Oscar gives me a wounded look, followed by a frustrated growl and a long vibrato whimper. That particular sequence means, “Why aren’t you sharing that sandwich? I thought we were friends.”

“You’ve put on weight, buddy.” I pet him. “The vet says we have to watch your diet.”

Oscar whines some more and scampers to the gap between the cupboard and the wall where he stays for a long moment. Coming out, he heads straight to the TV room and climbs on the couch for his midafternoon nap.

I’ve always wondered what he does in that corner. Maybe it’s his meditation room where he performs a breathing routine, reminds himself life isn’t so bad, and recovers his mojo. Another possibility is that he keeps a stash of naked lady dog postcards in there to be perused in times of emotional crisis. Whatever happens in that nook clearly works, because he always emerges from it cheered up.

I wish I had a place like that.

Because if this isn’t a time of emotional crisis for me, then I don’t know what is.

Sophie didn’t answer my calls for the next two days following the wedding. When I called from the intercom of her building, she wouldn’t buzz me in. Then I left for Athens for a LEN Cup game. The team stayed on for a couple more days to visit the Acropolis and explore the local night life.

Zach and I flew back. I went to Sophie’s office straight from the airport. Her colleagues told me my landlady had to cut her internship short and return to the States for personal reasons. A friendly young woman told me Mademoiselle Bander had hired the agency to take care of my lease.

“I’m here to help if there’s anything you need,” she said, giving me her card.

“Thank you, everything’s fine.”

Heading out the door, I wondered how she’d have reacted if I’d told her the truth, which hasn’t changed since July.

I need to kiss Sophie Bander.

So badly that I’m seriously considering going to Key West to try to smooth things over with her. I screwed up, there’s no doubt about that. But I did have mitigating circumstances.

Sophie always told me she was going to marry the man of her father’s dreams. She had a life plan for her future as a Floridian real estate mogul. She was going back to Key West at Christmastime to start it off. What we had wasn’t serious.

Cut the crap, Noah.

These are not “mitigating circumstances.” They are cheap, pathetic excuses. The bottom line is, Sophie had been honest and frank with me from start to finish.

And I lied to her.

No wonder she’s mad at me.

The problem is I can’t go to Key West right now. My team needs me. For the first time since Lucas established the club, we have a serious shot at becoming national champions. We’re in the middle of a crazy season, competing in two overlapping championships, Championnat de France and the LEN Cup. We train several hours a day, and we travel all the time.

I had to quit my pizza delivery job.

Lucas tells us that now that Nageurs de Paris has won enough games to be taken seriously, he has big plans for the club. His first step will be to hire a publicist who will raise sponsor money and get advertising contracts for players.

Let’s hope that happens, and soon.

Because I’m running out of funds. The estate hasn’t been sold yet. Heck, I haven’t even had time to hire an agent. And even when I do, it’s not like I intend to keep the proceeds. Assuming Sophie’s ballpark is correct, most of the fifteen million will go to Maman’s foundation as planned. There will also be a huge tax to pay, and maybe even lawyer fees if Sebastian contests the sale.

Which he might, seeing how much he’s attached to preserving the d’Arcy patrimony.

Is that such a bad thing?

I startle at the thought that came out of nowhere. Well, not quite. Ever since Sophie and I went to Burgundy, my mind keeps conjuring up images of the trained vines, of the view on the park from the Salon Bleu, and of Sophie gawking at the down-at-the-heels grandeur of the castle.

“This place is magnificent, for sure, but not just on the outside,” she said as we were leaving. “It has a beautiful soul. I hope the new owner can see it and love it the way it deserves to be loved.”

My doorbell rings as I swallow the last bite of my sandwich. Oscar wakes up for a split second, then shuts his eyes again, in what I choose to interpret as complete trust in my capacity to handle the intruder.

It must be Maman.

She’s taking me to a “lovely” new restaurant she’s discovered in my neighborhood, and that’s why I just ate a sandwich. Maman’s “lovely” restaurants tend to be of the kind that serve beautifully presented itty-bitty portions that never leave me sated.

I let Maman in, glancing at my watch. The reservation is for seven, so I have a full hour to ask her the questions I’ve been burning to ask since Raphael’s wedding.

She heads to the TV room and sits as far from Oscar as she can. She says he’s too scruffy. She isn’t entirely wrong.

“You invited Mr. Bander to Raphael’s wedding just so he’d bring Sophie along and she’d find out the truth about me,” I say without a preamble.

She gives me a long stare. “You shouldn’t have lied to her.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have. And you should’ve stayed out of it—or advised me to come clean. But, instead, you used my mistake to advance your agenda.”

“I had your best interest at heart,” she says. “And the same goes for Ludwig who was very concerned that his only daughter would ruin her future.”

“By being with me?”

“By abandoning her dreams for an infatuation.”

It was more than an infatuation, I burn to say.

Why else would it grow with every passing day and week, instead of fading away? Why else would it feel so right, like I found the woman who was made for me?

But I keep silent, afraid that saying those things out loud will make Sophie’s departure even harder to bear.

“By the way,” Maman says. “I’m glad your peccadillo led Ludwig to me. What a wonderful, upright man! He believes in charity as much as I do. I’m sure it won’t be long before he donates a sizable amount to my foundation.”

“No doubt.” I squint at her. “So the pair of you came up with a genius fix to the problem Sophie and I created.”

“Don’t be so cynical,” Maman says before simpering. “I must admit, our fix was brilliant in its simplicity and effectiveness.”

“Just listen to yourself!”

She shrugs. “I did nothing wrong. Sophie is a nice girl, but she’s wrong for you.”

“Because you know who’s right for me.”

“As it happens, I do.” She arches an eyebrow. “Uma.”

Of course.

Maman’s gaze softens. “She loves you.”

“Yes, she does,” I say. “As a friend.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“She told me that herself.”

Maman blinks, visibly confused. “She couldn’t have.”

“And yet she did. Maman… I can see how she and I may look like a great match. Only, we aren’t drawn to each other.”

“You’re just saying it to spite me.” She rearranges her legs and smoothes her skirt. “You’re upset.”

Sarcasm contorts my mouth. “No kidding.”

“All I wanted was your happiness.”

“Did it occur to you to ask if I’d already found my happiness before you walked all over it?”

She blinks again.

Bile rises in my throat. “Tell you what, Maman, you should order some puppets for the foundation and start staging shows.”

She shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that’s a priority for the children we’re helping.”

“It won’t be just for them—it’ll be mostly for you. Your puppets will do exactly what you want them to do. And your shows—every single one of them—will end exactly the way you want them to end.”

She lifts a trembling hand to her face and rubs her left temple, an expression of suffering on her face.

Migraine.

A.k.a., my cue to apologize and take back everything I’ve just said, because I’ve suddenly realized she’s right. Because that’s how we roll.

But not anymore.

Neither of us speaks for a while.

Then Maman stops rubbing her temple and gazes into my eyes. “I love you, Noah. Please believe me when I say that everything I’ve done was dictated by that love.”

“Oh, I do believe you.” I nod for emphasis. “But here’s the thing. Your love has soured me. It’s poisoned my relationships with Seb and Raph, and now also with Sophie. I’d say something’s wrong with your love.”

She sniffles and dabs her eyes, which would normally shut me up.

But not this time.

“Your love is broken, Maman,” I say. “It needs some serious fixing.”

She stands up and storms out the door.

I don’t try to stop her.

Instead, my thoughts return to the estate. The more I think of it the less I see how Sophie’s enthusiasm about it reflected badly on her. She was just being herself. Candid and genuine. Refreshingly honest. Awestruck by something exceptional—and vocal about it.

Isn’t that a thousand times better than hypocrisy?