“I still can’t believe you’ve never been to a Christmas market!” I shake my head at Melissa as we climb the stairs of the Concorde métro station toward the bright lights of the Champs-Elysées.

She arches an eyebrow. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Christmas markets are just such an institution…”

“We didn’t have them in Paris growing up,” she says. “They’re a recent institution.”

“Really?”

She nods. “And, besides, I just… I don’t like Christmas.”

Coming out of the mouth of the métro, I draw in a breath of crispy late-afternoon air and give Melissa an incredulous look.

“Before you call me a monster,” she says, “I’ve never let my strained relationship with Christmas ruin Ben’s holiday.”

“Oh good! You had me worried for a moment there.” I point to the wooden chalets lining the sidewalk all the way from Concorde to the Champs-Elysées Roundabout. “Meet the best marché de Noel of the capital.”

“Pleasure.” Melissa sticks both thumbs up theatrically and bares her teeth. “Charmed.”

I ignore her hints at impending martyrdom. “It’s going to be fun. Besides, you could find a present for Ben or your mom.”

“I buy their Christmas presents in the summer.” She gives me a sly smile. “Online.”

As we reach the first set of booths, a cheerful tune drifting from the vendor’s sound system lifts my slightly dampened spirits. Four or five chalets away, a food stall fills the air with delicious scents of fresh coffee, waffles, and mulled wine.

Too bad there’s no snow!

But a white Christmas is a rare occurrence in Paris, so the artificial snow on chalet roofs is what we have, and what we’ll work with.

Melissa halts in front of a costume jewelry stand and begins to sort through a collection of funky rings. “They’re cute!”

She buys one with a big blue flower, not unlike the ring she’s been wearing lately.

I scan the booths around us until I spot the unforgettable pashmina stand from last year. Woohoo! When we get there, I begin to finger the soft wool wraps on display. The astute vendor sees my picks and then pulls out another pashmina wrap from a shelf and unfolds it for me.

It’s perfect.

I turn to Melissa. “Look at this one! Touch it. What do you think?”

“It’s gorgeous.” She strokes the intricate reddish patterns on the azure blue wrap. “And it’s soothing to the touch.”

Even though I know for a fact she loves big wraps and this particular color combo, I still hesitate. She could have said those things just to be polite. I steal a look at her face. It never lies.

One of the many reasons I hired her four months ago.

At present, Melissa’s face tells me she really likes the wrap.

“Pure cashmere wool from India,” the vendor says. “It’s my most expensive pashmina, but it’s worth the price!”

I pay him, and hand the garment over to Melissa. “Merry Christmas!”

“What? No! You shouldn’t have! And… and…” She gives me a panicked look. “You’re my boss!”

“I am, and this is my first ever Christmas present to my first ever employee.” I give her a big-eyed Puss-in-Boots look. “I wanted it to be memorable.”

Her expression changing at once, she gives me a bear hug. “I love it. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

I turn away quickly to hide my self-satisfied smile.

Noemi Dray hasn’t lost her cunning.

Yep, still got the touch.

As crafty as ever.

The Forces of Good are lucky to have me, if I say so myself.

“Come on, I’m buying you a treat,” Melissa says, pointing to the food booth I’ve been eyeing since we got here.

The cinnamony smells wafting from it are too mouthwatering to ignore.

Melissa and I spend another hour at the market, sipping vin chaud from paper cups and nibbling gingerbread cookies, as we stroll in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Melissa often stops in front of handmade accessories, crafts, and regional food specialties.

Looks like online shopping doesn’t cut it on its own after all.

As we get nearer to the roundabout, I glance at my watch to see if it’s time to head to the 9th arrondissement.

As if on cue, Melissa pulls out her phone and makes a phone call.

“Everything OK, Mom? Is Ben on his best behavior?” she inquires.

Her mom seems to answer both in the affirmative. I can tell from Melissa’s follow-up questions that she’s trying to find a reason to skip the second part of today’s program, and go home. Except, it sounds like her mom is telling her to relax and enjoy herself.

Enjoying herself is something Melissa has yet to learn to do.

When she hangs up, I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t even think of bailing this time!”

“I wasn’t…” She gives me a pleading look. “It’s just… I don’t know anyone except you and Julien.”

I put my hands on my hips in mock reprimand. “And why is that? Huh?”

“Because I always find an excuse to stay home,” she admits with a sigh.

I peer into her eyes. “You said the other day that you missed dating, and sex.”

“I do.”

“There will be seven or eight single hunks at the party tonight.”

She studies her feet. “They’re younger than me.”

“Only by a few years. It’s nothing!”

She looks up. “OK.”

“That’s my girl!”

“Where’s the place again?”

“In the 9th. It’s a bistro suggested by the team’s main sponsor, so obviously, no one dared come up with an alternative venue.” I check my watch again. “We better get going.”

Melissa tugs off her gray scarf, shoves it into her tote bag, and wraps her new pashmina around her neck. “I’m ready. Let’s do this!”

* * *

When we enter the charming little bistro, Julien and the team are already there. To my great relief, Jean-Michel—my third least favorite person after Hitler and Bertrand—is absent.

Fingers crossed he doesn’t show tonight.

I introduce Melissa to the guys and their plus-ones, and then to Nageurs’ main sponsor, Sebastian Darcy, and his wife Diane.

“You’re the goalie’s oldest brother, right?” I ask him after we exchange cheek kisses.

He nods.

“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what’s your connection with this bistro?”

“The owner, Jeanne, is a good friend.” Diane answers for him. “Come on, you’ve got to meet her!”

She marches to the bar area.

Melissa and I follow her with Julien and Sebastian in tow.

Behind the counter, a perky young woman is chatting with Lucas, Valentin—the smiley Nageurs singleton I particularly wanted Melissa to meet tonight—and with another guy who turns out to be Jeanne’s hubby.

When I hear what Lucas is saying, my heart sings with joy.

Jean-Michel called him this morning to announce he’ll be joining another club starting January.

I glance at Julien who looks as if Lucas just announced he had irrefutable proof of Santa’s existence.

This Christmas season just got even better.

A short time later, the group around the counter has swelled to over a dozen people.

We’re talking about the club, and about the new changes Lucas will have to make.

Like recruiting someone to replace Jean-Michel, for starters.

He also needs to find a new hole-set who’s as capable as Zach. The club’s captain recently announced his plan to retire at the end of the season so that he can focus on his business and spend more time with his family.

In addition, Lucas must find a new publicist to fill Isabelle’s shoes. The mother of his adorable twins went to work for a media company after her maternity leave, despite Lucas’s and the team’s pleas to stay with the club.

With a Kir Royale sparkler in her hand, Isabelle points out, for the umpteenth time, that she was ready for a new challenge.

Except no one’s buying it.

“You just don’t want to call your husband ‘boss’,” I say, voicing the general consensus.

The tiniest of smiles curves her mouth before she lifts her Kir to her lips and takes a slo-mo sip.

While we’re discussing all of that, I catch Valentin staring at Melissa. In fact, he’s doing more than just stare. Having discreetly edged to stand by her side, he bends his head toward her every now and then to whisper a funny comment in her ear. She giggles and whispers back.

Her cheeks are flushed, and so are his.

I can’t vouch for their future together, but Melissa’s prolonged dating hiatus might come to an end before New Year’s Eve.

“So, you guys specialize in providing legal aid to those who can’t afford a lawyer, right?” Valentin looks at Melissa, then at me, and then at Melissa again, admiration in his eyes.

“Yes.” She flashes him a proud smile. “But we do more than that, seeing as Noemi is a brilliant defense attorney!”

I wave her complement off, but I can’t help blushing a little.

“We represented three whistle-blowers this year,” Melissa said excitedly. “Their companies had fired them in retaliation.”

Valentin offers her a stuffed olive on a toothpick. “And?”

“Noemi won all three cases,” Melissa says, taking it from his hand.

He turns to me and drops his head to his chest. “Respect.”

“And, since September,” Melissa plows on, “our office joined the Paris Bar Solidarity Scheme, and Noemi has been doing pro bono work at the legal clinics they run.”

Jeanne taps Julien’s shoulder. “Sounds like you married a saint. The Mother Teresa of Paris.”

I choke on my drink and go into a coughing fit.

Julien rubs my back before turning to Jeanne. “Nah. She’s no saint.”

“Permanently disqualified,” I manage between two coughs.

Julien’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he adds, “My wife is way more badass than Mother Teresa. She’s Superwoman slash Daredevil.”

Tickled pink, I grin.

Julien’s teammates nod in approval and smile, interpreting his comment as praise for my vigilante legal eagle skills.

I have no doubt he was also referring to those skills.

In addition to the other ones, which earned me the Superwoman title.

He takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze, before lacing his fingers through mine.

I return the squeeze.

Without needing to look at each other, we both know exactly what our nonverbal exchange signifies:

A brilliant defense attorney will be going Superwoman again tonight.

And the guy with the rose tattoo can’t wait.