I wake up to Oscar licking my face.

“Yikes, get off me, beast!” I shoo him away from my head, wiping my mouth, chin, and cheeks with the sheet.

Noah levers his body into a sitting position and nudges Oscar toward the edge of the bed. “Bad boy.”

Honestly, he could’ve put a little more heart into his admonishment. At least for show.

When the dog jumps to the floor, Noah turns to me, smiling. “Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“On Oscar’s upgrading you from harmless to lick-worthy.”

“Does he upgrade everyone so fast or should I feel proud and special?” I ask archly.

“Definitely proud and special.” He gives me a wink. “And not because of Oscar.”

“No?”

“He got nothing on me.”

“How so?”

His smile broadens. “When I first saw you, it took me less than ten seconds to upgrade you from harmless to lick-worthy.”

Memories of last night flood my brain, and I turn away, hoping he won’t notice my flaming ears. “Can I go to the shower first?”

“Of course.”

I roll out of the bed, kneel, and sift through the pile of clothes on the floor, looking for my underwear. I find my bra, but not my panties.

“Oops,” Noah says, leaning over the other side of the bed and prying my lacy boy shorts from Oscar’s mouth.

The garment is wet as he holds it up for me.

Seeing my hesitation, he balls it into his fist. “I’m—we—are very sorry about this. I’ll wash it.”

“I can’t go home commando.”

“May I offer you a pair of my briefs or Speedos?” he asks with a smile dancing in the corner of his mouth.

I jerk my chin up. “This is not funny.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I’ll have a word with Oscar.”

He jumps out of the bed, hunkers next to his dog and schools his features into a stern expression. “That was badly done, Oscar. Very bad.”

Oscar listens carefully, his big sad eyes locked on Noah.

“In this house, we don’t munch on our guests’ underwear without permission,” Noah continues, his tone falsely stern. “You should be ashamed of—”

Oscar rears up and gives Noah’s nose a happy lick.

Noah shuts up mid sentence, a grin breaking across his face.

I shake my head. “If that’s how you discipline him, I see why he does as he pleases.”

“Have you ever tried scolding someone while they’re licking your nose?”

“No, I haven’t.”

He pets Oscar. “Thought so. F.Y.I, it’s impossible.”

“If you say so.” I let out a resigned sigh. “Hey, I’ll take you up on your offer of underwear.”

He opens one of the drawers in the closet and rummages through its contents.

“This should do the trick,” he says, handing me a pair of stretchy boxer briefs.

I grab them and head to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I enter the kitchen. It smells of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries.

I point at the croissants on the table. “Microwave?”

He screws his face up in exaggerated affront. “Please. I bought them in the boulangerie downstairs while you were in the shower.”

“Now I know why my friend Sue suggested I spend a night with a Frenchman,” I say before biting into a delicious roll.

“And why’s that?”

“This perfection”—I hold the croissant up—“with fresh coffee early in the morning. So worth all the hassle.”

His lips quirk as he points to the bottle of rosé from last night. “I’d say this was worth the hassle.

I cock my head. “You’re well informed about wines for an athlete who grew up in Nepal.”

“The French are born well informed about wines,” he says. “Ask your mother, if you don’t believe me.”

“I may not know much about wines,” I say, “But I do know a thing or two about vineyards.”

“How come?”

“We had a two-day workshop at the agency last week on vineyard property sales. I learned an awful lot.”

“Like what?”

“Like, whether the estate has a winery or only a vineyard, the type of grapes it grows, the age of the vines, their yield, if there’s staff already on payroll, and lots of other things. All of them affect the price of the estate.”

“I had no idea,” he says, looking impressed. “Would love to hear more.”

I smile, flattered. “Sure, but bear in mind I just had a crash course. There are specialized brokers out there who can immediately say if the estate is going to be profitable.”

“I think your knowledge will suffice for my purposes,” he says enigmatically.

Before I can ask him what he means, my phone wakes up in my purse, emitting Dad’s ringtone.

I answer it.

“Hey, Princess, I have great news,” Dad says. “Last night, Doug Thompson insisted we go out for a drink—”

“Our archenemy Doug Thompson?”

“Not anymore. He confessed he’s in love with you, can you believe it?”

“No,” I say.

“He’s been in love with you for years now,” Dad plows on, “and he’ll do anything for a chance to win your heart.”

I’m too flabbergasted to respond.

“If you and Doug hit it off, we could merge our two agencies and become an undisputed market leader. We’d have no rival in the Keys. We could develop the Parisian thing you started into a real agency, and—why not—open one in Miami.”

He’s so excited I can hardly believe my ears. “Dad, I—”

“You don’t have to say or do anything about it right now,” he cuts in. “I just wanted you to begin seeing Doug in a different light. If he’s no longer our competitor, he’s exactly what you want in a man.”

This conversation is getting way too sensitive.

“Can I call you back in ten minutes?” I ask.

There’s a brief pause before he says, “You’re not alone.”

“That’s right.”

“At eight in the morning,” he adds pointedly.

His voice is icy now compared to the warmth it bubbled with seconds ago.

“I’ll call you back,” I say and hang up.

Noah hands me a fragrant cup of coffee. “Drink this before you run away.”

I gulp down the contents and give him a smooch.

As soon I’m on the street, I dial Dad.

“You’ve met someone,” he says.

“Maybe.”

“Is he black?”

When did race become a factor?

“No,” I say. “Neither is Doug Thompson, last time I checked.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“Doug is a local, a native conch born and raised in Key West.”

“Is that a virtue?” I ask with a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes, it is,” Dad says. “It means he has roots here. It means he can put up with our summers, and he won’t run away after a few years to a cooler climate.”

Sheesh.

This is about Mom as much as it’s about Doug. I should’ve seen it coming.

“I take it he’s French,” Dad says.

“Yes.”

“Catholic.”

“He isn’t religious.”

“Even worse—an atheist.”

“I don’t think he’s an atheist—he just doesn’t give religion much thought. His passion is something else.”

“What?”

“Water polo.”

“Hmm. Is he a pro? Is he making good money?”

“Water polo isn’t like baseball or soccer. It doesn’t pay very well. That’s why he has a part-time job.”

“Doing what?”

I hesitate. Dad isn’t going to like this. Oh, well. “He delivers pizzas.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“You’re dating a pizza delivery man.”

I don’t comment.

He clears his throat. “Does your delivery man have a college degree?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

“So, basically, he’s a loser,” Dad says before adding, “Euro-trash.”

“Oh, come on!”

“He’ll pull you down, Sophie, can’t you see that?”

“Dad, I don’t plan on marrying him.” I pout in frustration. “Shouldn’t you be happy I’m finally dating someone?”

“You’re dating someone who lives in Europe and delivers pizzas. No, I’m not happy.”

“He’s a wonderful person,” I say, “and a gifted goalkeeper.”

I wish I could mention Noah’s additional gift that I discovered last night, but this is Dad, not Mom.

“A pizza guy.” He laughs bitterly. “Ain’t he a catch?”

I say nothing.

“What’s his name?” Dad asks.

“Noah Masson.”

“Just keep your head on your shoulders, Princess, will you?” Dad’s tone is placating now. “You’re young and inexperienced, and this Noah person… Can you promise me you won’t do anything rash?”

“No problem,” I say and we hang up.

Big problem, actually.

Despite Dad’s outright disapproval and my own misgivings, I may have crossed the red line already.

I may be falling for Noah.