I spot Uma haggling over cherries at the fruit stall.

Her delicate frame is clad in her usual jeans and T-shirt, and her smooth black hair is pulled into a bun pierced by a pencil to hold it together. Clutching Sam’s little hand, she sports an expression that conveys, “Don’t mess with me—I’m tougher than I look.” She always uses it when she’s determined to have her way.

Right now, I’d say she’s bent on negotiating a better price for those juicy cherries.

I smile.

I’ve told her I’m happy to pay the asking price for quality produce. I can afford it. I’ve also told her haggling isn’t common in French markets. The price announced by vendors is what they expect to fetch for their products, not what they expect to fetch, plus twenty percent.

But old habits die hard.

In Uma’s case, she’d overseen grocery shopping for her family in Nepal since she was ten, which means thirteen years of honing her bargaining skills. She isn’t ready to put them on ice just yet.

By the time I reach the stall, the transaction is over. Uma drops a paper bag of cherries into her shopping cart, and the vendor turns to the next person in line.

“Papa!” Sam cries out, noticing me.

I pick him up. “Hey, buddy.”

My mom says I should stop doing that. Sam’s five and a half now—no longer a baby. He’s been riding his bike without training wheels ever since Uma moved in three weeks ago.

She cocks her head. “What are you doing here?”

“My meeting turned out to be shorter than expected. So, I thought I could head home and help you carry the groceries.”

I refrain from mentioning that Uma isn’t supposed to do my grocery shopping in the first place.

She’s an au pair in my house, and her responsibilities include taking care of Sam four hours a day. Considering his illness, it’s already more than expected from a regular au pair. Her contract states very clearly that household chores are not part of the package.

But we’ve had this conversation several times over the past weeks, and Uma always comes up with some ridiculous reason to do more than her contract requires. Her excuse for grocery shopping, for example, is that it’s an educational activity. When I try to stand my ground, she just shrugs and says, “Sue me.”

I’ve given up.

The least I can do is make sure I intercept her in time to prevent her from pulling the cart all the way to the top of the steep hill where my house sits.

Uma folds her hands over her chest. “Sam and I got this, Zach. You really didn’t need to rush back from Paris just so you could drive us up the hill.”

“Paris is only a half-hour drive from here,” I say. “Besides, I truly had nothing better to do.”

Uma’s expression softens. “OK, then. But we have one more stop to make before we head home.”

Sam claps his hands. “Iced macarons!”

I give Uma a questioning glance.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re almond meal and stevia, and I got the ingredients vetted by Sam’s doc.”

I exhale a relieved breath, feeling a bit stupid for doubting Uma’s dependability. She’s the opposite of my ex. She’d never put Sam in harm’s way.

As we stand in line at the baker’s, a flurry of polite bonjours erupts near the entrance, making Uma and me turn our heads. The town’s mayor, Jules Cantini, has entered the shop and is shaking hands with his constituency. As is his habit during his “casual” weekend outings, monsieur le maire is accompanied by one of his aides and by a photographer.

Coach Lucas should take a page from Monsieur Cantini’s book.

“Ah, Zachary,” the mayor says, spotting me. “Good to see you!”

I shake his hand. “Jules.”

Since I became the official patron of Inry’s new aquatics center and a regular guest coach at the kids’ swimming club, the mayor and I have been on a first-name basis.

He greets Uma and Sam and waves his photographer over.

“Monsieur Cantini would like to be photographed with you for the next issue of Inry News,” the aide informs me.

“Sure.”

“With your family, of course,” the mayor says, pointing to Sam and Uma.

Uma nudges Sam toward me and draws aside.

The mayor raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not family, I’m the nanny,” she explains.

“Oh, come on, Uma!” I pick Sam up. “Who cares?”

She shakes her head.

The mayor turns to her. “Mademoiselle…”

“Darji,” she prompts.

“Darji,” the mayor repeats before turning to the shopkeeper, “and Madame Brossard, please join us for this impromptu photo op.”

Impromptu, my foot.

The ladies oblige, and a dozen clicks of the camera later, we can stop smiling.

The aide, who’s been scribbling in his notebook, snaps his fingers. “Just a moment of your attention, please. I want to make sure everyone’s OK with the caption. It’ll say, ‘Mayor of Inry, Jules Cantini, at Patisserie Brossard with owner Anne Brossard and patrons Uma Darji, little… er…”

“Samuel,” I prompt.

The aide nods a thank-you. “Samuel Monin and his father Zachary Monin, star of the French water polo team and founder of one of the fastest-growing startups in Inry.”

I frown. “Will you please scratch the ‘star’ part?”

“Why?” The aide arches an eyebrow. “You were last season’s top scorer to the best of my recollection.”

“That doesn’t make me—” I begin.

“Come now, Zachary.” The mayor tilts his head to the side and pats my arm as if to say, You should know better than that.

I sigh and nod to the aide. “OK, sure. If it helps the town.”

“Wonderful.” The mayor shakes everyone’s hands and heads out the door with his entourage in tow.

After I buy the iced macarons, we shovel them in our mouths and go home. Once inside, Uma and I unpack the groceries while Sam crashes his remote-controlled helicopter into the ceiling and every single wall of the kitchen.

“Why don’t you play in the garden?” I ask him. “A few more hits, and your brand-new gadget will break to pieces.”

“No problem, I’ll fix it,” Sam says with the blissful confidence of a five-year-old.

I scratch my head, wondering if it’s advisable to be honest in this situation.

Uma rinses half of the cherries she bought at the market. “Sam wants to be an engineer when he grows up.”

“Since when?” I turn to Sam. “Last I heard you wanted to be a hole-set like me and a spy.”

Sam places his remote on the table, letting the helicopter hit the floor with a thud.

I grimace. “Ouch.”

“When I grow up, I’ll be”—he begins to count on his fingers—“a hole-set, engineer, spy, and dancer.”

I crouch next to him. “All at the same time?”

He nods.

“Why not a singer, too, while you’re at it?”

“No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “That would be too much. Even I need to sleep.”

“I see.” I purse my lips to keep from cracking up. “So, why a dancer?”

He gives me a duh look. “Because I’m really good at dancing. Uma says I’m the best dancer she’s ever seen.”

I glance at Uma who’s setting a big bowl of cherries on the table.

“What?” she says with a shrug. “He is.”

For the next ten minutes, the three of us eat the cherries. “Savor” would be a better word, considering how good they are, each little fruit chock-full of color and flavor.

Just like the woman who bought them.

Shit.

I peel my gaze off Uma and remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t let this kind of thought anywhere near my mind.

This is Uma’s first ever stay away from her family, from her country, from everything she knows. She’s my teammate Noah’s best friend and almost fiancée. He hasn’t said as much, but from what I gather, there’s always been an unspoken understanding between them. The only reason he’s never declared his feelings or touched her is the respect he has both for her and for the Hindu customs, which demand self-restraint.

Noah placed her in my house knowing she’d be safe here, and he trusts me fully.

I’m disgusted with myself for having these thoughts about Uma. Thankfully, they’re just thoughts. It is fully within my power not to act on them. The ethics of seducing an employee aside, hell will freeze over before I betray a friend’s trust like that.

Who I should be thinking about is Sophie, the American woman I met last week. She’s gorgeous, a pagan goddess doubling as a Victoria’s Secret model. On top of that, she’s smart, available, and—most importantly—slated to return stateside by Christmas. For a man looking to get back in the dating game without rushing into a long-term relationship, Sophie is an ideal choice.

She really is.

It beats me why I didn’t hit on her hand when I drove her home from the double date at the Moose with Noah and Uma. Must be because I’m terribly out of practice or no longer sure what’s OK and what’s too much for a first date. Even less so when it’s a double date.

Next week when work is less intense, I’ll ask her out on a proper one-on-one date.

And I’ll do more than occasionally nodding and smiling.