“A mojito and a single malt for table two,” I instruct Karim, omitting that the drinks are for the co-owner of our establishment and his fiancée.

I don’t say it because I’m not sure.

When the stern-looking man in his midthirties ordered the drinks, his voice was very similar to Sebastian d’Arcy’s, at least, the way he had sounded through closet doors. He resembled Raphael, too—dark haired, dark eyed and well built. Except where Raphael always looks as if he’s about to crack up, this man looks graver than a news anchor announcing an earthquake.

To my surprise, he isn’t so serious anymore when I return to his table with the drinks.

His fiancée, Diane—assuming that’s her—has just finished saying something. And it has amused her companion. A lot. His smile grows wider by the second until it’s a full-blown grin. And then it turns into rumbling, wholehearted laughter.

It is Sebastian. He laughs the same way Raphael does.

He leans forward and takes Diane’s hand. She gazes into his eyes with unabashed affection. His face has I-love-you written all over it.

I set their drinks on the table and scurry away.

Delphine, who knows everything about everyone, told me Sebastian’s fiancée used to be a checkout clerk at Franprix before he snagged her. Soon she’ll be the rolling-in-money Countess d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice.

Miracles do happen.

Maybe—just once—a small miracle could happen to me, too? Maybe the Sword of Damocles that’s gotten so close to my neck I can feel its blade against my skin would vanish as if by magic. And never ever come back.

A loud sneeze distracts me from my daydream. It’s Marcus, the night shift bartender, who has just come in and is heading toward the bar.

“Hi, Mia,” he says before sneezing again.

I say hi and follow him to the bar area.

He doesn’t look good.

“You should’ve called in sick,” I say, putting my elbow on the counter.

“I did,” he says. “But Karim couldn’t fill in for me tonight.”

“Sorry, mon pote.” Karim emerges from the staff room, already changed out of his uniform. “I’m in the early days of a relationship. Can’t risk her thinking I’m blowing her off.”

Marcus nods. “I understand.”

“But I called Raphael,” Karim says. “He’ll be here in half an hour or so.”

Marcus blows his nose. “To do what?”

“Give you a hand, mon pote. You look like you’ll need it.”

I’m about to add that our customers will need it, too, unless they like germs in their drinks, but I bite my tongue. Poor Marcus is feeling bad enough as it is.

Exactly half an hour later, Raphael shows up in all his perky, masculine glory. He smiles, positively thrilled as he removes his jacket and tie and rolls up his sleeves. How can anyone look like that after a fourteen-hour workday is beyond me.

But, evidently, not beyond him.

He says hi to Sebastian and Diane, shakes hands with a few other patrons, and then swaggers behind the counter.

“Hello, Mia,” he says before giving the pasty-faced bartender a nod. “Marcus.”

“Hi, boss,” Marcus and I say in unison.

“Why don’t you come sit over here?” Raphael sets a chair under the wall-mounted wine rack and motions Marcus to it. “That way, you can be my prompter without scaring off our customers.”

Marcus slumps down onto the chair and lets out a relieved sigh.

The next few hours are a sharp learning curve for Raphael, who discovers how limited his cocktail-making skills really are. But he puts on a brave face and does his best to follow Marcus’s achoo-punctuated instructions. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in creative shaking techniques and humor.

It also helps that whenever Marcus moans “Nooo, that’s too much rum (vodka, tequila, wine, syrup, sugar, lime, ice), Raphael just puts that cocktail on the counter next to a napkin that reads “Experimental / On the House.”

A line of eager patrons has sprung up by that napkin, growing fast as the news of free cocktails spreads through the bar.

Sebastian and Diane leave a little after midnight. By two a.m., the bar is finally empty and we can go home.

Raphael calls two cabs—one for Marcus and the other for him and me. The poor rich man is without his car tonight. His Ferrari is at the mechanic’s and his company driver was sent home with the company car several hours ago.

In the cab, I put my head on Raphael’s shoulder and doze off. It’s Thursday night, which means I have to be at the office at nine tomorrow morning. Any shut-eye I can catch between now and then is welcome.

A gentle rub of my shoulder wakes me.

“We’re in front of your building,” Raphael says.

I sit up and try to peel my lids open.

He pays the cabby, climbs out, and slides his arms under my thighs and back.

“Grab your purse,” he says.

Before I realize what’s going on, I’m out of the cab and in Raphael’s arms.

I snuggle to his chest as he halts in front of the intercom. “Can you key in the code?”

I do.

“Which floor?” he asks, carrying me into the foyer.

“Second.” I smile. “You can put me down.”

He ignores me and heads to the staircase.

I try again. “I’m fully awake now.”

Even if this does feel like a dream.

“I know.” Raphael kisses the tip of my nose. “And I will… as soon as we’re in front of your door.”

When he does and I begin to fumble with the wonky lock, an inkling I’ve had since he lifted me up grows into a certitude. A bubbly, singing-to-forest-animals-and-dancing kind of certitude.

For the first time ever, Raphael is going to walk into my apartment.

And he’s going to stay the night.