“Whether you enrolled as a hobbyist or you want to be a professional embroiderer, you’ve come to the right place.”

The speaker drinks from his glass and surveys the small crowd of new graduates and fresh recruits gathered in the auditorium of Ecole Lesage.

Monsieur Bloom, a longtime teacher at the school, is so visibly proud of the establishment that his enthusiasm is infectious. I glance at the beaming women around me. When the school reopens in a few weeks after the August break, all of us will spend countless hours sewing beads and sequins onto framed scraps of silk, learning tambour embroidery and Lunéville hook, and all kinds of fancy stitches.

I know I’ll love every moment of it.

“You’re really looking forward to your course, huh?” Noah whispers, giving me a nudge. “I’m happy for you.”

“I’m happy for myself,” I say.

He smiles. “I talked to Maman on the phone yesterday. She sends her greetings and says she wishes she could be here today.”

“I wish she were here, too. This is all thanks to her.” A rush of gratitude fills my heart. “I’ll never be able to pay her back for what she’s done for me—for what she’s still doing for me.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Maman loves you like the daughter she’s always dreamed of. Making you happy makes her happy.”

“I know. And I love her, too.”

“Dear students and guests,” Monsieur Bloom says. “Maison Lesage works with Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, and Chanel. Fashion designers give us a theme and a general idea, but it is our masters who trace the patterns and embroider them. What we do here is not just craft, it’s art.”

The crowd nods.

My love affair with embroidery started in my early teens when I saw Sequins at the European Film Festival in Kathmandu. Noah’s mom Marguerite, aka my French “fairy godmother,” dragged Noah and me there every afternoon. Her aim was to improve our “general culture” through exposure to the best of contemporary cinematography.

Noah, who would’ve preferred to watch the Olympics on TV, got seriously bored with the artsy movies the festival showcased. So did I, with most of it, except Sequins. Every single scene of that film in which the master embroiderer and her young apprentice put together fabric, thread, beads, feathers, and sequins to create a piece of exquisite beauty took my breath away.

For two hours I watched, mesmerized, leaning forward in my seat between Marguerite and Noah. The credits rolled, and people began to stand up and move toward the exit. I sat there, spellbound until Marguerite cleared her throat and Noah tugged on my sleeve.

That night excitement made it impossible to sleep.

I kept replaying the movie in my head and picturing myself adding one tiny stitch after another to silk organza stretched taut on a frame. There was no doubt in my head I could do that for hours every day. What better way to use my hands and my imagination than creating a magical play of textures, colors, and shapes from which beautiful flowers and fantastical birds are born?

The first thing I did when I got up at dawn was draw a pattern on a page torn out of an old math workbook. I had decided what I wanted to do with my life when I grew up.

Just like the women in the movie, I would embroider for an haute couture house.

After school, I told Aama and Baba about my newfound calling and begged them to buy me some supplies—the cheapest ones, anything they could afford. They did, bless their kind hearts. They were quite happy with the embroidery part of my dream. They still are.

Unlike driving a bus or tightrope dancing—my dreams as a kid—embroidery is a perfectly respectable and safe occupation for a young Hindu woman.

It’s the haute couture part with all its unsavory implications that bothers my parents. Working on indecent gowns that reveal too much skin. Being involved—even remotely—with worldly designers, indecorous models, debauched fashion photographers, and decadent runway shows.

Not that I’ve had a chance to do any of it yet.

Before I enrolled in Ecole Lesage and came to Paris to do the training and get my certificate—all thanks to a grant from Marguerite’s foundation—I had done quite a bit of stitching for a big sari outfitter in Kathmandu. It was fun, but there was no wiggle room. I was required to stick to the traditional styles and use the patterns I was given. At night, I traced my own patterns. Except, I never had time to embroider them.

“Our school is only twenty-five years old, but Maison Lesage was founded back in 1858,” Monsieur Bloom says. “You are part of the Lesage legend now.”

My chest swells with pride. Even if my training hasn’t started yet, I’m already living a dream, and it feels amazing.

The audience begins to clap, but Monsieur Bloom raises his hand. “I’m almost done. Let me wish our graduates good luck, and say welcome to our new students! I look forward to working with you in September.”

He nods and steps away from the podium, and we give him a round of applause.

Another faculty member motions to the door on my left. “Everyone is invited to step into the courtyard for refreshments and mingling.”

In the courtyard, the sari I’ve embroidered myself and am wearing for the occasion immediately attracts an admirer—a very tall Swedish woman with bright blue eyes. She asks me about the patterns on my gown. I ask her about the needlework on her clutch. We discuss the school and discover with delight that both of us will be taking the same Professional Couture Embroidery course.

When Noah joins us and hands me a champagne flute, the woman holds out her hand. “I’m Freja.”

“Noah,” he says, shaking her hand.

Freja grins. “You’re the first Frenchman I’ve seen since I got here last week who’s taller than me.”

“Go to a water polo game,” Noah says, smiling. “I promise you’ll see more.”

An image of Zach in his Speedo flashes in my mind. Not that I’ve ever seen him like that… live. But I’ve made up for it by watching every YouTube video I could find of his games.

And that is utterly and unforgivably inappropriate. Disturbing, too.

If I am to have such carnal fantasies about a man, the man in question shouldn’t be Zach. It should be Noah.

“Are you an athlete?” Freja asks him.

“Yes.”

She nods in appreciation. “Well, I hope your girlfriend and I can hang out, maybe even travel around France a bit before our butts are fused to our chairs come September.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time as Noah says, “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Heat creeps up my face. I glance at Noah whose ears are flaming red.

Freja looks from me to him, her expression dubious. “OK. Sorry.”

“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’ll be happy to explore Paris with you, but traveling won’t be possible—I work part time as a nanny.”

“Good for you,” Freja says. “I need to find a part-time job, too.”

We exchange phone numbers, and she moves on to another group.

“Who’s home with Sam?” Noah asks.

“Zach.”

“How’s the little fellow doing? Still keen to be a dancer, spy, hole-set, and engineer?”

“A dancer, spy, and hole-set—yes,” I say. “But he recently decided to sacrifice the adventure-filled career of the international spy to be a lawyer like his grandpa and grandma.”

“What triggered the change of heart?”

“Last weekend Zach and Sam went down to Arles to visit Zach’s parents. Sam returned a man transformed.”

“Oh, boy.”

I chuckle. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I feign nonchalance the best I can. “What’s the deal with Zach’s ex, Colette?”

Noah shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“How come she only calls a couple of times a week, never takes Sam to stay with her, and never comes to see him? She lives in Paris, right?”

“She does visit… on occasion,” he says, looking miserable.

I shouldn’t have asked.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

He gives me a weak smile. “It’s not my story to tell. Why don’t you ask Zach?”

I look down at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I won’t. It really is none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it, OK?”

Noah’s smile widens. “Done.”

Oh, how I admire this man.

He’s a good friend to Zach and the best friend I could ever dream of. His looks ensured he was the hottest high schooler at the lycée Français in Kathmandu. The two or three girls he dated while in Nepal used to burst with pride to be seen on his arm.

According to Marguerite, Noah was in love with me while he was in high school. And according to her, he still is. She’s hinted countless times how happy she’d be to see us together. Even my parents might forget about the “heaven-sent” Brahmin who has asked for my hand if the alternative is Noah. I should be thrilled about all of this. And I’m sure I will be as soon as I get over that lustful thing I feel for Zach.

There are a gazillion excellent reasons why I should.

Zach is my employer. He’s Noah’s teammate and friend. Unlike Noah who speaks Nepali better than I speak French, Zach has never been to my country and knows nothing about my culture. He’s a divorced single dad, whom my parents would never approve of.

And, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s interested in another woman—Noah’s foxy landlady Sophie. He’s about to take her out on a date.

The reason I know this is because he’s asked me to babysit Sam when he does.