I ring the doorbell.

My white blouse is all buttoned up and tucked into my gray pencil skirt, and my new hairstyle is a lot more sober than the afro I had before. This morning, I spent two hours at my local Salon de Coiffure to get my curls tamed into a classy braided bob.

Until a minute ago, I also wore thick frame fake glasses. According to Sue, my bestie, they transform me from a twenty-four-year-old intern into a twenty-five-year-old yuppie. But I just took them off and shoved them into my briefcase. Yes, a briefcase!

I don’t really know why.

“Your hair is different,” Noah says after I step in and we exchange polite greetings.

Oh, shoot. He doesn’t like it. Not that I care, of course.

“It’s beautiful,” he adds, giving me an appreciative nod. “Is this your usual hairstyle?”

“A special effort for my mom,” I say. “She’s crazy for small box braids.”

It’s true—Mom loves the look of “easy chic” this style gives me.

What I failed to mention is the last time I had the patience to get Mom’s favorite hairstyle was three years ago. And now, this morning.

“Is that how she wears it, too?” Noah asks.

“My mom?” I snort. “She’d love to, but Caucasian hair gets way too damaged from box braiding.”

He gives me a confused look. “I’d assumed your mother was black.”

I blink. “Why?”

“Because…” He screws up his face as if to say, Help me out here.

I frown and raise my brows. I have no clue what he’s struggling with.

“Because…,” he tries again.

I nod supportively. “Yeeess?”

He gives a shy little smile that could charm a corpse back to life. “Because your dad is named Ludwig Bander?”

I crack up. “You’re not the only one to assume he’s white.”

“He’s not?”

“Nope. But there’s an explanation.”

“I’m all ears.”

“When Dad was born, Grandpa wanted him to have a king’s name. So, he looked up all the kings who came into the world on the twenty-fifth of August.”

“And he found a Ludwig?”

“Exactly. King Ludwig of Bavaria, born on the twenty-fifth of August eighteen something something.”

He cocks his head. “Did your father name you Sophie after a queen born on the same day as you?”

“Very smart.” I bow in mock admiration. “Princess Sophie. That’s what he calls me, by the way.”

“Was it the only royal name available for your birthday?” he asks. “Not that I have anything against Sophie. It’s a lovely name.”

“The other option was Marie Antoinette, but Mom said, ‘Over my dead body’.”

He gives me a wink. “She should’ve said, ‘Over my guillotined body,’ given our last queen’s unfortunate ending.”

I giggle but force myself to stop, remembering I’m here on business in my capacity as his landlady.

It’s time I started acting like one.

“How’s your sink?” I ask.

“As good as new. Thank you so much for your help!”

“It’s my job.”

For a brief moment, we stare into each other’s eyes as the air grows thick with something unspoken and totally inappropriate.

“Can I offer you a cold drink?” Noah asks, shifting his gaze to his hands.

“A glass of water would be great.”

He strides into the kitchen and fills two glasses with water. Then we sit down at the table and I explain the change in his contract.

Noah’s gray-blue gaze is locked on my mouth the whole time.

“So, are you OK with the new terms?” I ask when I finish.

He gives me a funny look. “Are you planning to reclaim the apartment?”

“No.”

“Because if you are,” he adds, “just tell me so I can start looking for a new place.”

“I don’t have a hidden agenda, really.”

I hope he can see I’m telling the truth.

Noah stares at me as if gauging my sincerity and then nods. “OK.”

“OK?”

“Yeah, I believe you.” He picks up the pen I’d set on the table. “Where do I sign?”

I point at the last page. “Here, please, on both copies.”

Thirty seconds later, I rip up the old agreement and push one of the new copies toward Noah. “For your files.”

“Thanks.”

I stick my own copy in the briefcase.

We’re done. My business here is finished, and I can go home.

I should go home.

“More water?” he asks, pointing at my empty glass.

“I’m good, thank you.”

Both etiquette and common sense dictate that I leave now. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. Soon.

The moment he stops looking at me like that.

Any second now…

“Did Mr. Bander buy a second apartment for you in Paris or are you renting?” he asks without taking his eyes off me.

“I’m renting.”

“In this arrondissement?”

“In the 18th.”

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“The part where I live, yes. Very much. Do you know rue des Batignolles?”

“Uh-uh.”

“It’s lovely. I’m close to my mom’s place, not far from work, and within walking distance from Montmartre.”

“Sounds like the perfect location,” he says. “My first year in Paris, I lived in the 18th, too.”

I release a frustrated damn. “So much for my good ear for French accents! I’d pegged you as a Parisian.”

“Your ear is good,” he says. “I spent the first eight years of my life between Paris and Burgundy. Then Maman and I moved to Nepal.”

“Nepal as in the country in the Himalayas?”

“Yes,” he grins. “That one.”

“Wow,” I draw out. “Was it hard living there so far from home?”

“I didn’t mind once I stopped missing my b—” He stops himself and his expression hardens. “France.”

“Were you in the capital city?”

His face relaxes into a smile again.

That smile will be the death of me.

“Nepal’s capital is called Kathmandu,” Noah says. “And yes, we stayed there most of the time. Maman and I enjoyed a lot more comfort than the vast majority of people she was helping.”

“Did she volunteer for a nonprofit?”

“She still does.”

“You must be very proud of her.”

“I am.”

There’s another stretch of silence, during which we stare at each other without uttering a word. Forgetting about decorum, I let my gaze caress his strong neck, firm jawline, and chiseled mouth before it reaches his eyes the color of the ocean on a rainy day.

Our gazes meet.

My heart races—faster, louder—until it starts to feel like a countdown timer in my chest.

What’s happening to me?

Come on, Sophie, you’re smart enough and big enough to know.

It’s called sexual attraction.

Something I’ve never experienced before. Something I thought was beyond my reach. Which was fine by me, because—let’s face it—what good has lust ever done anyone?

Lechery has ruined brilliant careers. Randiness has pushed people to make irrational decisions. Passion has messed up so many perfectly happy, accomplished lives… and for what? A moment’s gratification?

My inability to be sexually aroused isn’t a flaw as I’ve come to realize.

It’s a blessing.

“Got to go,” I say, standing up. “I need to hit the shops before they close.”

Noah stands up, too. “Looking for something specific?”

“Folding chairs. I’d like to buy two inexpensive folding chairs for my studio apartment and a bright-colored poster to give it some personality.”

“Do you know where to look for that sort of stuff?”

I nod. “BHV.”

“BHV is pricey.”

“So is everything in Paris.”

“But not outside of it.” He gives me a mysterious smile. “Have you been to Les Puces of Saint Ouen?”

“What’s that?”

“A huge flea market north of Paris, next to the Porte de Clignancourt. If you want items with personality, that’s where you should look.”

“I would need a car to go there and I can’t drive in Paris. Neither can Mom.”

“Two folding chairs and a poster, eh? Is that all you need?”

I nod.

“Does your poster have to be big?”

“No.”

“Then I have a solution.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“My scooter,” he says.

“It’s kind of you, but if I won’t dare to drive in Paris, I’m definitely too chicken to ride a—”

“That’s not what I meant. I’ll take you to Les Puces.”

My jaw slackens. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you busy enough with your own life and obligations?”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He smiles brightly. “I’ve been meaning to go there, anyway. A friend told me about this bistro, Chez Louisette, where you can eat overcooked lentils, drink cheap beer, and listen to terrible covers of Edith Piaf songs.”

My lip curls. “You make it sound so enticing.”

“Trust me, it’s great fun. Besides, now is the perfect time for me to visit Les Puces of Saint Ouen.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m grounded in Paris between two water polo seasons, and I can’t think of a better plan for next Sunday.”

I hesitate.

“Listen,” he says. “Will it help if I tell you I have a vested interest in taking you to Saint Ouen?”

“Maybe… Go on.”

“I see it as a unique opportunity to ingratiate myself with my new landlady. Who knows, I may never get another chance.”

I raise both my hands in defeat. “OK, you convinced me. What time?”

“Nine thirty in the morning. I’ll pick you up if you text me your home address.”

“Texting as we speak.”

I fish my phone out of my briefcase and a few seconds later, Noah’s phone beeps with my message.

This isn’t wise, Sophie, the voice of reason whispers in my head.

Don’t I know that? I whisper back.

A Sunday outing with my sexy new tenant is as ill-advised as it gets.

But, man, I’m excited about it.