Mat rubbed his forehead and tried to reason with himself.

Turn around and walk away. Or better still—run.

He didn’t move.

He’d been standing in front of Jeanne’s building for a good fifteen minutes now, struggling to recover control over his body. But his brain no longer seemed in charge. Mat smirked. He had a pretty good idea what had taken over.

Just a glimpse. A quick hello and I’ll leave.

Over the past month, he’d thought of Jeanne—her vitality, hearty laughter, sexy voice, and gorgeous body—way more than he should. More than he’d thought about his girlfriend, his work, and the forthcoming municipal elections combined.

Today, having finished his business in Paris earlier than planned, he didn’t go to the train station. His feet brought him to La Bohème where he hoped to catch a glimpse of Jeanne. Maybe say hi. Maybe even accidentally brush her hand. He was vaguely aware coming here was an uncommonly bad idea. But his traitorous brain refused to list the many reasons why he shouldn’t be in Jeanne’s vicinity again.

As it turned out, she’d taken the afternoon off.

Mat loosened his tie and took a few breaths. A woman carrying groceries stopped in front of the intercom, keyed in the code, and pushed the entrance door open. Mat rushed in after her. He had no idea on what Jeanne’s floor was, but it wasn’t a problem. All he had to do was check the names on each door, starting from the ground floor.

He walked past the concierge’s loge and smiled. Dominique had told him that since enrolling three weeks ago, Daniela and Jeanne never missed a class. They were beginning to show progress.

The tiny sign over the peephole of the next door read “Jeanne Bonnet.”

Mat took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

She’s probably out, he told himself, trying to calm his breathing.

Footsteps approached on the other side of the door. There was a brief pause.

Is she looking through the peephole?

She opened the door and Mat gasped. She was so unbearably lovely in her cotton sundress, her hair tied into a loose bun, and a light blush coloring her cheeks.

He stared at her, spellbound, neglecting to think of an excuse. Forgetting to say hello.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

He blinked, remembering where he was, and why he shouldn’t be here. But it was too late for regrets.

“You mentioned some time ago you lived five blocks from La Bohème. So I checked the names on the intercoms of all the buildings around the bistro until I found yours.”

He’d expected a rebuke but was it joy that flickered in her eyes? He didn’t dare believe it.

Jeanne schooled her features into a polite smile. “Thanks again for the Krav Maga subscription. You didn’t have to do it.”

“It was my pleasure.” He smirked. “As you know, I get off finding solutions to people’s problems. I’m convinced Krav Maga will help Daniela. It’s bound to.”

Jeanne nodded. “Come on in. I have to leave in about twenty minutes, but I can offer you a cold drink.”

He stepped inside. Jeanne reached behind his back and pulled the door shut. As soon as he heard the click, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his chest.

She didn’t resist.

He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. God, that smell of coffee in her hair, mixed with her delicate perfume. How he’d missed it! He stroked her tanned shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the smooth warm velvet of her skin. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and her nose.

“Oh, Jeanne.” He repeated her name between the kisses, his voice deep and soft. It felt good to be able to say her name aloud while touching her. His gaze darted to her mouth, but he didn’t kiss it, stretching out the sweet torture of anticipation.

Jeanne’s arms were now around his neck, and her hands caressed his nape. She closed her eyes and held her face up for his kisses. When she slightly opened her lips and moistened them with her tongue, he knew he was a goner.

With a low groan, he closed his eyes and kissed her. Really kissed her. For the first time in his life, he kissed Jeanne the way he’d always wanted to, the way he hadn’t had a chance to do until now. His tongue plunged into her mouth and stroked hers. He ran it against the inside of her teeth, her palate, and then sucked on her tongue. She didn’t taste of honey or mint. It was something different, sweet, and sultry at the same time.

The taste of paradise.

Jeanne shifted her position, and through the thin layers of their clothing, her taut nipples brushed over his chest. Mat gasped and pulled away a little, afraid he’d embarrass himself like a teenager. He needed a few moments to regain a measure of control over his hunger for this woman, before he could hold her and taste her again.

With a dazed expression, Jeanne opened her eyes. She stroked the back of his head, and a smile touched the corners of her lips. “Let your hair grow.”

“I thought you didn’t like my curls.”

“I didn’t. But I wish you had them now.”

“It’s the new and improved Mat that turns you on, remember?” he teased. “What if the curls triggered your former indifference?”

She smiled a little too brightly. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”

He suddenly realized how quickly he had grown used to the idea that Jeanne fancied him, that she was unable to resist his touch. It had become a given in his life, a secret source of warmth and reassurance he delved into every time he faced rejection, disappointment, or simply a spot of the blues.

“No chance,” he said, gently pushing her toward the wall and bracketing her between his legs.

She leaned into him, her hand sliding to his shoulder. Gripping it, she pulled him even closer. Her other hand remained on his nape, stroking it.

He nuzzled her hair, drawing in the coffee scent. It made his body ache with desire.

I have to take her now, or I’ll lose my mind.

He’d wanted her so badly for so damn long. A pang of guilt hit him as the image of Cécile flashed in his brain. But it disappeared as quickly as it came. He grabbed Jeanne’s wrists, brought them behind her back, and shackled them with his hands. She was now a prisoner of his legs and hands—of his entire body.

Judging by the look of total abandon on her face, she didn’t mind it at all.

He kissed her lips again and penetrated her mouth with one deep thrust of his tongue. The sweetness of it sent a shiver through his body, robbing him of the last traces of restraint. He whispered her name as he slid his palms under her thighs, picked her up, and backed her against the wall.

Jeanne wrapped her legs around his waist and grabbed onto his shoulders. Her voice was deliciously raspy as she said his name. He began to move against her. His right hand slid under her skirt. He rubbed the back of her thighs, stroked her buttocks through her cotton panties, and then went to her core. If he needed more proof of her desire for him, he had it now. Touching her like that nearly sent him over the edge.

“I want you so much,” he whispered against her mouth.

Her eyes were glazed when she opened them. “I want you, too.”

He stroked her and a tremor spread through his body. “Let me make love to you. Please, let me make love to you.”

She peered at him, her face flushed with desire.

Is that a yes?

He pulled out his strongest argument. “Let’s get it out of our systems. It’s the only way to cure this madness.”

He was about to ask if she had a condom when her expression changed. She stiffened in his arms and put her hand on his chest to push him away. Disoriented, he lowered her on the ground and searched her eyes for an explanation.

“You’re a fool,” she said.

“Why? What did I do?”

“Don’t you get it?” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Do you really believe we can screw this ‘madness’ out of our systems?”

She opened the door. “I’d like you to leave now.”

He stared at her for a few moments, and then nodded and rushed out without daring to turn back.

* * *

It had been over a week since Claude had given in to his demons and stopped coming to work. He didn’t answer or return Jeanne’s calls, which worried her a little more every day. On Tuesday she got bad news from Nîmes: Her mom had tripped on the stairs and broken her leg. After talking to her on the phone, Jeanne took the first southbound train and spent two days at the hospital entertaining and distracting her.

Back in Paris, she endured another sleepless night because of Daniela and Nico’s fighting.

Then Mat turned up on her doorstep with his ingenious idea to “get it out of their systems.”

Jeanne sighed as she emptied the filter basket and began to wipe the coffee machine. Could this week get any worse?

It just might, considering the look on Pierre’s face as he approached her, accompanied by Didier.

“Let’s finish this morning’s conversation,” Pierre said.

“OK.” Jeanne put her hands on her hips. “You have to fire Thierry.”

“Isn’t it a bit drastic?” Pierre asked. “Didier thinks highly of him.”

Didier said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Jeanne turned back to Pierre. “Amar saw him use the toilet and then go back to the kitchen without washing his hands.”

“Amar is lying,” Didier spat out. “He’s probably trying to get us to fire Thierry so he could bring in some uncle of his.”

“I believe him,” Jeanne said. “And, by the way, Thierry’s cooking isn’t good.”

“Nobody’s cooking is as good as Claude’s,” Pierre said with a sigh. “But Claude is on sick leave getting treatment for his depression, and we have no idea when he’ll return to work. We’re stuck.”

Jeanne frowned. “We can call at least three other chefs who’ve filled in for Claude in the past. I don’t see why we’re stuck with Thierry.”

Pierre turned to Didier. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Didier shook his head. “But he was highly recommended by a good friend of mine. I don’t believe Amar’s tales, and there’s nothing wrong with his cooking. I don’t see why we should let him go.”

He gave Pierre a defiant look.

Jeanne narrowed her eyes at the proprietor. Decision time.

Pierre closed his eyes and remained like that for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm. “We’ll keep him for now.”

Jeanne spun around and marched to the other end of the bar area. She wanted to punch something. Not only did Pierre choose to keep someone who was no good, his decision implied he trusted Didier’s judgment more than hers. This was a bad sign. A very bad sign.

Jeanne smirked. At least, she had no more doubts about Didier. She’d known for a while she could never be in a romantic relationship with him. Now she could see that a business partnership wasn’t an option, either. They disagreed on everything that mattered. In spite of what Pierre hoped and believed, La Bohème couldn’t be Didier’s and hers. It had to be his or hers.

And, judging by Pierre’s decision about Thierry, things weren’t looking good for her.

She needed to focus on something positive.

Has anything good happened recently?

The Krav Maga classes—that was the good thing. And that Daniela wasn’t quitting.

Yes, definitely the Krav Maga classes, she repeated to herself, trying to smother another thought that edged its way to her conscious mind. It wasn’t even a thought, strictly speaking. There were no nouns or verbs or even interjections in it. It was a breathtaking image, a heady smell, a delightful prickling in her skin . . . It was a memory. A memory of something precious and beautiful. Something that had blown her mind away.

Jeanne gave another heavy sigh and finally allowed herself to acknowledge it, to admit how humbled she was by its glory. Yes, it would have been the bright spot of her week, the brightest spot of her entire year . . . had it not held as much bitterness as beauty.

Her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Lena.

“How’s your mom?” Lena asked.

“Adjusting to her reduced mobility. Luckily, my parents had planned to take some vacation this summer. So now they’ll just close the bakery for a month and rent a small house by the sea.”

“Sounds like a great plan. I suppose your dad and brother could do with a little rest, too.”

“My brother will go hiking in Corsica with his buddies. He’s really looking forward to it. What have you been up to?”

“The routine. Translate a few pages, run to the bathroom, vomit, repeat.”

“Poor darling! Are you guys still planning on that North Sea cruise?”

“Maybe not. I’m sick enough as it is.”

“Isn’t your nausea supposed to be gone by now?”

“That’s what I keep telling my doctor. Apparently, it can linger beyond the first trimester in some cases. I just hope it won’t stay throughout the entire pregnancy!”

“There must be some Russian grandma remedy for it, no?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Russian, French, Chinese, Indian—you name it.” Lena sighed before adding, her tone brighter now. “Anyway, I didn’t call you to whine.”

“Of course not.” Jeanne grinned. “You never call me to whine. That you end up whining is purely coincidental.”

“Smartass. I called for a status update on the ‘Mat situation.’ ”

Jeanne’s smile slipped. “I wish I could tell you I’m miraculously over him.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“Hey, I’ve been trying a new tack,” Jeanne said doing her best to sound light. “The other day I dug out some old pictures from our trip to Nice four years ago, when he was still super skinny.”

“Ooh-la-la, he was skinny,” Lena said. “I used to think of him as ‘Mr. Clothes Hanger’ before I found out what his name was.”

“That’s a good one. You should’ve told me earlier.”

“So, what did you do with those pictures? Don’t tell me you stabbed his chest with a needle.”

“You’re full of great ideas today! No, I just looked at that thin toad-eyed guy with wild hair and told myself, This is who he really is, behind his sleek suits and hard muscles.”

“Did it work?”

Jeanne bit her nails. “I’m starting to find the guy in those pictures attractive.”

“Shit.”

“As you said.”

* * *

The town of Baleville reelected Mat to sit on the Municipal Council and the Communal Council. But it favored Laetitia Mercier—the outgoing deputy mayor and Mat’s main rival—for the top job.

That was three days ago. This morning, the new Municipal Council formalized the citizens’ vote by electing Laetitia mayor of Baleville.

When the results were announced, Mat smiled and shook Laetitia’s hand. It wasn’t too difficult. Despite his conviction that he’d be a better mayor for his town, he’d never stooped to personal attacks during the campaign. Laetitia was unimaginative but upright. He admired her for having played her “benevolent matriarch” card so well.

It was a lot more unpleasant to continue smiling when the Councilors took turns at patting him on the shoulder and saying stupid things like “You’re still too young for this job. Try again next time.”

The next municipal elections were in six years.

He’d be thirty-three by then and probably married with kids. He’d enjoy more notoriety and influence. With some luck, he might lose his hair and sport dark circles under his eyes.

Would they see him as better mayor material then?

It isn’t the end of the world, Mat rationalized on the way home. He still had his PR job that he liked, was reelected Councilor, and would continue his involvement with the Greens. He’d remain active in their pesticides and GMOs regional working group. The members appreciated him and he was eager to do more.

This is just a setback, he told himself, not the end of my political career. The whole running for office thing had been a great learning experience, and he’d established a solid foundation to build on over the coming years.

Only . . . why this guilt? And the shame?

“Watch out, you moron!” someone yelled, startling Mat and returning him to reality.

He stopped in his tracks and looked around. He was smack in the middle of a busy intersection surrounded by cars, scooters, and bicycles.

Fuck.

Raising his hands in an apology, he rushed to the sidewalk where he leaned against a wall, loosened his tie, and tried to collect himself. It was there by that wall, his heart racing from his near escape, when he realized what bothered him almost as much as his defeat.

Actually, more.

With sudden clarity, Mat knew why he felt so guilty and ashamed. There was no more hiding from the truth: He hadn’t given his campaign all he had, all he could, and should have given. For one simple, embarrassingly banal reason—his obsession with Jeanne.

For the past ten months, he had been consumed by his longing, crushed by his lust for her. He’d lost his drive and sharpness. He’d thought about her all the time—as he shot ads with his mom, sat on the Municipal Council, took Cécile out to dinner . . . He’d been chronically sleep deprived, but not because of stress or too much work. Every night, he would go to bed with a stack of papers in his hands, full of noble intentions to read a report on organic farming or draft a speech. And then, half an hour later, he’d catch himself fantasizing about making love to Jeanne.

While Cécile would be halfway through her own stack, a highlighter between her teeth, and a look of fierce concentration in her eyes.

Mat took a deep, ragged breath, and resumed his walk.

You brought this upon yourself.

As he pushed open the door to the apartment he and Cécile occupied in a handsome limestone building, he knew she was home. Had she seen his text? She’d been devastated by the results of the public vote, but she’d held onto the crazy hope that the Council pick him in spite of Laetitia’s majority. He was going to tell her it was over now. She’d put on a brave face, swallow her disappointment, and say something to comfort him. Like she always did.

“You pathetic, frolicking fool,” Cécile spat as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

His jaw went slack. In their two years together, they’d never insulted each other in any circumstance. He’d thought Cécile incapable of uttering an insult.

She strode over, stopped a few inches from him, and gave him a withering stare. “Last summer you were Baleville’s golden boy. You had the town eating out of your hand. And you lose to that old cow who has no ideas and no charisma!”

“She’s a seasoned politician, and she knows her stuff—”

Cécile shook her head. “She’s nothing. She got elected only because you gave up at some point.”

“What do you mean, I gave up?”

“It’s been a while since your speeches moved or inspired anyone. Your statements lost their punch and your campaign went from hot to lukewarm.”

“I didn’t realize . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”

Cecile narrowed her eyes. “I do. It’s all because of that woman, that barmaid of yours. She took too much of your energy, too much space in your shriveled brain.”

Oh God. She knew.

“I’ve heard you say her name in your sleep,” Cécile continued. “Night after night since last fall. Accompanied by a monumental hard-on.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve known all this time?”

“Do you think I’m dumb? I chose to close my eyes because I believed in your future. I’d invested so much in it . . . I didn’t want to hold up your ascent.” She smirked. “But instead of going up, you rolled down. You slipped from the leader I thought you’d become back to your old wacky ways.”

He stared at her, a vein pulsing on his neck.

Cécile’s shoulders fell and her gaze turned melancholy. She touched his chest. “All this muscle you’ve gained and all these stylish clothes I’ve picked for you aren’t enough to fool people, Mat. Because people, they know a loser when they see one.”

She dropped her hand and brushed past him. “I’m going out for a walk. Can’t stand to look at you right now.”

He remained planted in the middle of the kitchen for a long while, processing the conversation, adjusting to the new reality. Then he shook his head, as if waking up from a trance, marched into the living room, and began to browse his music collection until he found what he was looking for. It was a new Cyril song about a life-ruining obsession. He’d heard it on the radio a few days ago and purchased it immediately. Because had he possessed any talent for music, he could have written it.

Mat removed his tie, sat on the floor next to his designer stereo, and played the song.