I park my scooter a few blocks from Zach’s house and head to his charming redbrick at the end of the street. Zach lives in Inry, a residential suburb of Paris that I’d never set foot in until Uma and I moved her things here.

She got her visa and arrived in France ten days ago.

The original plan had been that she’d stay in the Derzians’ empty apartment until late August, when my kind neighbors return from Brittany. By then, she’d find a job and a room in a shared rental or in a student residence at Cité Universitaire. But Zach was eager for her to start as soon as possible. She did, and according to Zach, she hit it off with Sam immediately.

I’m happy about that, not in the least because I was the artisan of this arrangement. And it’s fucking perfect any way you look at it. First of all, Uma will be able to return the grant money she believes others need more. Second, she’ll be safe with Zach, whom I’d trust with my life, so Maman and I don’t need to worry. Third, Zach got a huge weight off his shoulders. He can focus on the games again and start dating.

About that.

I called Sophie this morning to see if she was free on Saturday night for that dinner we’d discussed at the flea market. She said she was. I said “awesome” except awesome is the last thing I feel about it.

I keep thinking of our la java dance in that tacky bistro, two weeks back. We goofed around and I kept her at a safe distance from start to finish, but boy, was it hard. Just like the first time we met when I did a full salute within seconds of pinning her to the wall.

As we danced, the hand I’d placed on her hip as lightly as I could, itched to hold her harder. My fingers ached to caress her slim back. My palm burned to press into her hip so I could learn its exact curve and imprint its shape into my flesh before sliding lower to gloss her mind-blowing butt. As if that wasn’t enough, the urge to crush her against my chest and claim her full mouth almost drove me to the brink of insanity.

Had the singer done one extra chorus of “Padam… Padam…,” I might’ve lost control and done all of those things.

There’s no denying that Sophie Bander is the worst distraction I’ve ever had to cope with. She draws me away from what’s important. Worse, when I’m around her, my mind clouds over and I get this traitorous impression that nothing else matters. The season, Maman’s work, Uma’s future—all my goals and wishes pale next to my need to hold her.

What’s even worse is that I doubt a night with her would quench my thirst.

Something tells me the opposite would happen. Having sex with her would make me want more sex with her, and the whole thing would spin out of control. Because that’s who Sophie is. A dormant siren. A femme fatale pretending she’s unexceptional. Believing she’s unexceptional.

This… this thing has to be quashed before it’s too late.

I ring Zach’s doorbell.

Behind the door, someone stomps down the stairs.

“Let me get it! Let me get it!” Sam shouts excitedly.

A second person scurries to the door.

“OK, but you have to ask the question first,” Uma says, laughing.

“OK! Who’s there?” Sam hollers.

“It’s me,” I say, putting an eye to the peephole.

There’s a silence. I picture Sam looking up at Uma for guidance. She says something I can’t make out.

“State your first name and…” Sam commands before stalling. “…and…”

Uma says something again in a quiet voice.

“Last name,” Sam shouts. “And step away from the peephole so we can see you.”

“Let me help you, buddy,” Uma says behind the door, lifting him so he can look through the peephole I guess.

I draw back, smile, and say loudly. “Noah. Masson.”

“I remember you,” Sam cries. “You’re the goalie!”

The door opens, and I step in.

Ten minutes later, the three of us sit around the kitchen table. Uma hands Sam a mug filled with some unidentified beverage and makes a Nespresso shot for each of us.

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” Zach calls from upstairs. “Just need to finish this conference call.”

Uma prepares another Nespresso with more water—the way Zach likes it.

“So, how is everything?” I ask.

She grins and glances at Sam who’s hiding his face behind his Winnie the Pooh mug. “Couldn’t be better.”

Sam sets his mug on the table. “Daddy’s going to the lions tomorrow, and I’m staying with Uma for two days, and we’ll watch Lilo and Stitch and Leroy and Stitch.”

I turn to Uma.

“Zach is going on a two-day business trip to Lyon,” she explains, wiping Sam’s mouth. “So, yeah, it’s going to be a late night for us with Sam’s favorite movies.”

“Totally unfair,” Zach says, walking in and sitting next to Sam. “I love that cartoon just as much as you do.”

“You can join us next time,” Sam says magnanimously.

Zach gives his shoulder a light squeeze. “Thanks, man.”

When the boy runs away to play with his electric train, a deep crease appears between Zach’s eyebrows. “I’m still nervous about going away for two days.”

Uma hands him his cup. “You shouldn’t be.”

“You started only a week ago, and already I’m leaving you alone with him,” Zach says, shaking his head.

“It’s just one night.” Uma sits down next to me. “Besides, you had no choice.”

Zach turns to me. “I was hoping Colette would rise to the occasion for once… but that didn’t happen.”

I smirk as I picture Sam’s mother serving Zach her standard response. Had Zach listened to her, Sam would be somebody else’s responsibility now. But Zach chose to keep him, well aware of the boy’s condition, so now Sam is Zach’s problem. Not hers.

My teammate gives Uma an apologetic look. “Just say the word, and I’ll cancel the trip.”

“I know exactly what to do if Sam has a seizure. You should stop fretting.” She stares into his eyes. “This trip is super important for your business, right?”

Zach nods. “It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even consider going.”

She shrugs.

“Uma’s right,” I say to Zach. “Stop fretting. You’re leaving your boy in capable hands.”

I mean it, too. Uma is the most dependable person in the world. She’s kind, gentle, competent, and always in control. The kind of person I’d entrust with my life… and with my kid’s life, if I have a kid one day.

Maman is right—she’s perfect. It’s humbling that a woman like that has feelings for me.

“Hey,” Zach turns to me. “I never properly thanked you for arranging the outing next Saturday. Sophie sounds exactly like someone I’d want to date.”

I shrug dismissively. “You’ll thank me later if everything goes well. Did you find a solution for Sam?”

“I can babysit him,” Uma offers.

“No way. You’re coming with us.” Zach gives her a wink. “Noah here would be very disappointed if you didn’t.”

“But what about Sam?” she asks.

Zach grins triumphantly. “Mathilde has agreed to come over for the evening.”

“Cool.” I stand up. “Thanks for the coffee, Uma.”

She smiles. “Anytime.”

“Will you be at the morning practice tomorrow?” I ask Zach.

He nods. “My train to the lions leaves at one fifteen.”

* * *

When I get home, there’s a letter in my mailbox. The handwriting on the envelope is Diane’s.

Fantastic.

Yet another missive from my unwanted sister-in-law, who appears to be even more pigheaded than my brothers are in her refusal to let me be.

I plop onto the couch, tear the envelope open, and retrieve a sheet of paper. She’s slipped in a few pictures, too, as per her habit. I set the photos aside and read the letter.

Oh, I will—sooner than you might expect.

Pff. As if I cared.

I lay the letter on the coffee table and lean back, clasping my hands behind my head. This note will go unanswered just like all of Diane’s previous letters.

She seems to be a good girl. What a shame she had to ruin her life by marrying Seb, a.k.a. His Pompous Ass, Excellency Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice. My friendly sister-in-law is in for a lot of heartache the day she finally opens her eyes and faces the bitter truth.

Beneath the veneer of respectability, the country’s oldest, richest, and most envied family has no honor. The way my late father and Seb treated Maman with Raphael’s tacit consent is ugly. I’ll never forgive them for that. My older brothers are unworthy of the riches they own.

If only my Papa chéri hadn’t made a will!

Had he kicked the bucket without leaving one, his estate would’ve been divided equally between his three sons, according to French inheritance laws. Nothing for Maman, of course, whom he’d conveniently divorced.

But he did leave a will, and I can’t legally dispose of my share until I’m twenty-seven.

Guess what? I’m turning twenty-seven in six weeks’ time.

I feel a prick of conscience. It has nothing to do with my plans for the estate. But it has to do with how my cryptic answers might’ve led Sophie to believe I’d starved in Nepal.

When I told her Papa had refused to help Maman, I failed to mention that the money she was asking for wasn’t for food or shelter. She needed a half million dollars for her foundation. The initial endowment having dried up and no new sponsors forthcoming, Maman’s life’s achievement was going down the drain.

But she and I were doing fine on alimony. More than fine. Compared to local standards, we were rich.

So why did I let Sophie think otherwise?

I guess it was the only way to stop her from asking more questions. She’s my landlady, for Christ’s sake—not my friend like Uma and Zach. She’ll be gone by Christmas. There’s no reason why I should share with her the fucked-up story of my life.

No reason at all.