In contrast to the beginning of the week, this morning La Bohème was full to overflowing. The Parisians had returned from their southern vacations, and the tourists reappeared in droves. Manon asked the servers to cut their coffee breaks back to the pre-slump ten minutes. Amanda didn’t mind. Being busy meant getting more tips and not having time to think about Kes.

The first thing she did during her break was text him.

A minute later, he replied.

She smiled.

Thinking about Kes, Amanda swallowed the rest of her coffee and went back to work. As she carried loaded trays and bussed dirty dishes, she felt pleasantly lightheaded—just like yesterday and the day before. It was her new normal.

Stupid, shortsighted hormones.

How did a girl keep her head on her shoulders when a man like Kes was doing everything to prevent it? He made her laugh. He plunged her into the present moment. Thanks to his clever prompts, she looked at people and situations in a new light and discovered things she’d never seen before.

The way he made love to her felt so right she wondered if he’d used some Gypsy voodoo to find out what turned her on. Because, God help her, he knew.

He’d discovered something important about her, something that no other lover—not even Rob—had figured out. And how could they? She was the ultimate type A, a true alpha: controlling and fiercely independent in all aspects of her daily life. With the emphasis on daily.

The nights were a different story. In bed she was pliable, yielding, and happy to be led. In fact, she enjoyed being led. Just like when she danced her favorite salsa.

Kes knew it. He let her pick the movies and the restaurants. She set the pace of their jogs. When she wanted to watch a TV program or listen to music he didn’t care for, he just opened a book and immersed himself in it.

The world’s most laid-back guy.

Except in bed, or wherever they happened to have sex. At those times, he stopped accommodating and took charge. A simple “come here” delivered with the easy confidence of a man who knew how much his lover wanted him made her knees wobble. The feel of his hand on her lower back, crushing her to him, was enough to turn her from a snarling tigress into a purring kitten.

He led—she followed.

It lit her fire.

And in the morning, when she morphed back into a tigress, he didn’t seem to resent or resist her transformation. She suspected he even liked it that way.

Weird, baffling man.

* * *

When her shift ended, Amanda still had a couple of hours to kill until her dinner with Patrick. He had booked a table at a chic restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. This meant she could take Line 7 down to Louvre-Rivoli and hop on Batobus—the shuttle boat she loved but hadn’t used in years. She was always in a hurry, and the métro was so much faster.

Well, if she wanted to treat herself to a scenic ride on Batobus, now was the time.

Besides, she sorely needed something to put her in a better mood. She didn’t regret accepting Patrick’s invitation—after all, he was Friend #4 on her famously short list. Had he not said those disturbing things the other day, she would’ve been looking forward to the evening. But now she felt uncomfortable about it.

On the boat, she took in the sights along the Seine and told herself it wasn’t a big deal. They’d have a chat, and then she’d go home. She didn’t have to say anything in response to Patrick’s idea that they’d make a perfect couple. He didn’t expect any immediate decisions or commitments from her. She could postpone deciding until Kes was on another continent and her body and mind had begun to shed his spell.

The boat slid along the peaceful river, past the Orangerie Museum and Champs-Élysées. After that, with no notable sights in view, Amanda watched the people on the quays: solo readers, couples kissing gently, and groups of friends enjoying an improvised picnic. They all seemed to be telling her, It’s summer, it’s Paris; stop fretting and go with the flow.

It helped.

Soon the magnificent Pont Alexandre III came into view. Amanda peered at its art nouveau lamps and baroque cherubs, and felt almost serene.

When she walked into the restaurant at seven o’clock sharp, Patrick had already arrived. Sleek and well groomed, he was a pleasant sight, like the perfectly rounded laurel trees in Vivienne’s garden.

As expected, he didn’t press her for an answer but instead focused on exposing the many reasons why she should give him a chance. They were good reasons, too. Excellent, even.

The problem was Patrick was . . . bland.

He was so utterly and completely within the norm—the very norm she’d once asked Kes to be. Turned out said norm was vastly overrated. It was boring. It was monochromatic and fragrance-free. If she could take a bite out of it, she figured it would taste like yesterday’s gum.

When the waiter cleared their appetizers, Patrick reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

She froze, unsure what to do.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he said with a smile.

“I will.”

“You can take as long as you need.”

“OK.”

“Within reasonable limits, of course.”

“Of course.”

He kept staring into her eyes.

“So . . . it’s a deal, then.” She placed her other hand on top of his and patted it before withdrawing both hands.

When they finished the dessert, Patrick suggested they check out the new piano bar in Saint-Germain that all of Paris was talking about. Amanda invoked a migraine, and he accepted her “maybe next time” with grace.

She was home at half past nine. In the twenty minutes it took her to reach her apartment from the restaurant, she’d made up her mind about Patrick.

He was wrong for her, and no amount of “thinking about it” or “giving it a try” would ever make him right. Given that insight, it would be cruel to leave him hanging.

Relieved, she called Patrick and told him she hoped they could remain friends.