It was a gorgeous midwintry morning, the air bristling with an exotic crispness brought by the northern winds all the way from Greenland. Snow had fallen all night, dressing Paris in a pretty white coat, all prim and virginal, as if the world didn’t know better. Christmas decorations still dangled from the wires strung across the streets, a little sad by daylight but a welcome illumination as soon as night would fall.

Jeanne turned away from the window and rubbed her temples. An aspirin was in order if she was going to make it through the morning shift without dozing off in the middle of José’s account of his latest rendezvous. She filled a glass with water and swallowed a pill. It should kick in before the first customers arrived.

It had been a rough night. At two in the morning loud voices coming from Daniela’s loge woke her up. While she fumbled for the light switch and tried to peel her lids open, Daniela’s angry shouting turned into screams of pain. Jeanne pulled a fleece on top of her pajamas and ran out. She knocked on Daniela’s door, louder and louder until the voices inside quieted, and Daniela opened the door.

“What’s going on?” Jeanne asked.

“Nico—that is, my boyfriend showed up drunk. I’m sorry,” Daniela said.

She had a blackened eye and a huge bruise on her arm.

An irate male voice came from inside the loge. ”Who are you talking to?” Then a burly red-eyed man shoved Daniela aside and stood in the doorway. “Who are you?”

“I’m Daniela’s next-door neighbor. And who are you?” Jeanne asked.

“I’m Daniela’s man. You have a problem with that?”

Jeanne inhaled. The guy was scary but she refused to show her fear. “I have a problem with you hitting her.”

He looked her over, then turned to Daniela and sneered. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a friend. Or maybe she’s your special lady friend?” He glanced at Jeanne. “Not a beauty”—he hiccuped—“but so”—another hiccup—“hot.”

Nico narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his gaze on Jeanne. His mouth fell slightly open and a small stream of drool trickled down his chin.

Jeanne nearly choked with disgust. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”

“Really?” He put his hands on his hips and snickered. “And what will you tell them—that you heard lovers bickering?”

“You hit her,” Jeanne said. “I’m not blind. And neither are the cops.”

Daniela pushed him to the side and pointed at her eye. “This isn’t his fault. I fell this morning and hurt myself.” She gave Jeanne a pleading look. “Please don’t call the police. They’ll only add to my problems. Please.”

Jeanne shook her head in dismay. How did you help someone who refused to be helped?

She turned to Nico and said as ominously as she could manage. “I’m going back to sleep. And I suggest you do the same.” Her gaze fell on his drool again and she winced. “And if you hurt her once more, I’m calling the cops, whether Daniela wants me to or not.”

Then she spun around and strode to her apartment, praying he’d do as instructed.

Nico wolf-whistled. “Nice ass.”

Jeanne chose to ignore him and pushed her door open.

“Ooh, I’m so scared, I’m trembling,” Nico said before Daniela pulled him inside and shut the door.

The rest of the night was quiet, but it took Jeanne several hours to fall asleep again. She thought about the incident and played alternative scenarios in her head. In all of them, she was a lot stronger and stood up to the jerk much more convincingly. In one of the versions, she even punched him in the face and knocked him out. And then said to Daniela, You’re wasting your life with the wrong man.

Then, somehow, her thoughts wandered to Mat—the wrong man in her own life. She hadn’t seen him since their kiss at the bistro, but he’d been ever-present in her thoughts. She’d lost count of her daydreams where he’d show up at La Bohème to announce he had broken up his girlfriend because he wanted Jeanne too much to fight it. In other fantasies, he’d knock on her door, tell her the same thing, kiss her, and make love to her.

But it had been almost two months since Amanda’s party, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him. Not even a note or a text to say he was sorry. Nada. Which meant only one thing—she should stop thinking about him and get real. He wanted her, all right, but he was clearly able to fight it.

And so would she.

In the morning, just before heading to the bistro, she called her old friend Greg.

“Hey, how’s my favorite barista doing these days?” Greg asked, sounding happy to hear her voice.

Jeanne told him about Daniela and her violent boyfriend. ”Can you help her?” she asked. “Your NGO’s there to help people who are in trouble, no?”

“First, I’m in Nîmes, so it’s difficult to reach out to someone in Paris,” Greg said. “Second, we help refugees and asylum seekers—people who have no one to turn to.”

“And how about battered women? Who helps them?”

“I know just the person, as it happens. I’ll talk to her and call you back,” Greg said.

Jeanne let out a sigh of relief. “You’re a darling.”

“Let’s just hope your friend will be willing to accept help. A lot of women in abusive relationships underestimate the gravity of their situation.”

“I know,” Jeanne said. “But then again, she seems to be a sensible person. Besides, she has a kid. I hope she’ll do it for him, if not for herself.”

* * *

The aspirin finally kicked in, and Jeanne inhaled, relieved her head was no longer squeezed by invisible forceps. She turned the coffee machine on, tamped a coffee cake in the filter basket, and poured milk into a steel jug.

“Hey, Amar, come over here. It’s time for lesson number . . . what number did we leave off on?”

“Forty-seven? Or was it four hundred forty-seven?” Amar planted himself next to her and dipped the steam wand into the milk. “I really need my crème this morning.”

“So do I,” Jeanne said. “But, remember, the main purpose of these two cups is to test the grind. You’ll tell me if the grinder needs adjusting after you’ve had your crème.”

“Whoa. This is going too fast. I’m not ready for such a big step.” Amar pulled a panicked face.

“Don’t worry; I’m not assigning points today. Now, pay attention. You want to heat the milk to seventy degrees, no more. If you overheat it, your crème will taste burned.”

She poured the heated milk onto the coffee, creating a perfect froth, handed the cup to Amar, picked up her own espresso cup, and inhaled its full-bodied aroma.

Thank God for coffee.

Didier arrived with bags of fresh croissants from the nearby bakery. He removed his coat and gloves, and offered a croissant to Jeanne. “In exchange for your smile, princess.”

“You’re mistaken, monsieur. I’m a baker’s daughter.” Jeanne smiled and took the croissant.

“To me, you’re a princess,” Didier retorted.

Amar placed his cup on the countertop. “Can I have one, too? I’ll smile as much as you want, and you don’t have to call me a princess.”

Didier glared at him. “If you want a croissant, greenhorn, you have to pay for it. La Bohème isn’t a charity.”

“I’ll buy you one if you diagnose the grinder correctly,” Jeanne offered.

Didier rolled his eyes. “Still trying to train him? It’s a waste of time.”

He put a few delicious-smelling specimens on display and packed the rest.

Jeanne turned to Amar. “Don’t mind him. He isn’t as mean as he’s trying to appear.”

“I agree—he isn’t. He’s much meaner than he’s trying to appear,” Amar said.

Didier tied his black apron around his hips. “When we take this place over, we should refurbish it to make it trendier. The neighborhood is gentrifying at rocket speed. We need to make La Bohème attractive for the local bobos.”

Jeanne squirmed. What made him so sure it would be we? “I agree it needs refurbishment. Badly. And those god-awful flowery tiles definitely have to go.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Didier said smugly.

“Yes. But . . . I would keep most of the original fixtures. They give La Bohème its identity. And I wouldn’t worry about the bobos. This place tends to grow on them.”

“Let’s not argue about it now, but . . . wouldn’t you prefer to tend a chic lounge bar rather than a bistro counter?” Didier arched an eyebrow.

“I like this counter. Besides, if La Bohème became a lounge bar to attract more bobos, we’d lose a good share of our usual patrons. The old people will stop coming. We’d lose clients like José, Madame Blanchard, Monsieur Pascal, the Costa couple, and many more. To some of them La Bohème is life support.”

Didier rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“I’m not kidding. This place keeps them from depression and maybe even from senility. If it becomes too trendy, they’ll stop going out.”

“They’ll go somewhere else. Paris hasn’t yet run out of shabby little bistros where they can feel at home.”

“Honey, they’re old. They won’t go somewhere else. They depend on their routines, familiar places, familiar faces. They hate change.” Jeanne sighed. “They’ll stay in their stuffy apartments and . . . let themselves disintegrate.”

“You called me ‘honey,’ ” Didier said with a grin.

“I call everyone ‘honey.’ ”

“No, you don’t.” He picked up a croissant and pushed it in front of Amar. “Take it and run before I change my mind. I’m happy today.”

And he certainly looked it. Jeanne couldn’t believe her eyes. The forever sneering headwaiter glowed because she’d called him honey. How weird was that? Over the past few months, he’d shown unequivocal interest in her, without going as far as attempting to kiss her. Clever boy. He no doubt sensed she wasn’t ready. Since the end of December, they’d gone out three times and kept it cool and friendly. The latest date had been just last week. They saw a movie and went for drinks afterward. She had a good time.

Jeanne shivered as a gust of cold air whirled through the dining room, and the first customers walked into the bistro. She wiped away her croissant crumbs and went behind the bar. It was time to give her full attention to business. Deciding whether Didier’s sudden passion was sincere or a sham to get her to partner with him wasn’t a task for today. If it was the latter, he deserved credit for the convincing show. But if he was for real, who knew . . . Maybe she could form a romantic interest in him . . . one day.

She was twenty-seven and longed for a relationship that wasn’t impossible, doomed, or complicated. Unlike Mat, Didier was single. Unlike Mat, Didier wasn’t above her on the social ladder. His background was similar to hers. He was in the same profession.

But above all, he was here. Available and willing.

While Mat was neither.