When Amanda woke up, Kes was half-awake, his breathing still even but not as deep as when he slept. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and the delicious warmth of his skin. Then she reached for his face and touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His morning stubble grated against her skin, creating a most pleasurable contrast of rough and soft, masculine and feminine. She enjoyed the sensation for a few moments before she flipped her hand to caress the side of his face.

He smiled with his eyes still shut and shifted his head slightly, leaning into her palm. His scent had changed a little compared to last night. It was less sandalwood and more salt, and she found herself wishing that if heaven existed, it would smell like him now.

Amanda propped her head on her elbow to gain a better view of his face and muttered, “I can’t believe I’m still tipsy.”

“On what? I don’t recall us drinking any wine last—”

“On you.”

His eyelids fluttered open. “Why, Mademoiselle Roussel, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it to be nice. Just factual. It’s actually quite annoying.”

“Not from my perspective.”

“Hmm . . .” She traced the contours of his face, thoughtful. “Must be your pheromones. I bet your levels are higher than average.”

He gave a falsely innocent look. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not for me. I don’t . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “I like it when things are compartmentalized.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lust and sex belong in the night. Morning is when reason rules, when my mind is at its clearest. It’s when I jump up from the bed and get busy.”

“And instead you’re lingering here, still tipsy on me,” he prompted.

“Exactly.”

“Cheers, then.” He gripped the back of her head and kissed her on the mouth.

She lifted her thigh and wedged it between his.

He broke the kiss and wrinkled his brow apologetically. “I really need to pee.”

She drew back, letting him stand.

He turned around halfway to the door. “Don’t move, OK? I’ll be back in a minute.”

When he reappeared in the doorway, she was sitting on the bed, wrapped in her satiny bedroom robe.

“Damn.” He sat down next to her. “Can we rewind to where we were before my bladder ruined everything?”

“No can do.” Amanda shrugged. “Anyway, we can’t just hang out and do what we feel like doing.”

“Why not? It’s Sunday.”

“Because it’s . . . wrong.”

“Amanda, why can’t you just relax and let things take care of themselves every once in a while?”

She chewed on her lip. “The last time I let things take care of themselves, they went very, very wrong.”

“What happened?”

“You really want to know?”

He nodded.

“The love of my life realized that another woman was the love of his, and he dumped me.”

“You’re talking about Rob, I presume.”

“And Lena.”

“Let me tell you a story.”

She sighed. “If you must.”

“There was a man who always expected the worst. He lived a charmed life—blessed with good health and a wonderful family. But he was always on his guard and never, ever happy. He died of old age, surrounded by his wife, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Just before his heart stopped beating, they heard him mutter, ‘I knew this was going to end badly.’ ”

She shrugged. “And the moral of the story is?”

“You tell me.”

Amanda gave him a defiant look. “The key to a perfect life is to be on your guard and unhappy at all times.”

He threw his hands up in defeat. “You need help, ma belle. I’d say a dozen sessions with a psychoanalyst or three with my grandmother.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much.” She stood. “If anyone needs help around here, it’s you. For your gambling addiction.”

An hour later, she emerged from the bathroom waxed, moisturized, and fragrant. Kes lay on his stomach across the bed, reading a book.

Her Guide to Perfection.

“What are you doing?”

He held the book up. “Drinking from this fountain of wisdom.”

“Didn’t you pay attention to the title?” she asked, annoyed. “It’s a woman’s guide.”

“As a fan of psychology, I’m interested in learning more about the aspirations and concerns of the fairer sex.” He poked the book. “This is a gold mine.”

She attempted a dismissive shrug. “It’s just a collection of tips.”

“It explains so much about you.”

She strode over to him and yanked the book from his hands. “You should’ve asked before picking it up.”

“It’s a book that you left in full view on your night table—not a secret diary.” He looked up at her. “Are the notes in the margins yours?”

“No,” she lied. “I bought it secondhand.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, the bathroom is free now.”

He stood up. “If you brew some strong coffee while I’m showering, I’ll cook the best fried eggs you’ve ever had.”

He sauntered into the kitchen twenty minutes later, barefoot and bare-chested. Amanda gasped. The man possessed too much beauty and grace for a human being. Good thing he had his jeans on. They suggested he was a mere mortal and not a demigod descended from wherever demigods lived to smite her for some minor misdemeanor. Or to mate with her—repeatedly—starting right now on the kitchen table.

Get a grip.

She swallowed and turned away.

He went over to the fridge and took out the egg carton and butter.

She gave him a skillet. “If your fried eggs are half as good as my coffee, I won’t call you a big mouth.”

He placed the skillet on the stove and added a generous blob of butter.

She hovered behind his back, watching.

Suddenly, he spun around, lifted her in his arms, and set her down on the worktop next to the stove.

She laughed in surprise.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because like this, you’re out of my way while I cook but still within reach when I want to kiss you.”

“You call frying eggs cooking?”

“What else should I call it?”

She racked her brain, but no alternative came to mind.

The butter began to sizzle, and Kes cracked the first egg into the skillet. Three more eggs followed before he washed his hands and planted a hearty kiss on Amanda’s lips.

In the middle of which, a woman cleared her throat.

Oh no.

Amanda drew away and slid down to her feet, bracing herself for what was to come.

“Hello, Amanda.”

“Hello, Maman. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Vivienne said nothing. She wasn’t even looking at Amanda. She was staring at Kes’s bare chest, her expression mildly shocked.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the skillet made an angry spitting sound, and he turned around to take care of the eggs.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Amanda said and darted to the bedroom to fetch his T-shirt.

As she scurried back a few seconds later, she saw Vivienne addressing Kes. “Do. You. Speak. French?”

“A little.” His lips quirked. “I apologize for not introducing myself properly. My name is Kes Moreno.”

Surprise flickered in Vivienne’s eyes. “You’re French. I was convinced you were foreign.” She shrugged. “I am Madame Roussel, Amanda’s mother.”

“Very pleased to meet you.” Kes gave her a bright smile.

“The pleasure is mine,” Vivienne said with a smile so cold it could solve the world’s global warming problems.

“What do you do for a living, Kes?” Vivienne spat out his name as if it were an obscenity. “You look young enough to be a student.”

“I’m twenty-six,” Kes said. “And I haven’t been to college.”

Vivienne gave him the once-over. “You must be one of the servers at that café, then.”

Kes shook his head. “Wrong again. I’m a professional gambler.”

Vivienne’s jaw dropped.

Merde. Merde. Merde.

Why hadn’t he used the stockbroker cover he’d wielded with so much ease at Jeanne’s wedding?

Amanda handed Kes his shirt and turned to her mother. “I’d forgotten you had keys to my apartment. What brings you here at this early hour?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Vivienne glanced at Kes and back at Amanda. “I’m worried about you.”

“Will you join us for breakfast?” Kes peeked at Vivienne over his shoulder. “After that I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“I can’t stay long.” Vivienne pursed her lips. “Amanda, can we go somewhere private?”

Amanda shrugged. “Unless you’re going to tell me something you haven’t already, there isn’t any point, really.”

The words came out meaner than she’d intended them, but Amanda had to drive home that she didn’t need yet another lecture on the dangers of lingering in an inappropriate job. Albeit today’s lecture would have a variation to include the dangers of lingering with an inappropriate man.

Not that Amanda disagreed with her mother or was unaware of said dangers. But she didn’t need to be reminded of them quite so often.

Definitely not this morning.

“All right, I’ll leave,” Vivienne said, lifting her chin. “But we will talk soon. I’m your mother. I can’t just stand by and watch my only child throw her life out the window.”

She stomped out without saying good-bye to Kes.

And just like that, Amanda’s morning—in fact, her whole day—was ruined. She poured two mugs of coffee, placed them on the kitchen table, and sank onto one of her replica Eames DSW chairs.

Damn it, Vivienne had a formidable sense of timing. And a knack for dampening Amanda’s good spirits. No matter what the context was, Vivienne would always find a way to suck the joy out of her daughter’s best moments.

Kes handed Amanda a plate with two happy-looking fried eggs.

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Sorry about my mother’s intrusion. She wasn’t on her friendliest behavior . . . to put it mildly.”

He placed his own plate on the table and sat down. “No problem. She clearly didn’t like me, but she does seem to care about you.”

“I guess—in an infuriating, tough-love sort of way.” Amanda put a yellow-and-white morsel into her mouth and chewed. “Five on a scale of ten.”

“Ouch. I was hoping for a nine or an eight, at least.”

She pointed to the mug. “What about my coffee?”

“It’s good. But not as good as what you make at work.”

“I don’t have the same equipment here.” Amanda took a hopeful sip from her own mug, but it didn’t miraculously lift her spirits.

“I need to drop by my apartment,” Kes said, “but I’m free in the afternoon if you want to go swimming.”

“I’m not sure. I’ll call you, OK?” She began to clear the table. “How’s the gambling, by the way? Will you be leaving Paris a winner or a loser?”

“Please—you’re insulting me.” He stood, too.

“A winner, then. Congratulations.”

He turned the faucet on and started to wash the skillet. “Thank you.”

“If I remember correctly, you’ll be gone in ten days or so, right?”

He placed the skillet onto the dish rack, picked up the brush to wash the plates, and ignored her question.

Maybe he didn’t hear it because of the running water, or maybe he didn’t feel like discussing the impending end of their affair. And that was fine by her. She didn’t feel like discussing it, either.