land on the backseat.

He is—just an arm’s length away from me.

We greet each other politely. His hazel eyes are impenetrable. What did I expect? A bear hug and a smooch?

That would’ve been nice, though. Even a tiny brush of his hand against mine would have been wonderful right now.

But Anton is aloof, so instead of leaning against his chest as I’ve been dying to do, I turn away and stare out the window.

As we drive through the busy streets, we pass the Ritz. Are we going to a cheaper hotel? Is it an indication of my degraded status? Does it presage the way things will be between us this time round? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

The car pulls into a high-end residential compound near the Patriarchy Ponds. I follow Anton into a luxury building, across the foyer, and into the elevator. We get out on the twelfth floor where Anton unlocks a heavy door—the only door on the landing—and ushers me in.

This must be his apartment.

Surely, it’s a good sign he’s brought me here?

He motions me to the immense living room. “Please have a seat. I’ll fetch some food from the kitchen. The housekeeper was supposed to prepare cold cuts and canapé sandwiches.”

I nod and head to the sofa.

When Anton reappears, holding a tray loaded with yummy foods, his suit jacket is gone and so is his tie. The sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt are rolled up, and he looks more relaxed than he was in the car.

I should stop staring at him.

He places the tray on the large coffee table, sits on the sofa and hands me a plate. “What did you want to tell me?”

My heart skips a beat. He clearly isn’t going to do small talk so I can ease into my proposition.

I put my plate on the table and clear my throat.

OK. All right. Here goes. “Do you still want exclusivity with me?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“Because I want it too.”

“What made you change your mind?”

What, indeed?

Several things, actually. Failure to become a machine. Seventy-four nights without you. Weakness. Desire. Love. Take your pick, Anton.

I sigh. “I’ve been miserable without you.”

“Have you now?” His expression is impenetrable.

I look down at my plate. “Before I tell you more, you should know that I’ve fought it. I really didn’t mean for it to happen, and I promise I won’t let it turn me into a needy, clingy, silly cow.” I suck in a breath, and blurt out on the exhale, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

“And I don’t want your money,” I add quickly, eyes still on my plate. “I don’t need gifts or Parisian holidays. I just want to be with you. As your girlfriend, not your escort or your paid mistress.”

There, I said it.

My left lid starts twitching, my palms are wet, and my legs are shaking a little. I look up. His gaze burns into mine, but he says nothing.

Don’t keep me hanging, Anton. Don’t let me come undone.

He takes my hand and begins to trace little circles on my wrist. Then he moves closer, lifts my hand to his lips, and presses a kiss to the inside of my palm.

I let out a ragged breath as relief washes over me. It’s a yes. He still wants me. Giddy and emboldened by his response, I close the remaining distance between us. He sits back and pulls me onto his lap. I stroke his cheek and then his jaw, remembering the feel of him. I’m so hungry for his kiss I can barely think straight.

So I give up on thinking and kiss him instead.

Ooh, the bliss. His warm lips open around mine and his tongue pushes inside my mouth. I close my eyes, and the world falls away except for his delicious taste, his strong arms around me, and his muscular thighs under me.

We kiss until I’m dizzy and so aroused that he need only touch me to make me come.

Right on cue, he sets his hand on my knee, slips it under my skirt and begins to move it up. He squeezes and kneads the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh, his hand climbing slowly and purposefully. His pace is exquisite and excruciating at the same time.

I can’t help moaning against his mouth when the tips of his fingers finally brush my center. A second later his large hand settles exactly where I need it to be. For a few moments he just holds me through the thin fabric of my panties, his grip firm, warm and possessive.

I stop kissing him, stop moaning, stop breathing. All my consciousness focuses on one spot. His primal gesture—the age-old impulse of a man lusting after a woman—feels acutely, breathtakingly intimate. It arouses me more than the most sophisticated caresses I’ve ever known.

I stare into his eyes.

He stares back, his gaze dark with desire—and it’s my undoing. The aching need inside me becomes unbearable, overriding every other thought and sensation. I press myself into his hand, and that tiny friction sends me over the edge.

He begins to stroke me. My bones are already soft with pleasure, but I want more. I stand up and remove my panties. He unzips his trousers and slips a condom on in record time.

And then I grip his shoulders and straddle him.

A host of delicious sensations courses through me as I lower myself onto him. But beyond the sweetness, the thrill and the soothed ache, there lurks something deeper, something I can no longer deny. Connection. Belonging. The joy of having found my way home.

I close my eyes to savor the moment. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He grabs my hips, lifts me up and then pushes me down as he thrusts from underneath. A guttural noise escapes from his chest. I don’t need further encouragement. We rock in a frantic rhythm until he throws his head back and growls his release. Seeing him like that sends my primed body into another blissful climax.

After we’ve cleaned ourselves up and resumed our meal, it occurs to me that I may have misinterpreted what just happened. Anton didn’t actually say yes to my proposition. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.

He stroked, kissed and fucked me instead.

Panic twists my stomach. Why hasn’t he voiced his consent? Is he still angry with me? Does he despise me? What if he doesn’t want me as a girlfriend? What if all he wants from me is sex?

I watch him work through his plate with an obvious appetite, and I force myself to calm down. He’ll talk, eventually. If I know him at all and if I’m not as wrong about him as I was about Stan, he won’t play with me.

He’ll tell me what he wants.

Anton devours another canapé, washes it down with a big gulp of water, and turns to me. “You know, if you’d waited one more day, I’d planned to come over to talk some sense into you.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I have a confession to make.”

I stiffen a little and wait for him to continue.

“In February, after I came home from a string of business trips, I asked Moscow’s best private eye to dig into your past.”

“What?”

“That’s how I found out about your mother’s illness. And about the child you gave up for adoption.”

I’m too dumbfounded to respond.

“I’m sorry for intruding into your life like that, but knowing those things helped me understand a lot about you.”

Maybe. But the end doesn’t justify the means. “Anton, you shouldn’t have.”

“I disagree. Had I not done it, I wouldn’t have found out why you sold your body.”

He gives me a defiant look.

I ponder his words. Hmm. Maybe hiring a PI wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

“Another thing I learned is that you hadn’t been given to bed hopping before your ingenious buddy Filip set you up in business.”

I hold his gaze.

“And finally,” he continues, “I know that everything you’ve told me about yourself was true. You withheld some information, which is understandable considering the nature of our relationship at the time. But you’ve never attempted to deceive me or lie to me.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

He leans forward. “And there’s more.”

His voice is grave and his stare hard. I don’t like where this conversation is going.

“After the PI gave me the lowdown on your past, I asked him to keep tabs on you. I had him take pictures of you getting into your clients’ cars and entering hotels with them. Those photos were supposed to be my bitter medicine.”

I smirk. “Were they?”

“Bitter, yes. Medicine, no.”

Oh, Anton.

“But a month ago, the photos stopped, and three days ago he confirmed you had quit your escort business.” He gives me a probing look.

“That’s correct. Mom responded so well to the initial regimen that her treatment turned out to be a lot cheaper than we expected.”

He grabs both my hands and holds them for a long moment. The expression on his face is intense.

“Anna,” he says at last, his voice tinted with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

My jaw drops.

He frames my face with his hands. “I need you in my life as much as I need you in my bed.”

“You don’t have to marry me to have me in your life,” I say.

He smiles. “I’m forty-five and I know what I want. I also know who I want. And since we’ve just established you want me too, I don’t see why we should waste time on… dating.”

“Anton, darling, I’ve been a call girl for five months. It’s a small world. People will talk. They’d say, ‘Anton Malakhov married a hooker.’ ”

He shrugs. “Let them. I can deal with it.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.”

“I love you, Annushka,” he says.

I gasp—and then burst into tears. It’s too much joy, too much hope, too much everything. I sob uncontrollably, rub my eyes, smear my mascara and blow my nose. It’s all very inelegant and unladylike.

He cases my face again and wipes away my tears with his thumbs.

When I finally calm down and have the waterworks under control, I smile, expecting him to continue.

But he just stares at me, his gaze warm and infinitely comforting. And I realize he won’t say more. He has nothing to add to what he’s just said.

Because to a man like Anton, telling a woman he loves her doesn’t require additional qualifiers. He either loves her or he doesn’t, and when he does, it’s the most natural thing for him to want to bring her into his inner circle, to make her family. When a man like Anton loves a woman, his love is loyal and undaunted.

It won’t falter. It won’t doubt itself, lie, or betray.

His is the love of a wolf.

The man, who spoke mostly Russian, had remained glued to his cell phone throughout his meal. When he finished, he collected his change and placed a ten euro bill on the table.

“Merci, monsieur! It’s a very generous tip!” Rob grinned.

The service being included by default in all checks in Paris, the locals tipped scantily if at all. With the recession, even the tourists were beginning to heed the advice of guidebooks and do like the French.

“No trouble.” The man stood to leave, then turned to Rob, and said in unexpectedly decent French, “Listen, would you like to make some extra cash?”

Has God finally heard my prayers? Rob tried to subdue his enthusiasm. “Depends . . . What’s the gig?”

“Nothing difficult. There’s this rich kid—”

Rob shook his head. “Sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think I’m interested in hearing the rest of it.”

On second thought, maybe he should hear it—and alert the police.

The man tut-tutted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people when they speak? Let me start again. There’s this Russian kid—she lives in this very building. Her father is my main competitor in business. I just want you to make friends with her, be around her as much as you can, and keep me informed of anything that may be of interest.”

“Like what?”

“Like when during his phone calls or visits they discuss something related to his business. Or his travel plans. Or any kind of plans.”

Rob furrowed his brow. “How often does he call her? And where is he?”

“In Moscow. He calls her every day, and from what I’ve seen, they talk for at least thirty minutes. She’s his only child, so my guess is he’s grooming her to join the business.”

“What business?”

“IT services.” The man arched an eyebrow as if to say, What did you expect?

Rob glanced around the room. Things were slow this afternoon, and the other waiters had the situation under control. But he had to get back to work.

The man shrugged. “Basically, I’m asking you to do corporate espionage of sorts.”

“But won’t this kid be speaking Russian with her father?” Rob’s asked. The gig didn’t seem to be anything horrible like kidnapping, but it still didn’t sound quite legitimate.

The man smiled. “And you can understand it, can’t you? I noticed how you smirked at some of my, shall we say, colorful expressions when I was on the phone. Are you part Russian or did you learn it at school?”

Rob sighed. There went his attempt at polite refusal. He might as well admit to this observant captain of industry that he spoke Russian. “School and evening classes. I’m a business student, so foreign languages are a big asset.”

“How admirable. Do we have a deal, then? I’ll pay you decently, so you can cut down your working hours and focus on your studies.”

When the man told him the amount of the “commissions” for each piece of intel, Rob’s mouth fell open. Jesus. If he delivered a dozen reports over the next few months, he’d be able to pay the school fees in full before the end of August.

And get his MBA.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to spy on some chick in relation to her father’s activity, right? Just pass on whatever I overhear from her in this regard, and no funny business. I need to be sure of it.”

“That’s right. I’m not a mobster, you know. Do I look like one to you? Where do you think I learned my French? I’m an educated man and a respected businessman.”

Rob raised his eyebrows, signaling he needed to hear more.

The man curled his lip. “It just so happens that Anton Malakhov—that’s the girl’s father—has been seriously hurting my business lately. He’s determined to grow even bigger. And he plays dirty: dumping prices, stealing clients, and so on. I’ll go bust if I don’t get my act together. And this includes taking some . . . unorthodox measures.”

“Including a little foul play of your own,” Rob said.

The man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go ahead and look me and my company up.”

Rob took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout approach?”

Boris sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A practically nonexistent social life.”

“Have you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide his sarcasm.

The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to spying on him.”

“What happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first steps.

Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”

“How come?”

“She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

“Give me a day to think about it.”

Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”

“Of course I am.”

Rob shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”

“Must be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your stereotypical Russian oligarch either.”

* * *

Stepping out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.

My new home.

Her gaze lingered on the café, Bistro La Bohème, that occupied part of the ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings, wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.

She crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.

Trash.

What a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!

A few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment. She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th arrondissement, or le neuvième, for its diversity. Quintessentially French, le neuvième was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its arched passages cutting through handsome buildings were lined with antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions, forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a map.

Originally, Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in Switzerland, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie neatness.

Not that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be. She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs, she’d been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen. When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The one that put an end to their relationship.

“I’m moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn, with their croissants and paper coffee cups.

“Oh,” Gerhard had said.

As she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.

As the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.

So that she could bang her head against it.

“Why now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at length.

“I want to write my thesis there.”

“Isn’t it easier to write it on campus?”

“It is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”

Come on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything.

He shrugged. “OK, then.”

Her throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.

“After I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”

He stared at her.

Ask me to stay. Please. Just ask.

“I don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”

She gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn. So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.

This is it—the end.

“I’ll visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.

“No you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.

He didn’t argue.

Over the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.

And now look at her! How could she feel so content only two weeks after breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.

Lena looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share her high spirits with him.

When he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.

“So, how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.

“Fantastic. But then again, how could it be otherwise?”

“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese tourists?” he asked.

“I thought they were rather rich.”

“Poor as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”

Lena laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if you need help.”

Oh please, not again. Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All the good doctor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.

Anton took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”

“Dad, I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”

“Of course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you had the flu.”

All of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.

“I don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he said.

“I don’t need—” she started.

“I’m going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”

Anton didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that if she didn’t nip this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.

“Dad, I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Hmm.”

Lena chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”

Anton didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to Marta and Ivan’s.”

Thankfully, her mention of the family friends reminded Anton to give Lena their regards, after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.

“Ready to order, mademoiselle?”

She looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark, intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips. Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said hips.

She ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.

“No wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the black-aproned Adonis asked.

“It’s none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.

His question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for his snobbery.

She composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”

“So much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.” He smiled.

Was he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.

She had to figure out what to write to her mom.

* * *

As students began to file out of the lecture hall, Rob turned to Amanda. “Did you have a chance to look at my paper?”

“Yep.” She rummaged through her tote bag and handed Rob his draft essay.

He wrinkled his nose. “Your verdict?”

“Much better now, monsieur Dumont,” she said in a posh voice, imitating one of their professors. “And those charts you added—they really did the trick.”

Rob smiled. “You have my undying gratitude, mademoiselle Roussel.”

“It’ll fetch you another A, Robby Boy, or maybe even an A plus.” She touched his arm. “Mark my words.”

Rob’s smile grew to a full-fledged grin. “Well, let’s hope your crystal ball tells the truth.”

“It always does, as you well know by now.”

“Would you like me to take a stab at yours?” he offered.

“Nah, Mat already did. Mr. Thorough gave me twenty-five very specific suggestions to work through before tomorrow’s deadline.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “So, thanks, but no thanks.”

“OK. Maybe next time, then.” Rob collected his papers and stood. It was the time to bottle up his French pride and go to Starbucks across the street. “Will you at least let me buy you a latte?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out.”

As they walked to the Starbucks, Rob whistled a silly tune. When Amanda raised an eyebrow, he just spread his arms as if to say, I can’t help it. His life was exactly what he’d wanted it to be. He had a solid chance to graduate top of his class and find a good job. His best friends Amanda and Mat were not far behind. He’d make Grand-papa proud and prove to his parents he’d made the right choice. He’d show them it had been worth it, especially the last two years of all work and no play. But didn’t all ambitious young people have to go through a few tough years if they wanted to make it in this world? At least, most of his friends did.

Rob pulled out his cell phone. “Let me call Mat. He may want to join us at Starbucks.”

A hint of disappointment flickered in Amanda’s eyes, but she schooled her features into a pleasant smile. “I think he has a class right now.”

“Does he? I thought he finished before us on Thursdays . . . I’m probably confusing it with Fridays. Anyway, let me try.”

Mat answered his phone and said he’d meet them for a mocha.

“See? I knew he’d be free by now,” Rob said.

“Great.” Amanda turned away from him and pushed open the door to the coffee temple.

Ten minutes later, the three of them sprawled on soft leather armchairs and sipped their brews.

“I wish there were more cafés in this city where you could slouch like this,” Rob said.

“As opposed to having to keep your elbows close, so you won’t knock over your neighbors’ drinks,” Amanda said.

Mat looked up from his mug. “Are you describing La Bohème?”

Amanda only smiled.

Rob gave a sigh. “Yeah, sounds like it . . . apart from those two larger tables we have in the back with padded banquettes.”

Amanda turned to Mat. “So, Mathieu, have you made up your mind about what you want to do with your MBA? Will you stay in Paris and get a normal job or enter small-town politics in Normandy?”

“I’m still not sure. I keep changing my mind. The thing is, I’m as attached to home as I am to Paris.”

“How convenient for me that my home is Paris,” Amanda said.

Mat brushed his unruly curls from his face and sighed. “It’s like asking me to choose between Calvados brandy and Bordeaux wine and stick to that choice for the rest of my life.”

“You do realize that you don’t have to stick with your choice for the rest of your life, right?” Amanda looked at Mat like he was a confused child.

“Yes, yes, of course I do. Anyway, I may end up in neither Paris nor Baleville if I get a job offer I can’t refuse in Singapore,” Mat said.

“Singapore is the place to be these days. Who knows, you may love it there.” Amanda put her drink down and gave Mat a sly look. “But what about Jeanne, your blue-haired muse? You’d be so very far from her!”

“Over the past two years of our unilateral courtship, I’ve gotten no further with Jeanne than I was on the day I first laid eyes on her lip piercing.” Mat’s gaze became unfocused behind his thick eyeglasses. “I don’t think Jeanne would notice if I left for Singapore this minute and didn’t show up at La Bohème for a whole week.”

“Oh, but she would,” Rob said. “You always tip, and there isn’t a waiter on this planet who wouldn’t notice the disappearance of a loyal tipping customer.”

Mat shrugged. “That’s all I am to her—a loyal tipping customer.”

“Well, at least, you should be happy you can afford to tip, what with our ginormous tuition fees and the payment deadline looming,” Amanda said.

And with that little remark, Rob’s sense of a benevolent universe vanished, along with his precious moment of self-indulgence. The specter of the tuition fee oozed into his head, chased all his lightness away, and reclaimed its royal share of his attention. His bright future would crumble like a house of cards if he didn’t pay the fees before the end of August. No degree, no good job, no prospects.

Amanda looked at him with concern. “Rob? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Well, no, actually . . . I’m just a little worried about tuition.”

“Now, if I know you well, a little would be a euphemism for a lot, right?” Mat said.

“Well, no, not a lot. But maybe just a little more than a little. Let’s say, if I applied German discipline and precision to my language, I’d say I’m moderately worried.”

Mat and Amanda both smiled, but Amanda wouldn’t let go. “I thought your tuition was taken care of. Didn’t you get a waiver?”

“I was sure I would but it didn’t work out. And I didn’t get the loan, either.”

“Are you serious?” Mat asked.

“Banks in this country don’t like lending to students whose parents don’t act as guarantors.”

“Your parents didn’t agree to be your guarantors?” Mat sounded surprised.

“I didn’t ask them. The banker wanted proof I had a job lined up.” Rob smirked. “I gave her proof I had a part-time job waiting tables. Turned out it wasn’t the kind of job she had in mind.”

“Why don’t you just borrow from your parents? They should be able to help you out, yes?” Amanda asked.

“I can’t. When I left home six years ago, my parents were mad. They had other plans for me… So they told me not to expect any help from them.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean it,” Mat said.

“Unfortunately for me, they did. When I ran out of money during the first year—I could only get odd jobs as a busboy back then—I asked if I could borrow a little from them. They refused. During my third year, I was trying to rent an apartment and asked them to act as my guarantors. They said sorry but no.”

“I find this hard to believe. They are such nice people,” Amanda said.

Rob cracked a bitter smile. “Nice, but pigheaded. They’re still hoping I’ll give up and return to the farm.”

“Why don’t you approach your grandfather? He’s the one who understands your ambition, isn’t he?” Amanda asked, a confused frown on her pretty face.

“All Grand-papa has is his meager pension. He was a crappy farmer when he worked. Brought the family farm to near ruin.”

“He did tell me last summer he hated farming,” Amanda said.

“Luckily,” Rob continued, “my dad was old enough by then to take matters into his own hands. He saved the farm.”

Mat gave him a concerned look. “What are you going to do?”

The crease between Amanda’s eyebrows grew so deep Rob felt he had to say something reassuring. “Oh, I’ll come up with something, I always do. Guys, I take back that I’m moderately worried. I’m not worried at all. I’ve even got a plan, I swear.”

He chose not to reveal that the plan in question was a fishy stint as a spy for a Russian businessman.

That, or an emergency intervention from a fairy godmother.