Amanda read the article in the financial pages of Le Figaro five times between Félix Faure and Grands Boulevards stations of the métro. She nearly missed her stop, jumping up from her seat at the last moment and throwing herself through the doors. As she walked down rue du Faubourg Montmartre toward La Bohème, her heart pounded and her mind raced as if the news concerned her on a personal level—which it did, in a there’s-justice-in-this-word-after-all sort of way.

Finally. It had happened.

The a-hole had made enough stupid decisions and done enough damage to the company and the shareholders’ pocketbooks for the board to take notice. His days at the helm of ENS were numbered. Whether it took a week or a month, he was getting the sack. Oh, he’d have his golden parachute, no doubt, because you didn’t just fire a CEO of a major company without sweetening the pill. Even a CEO who had screwed up in every way.

But he’d be gone, and with some luck, ENS would recover. Its foundations were solid, and it still had enough good people in its ranks to pull it back up. The next CEO wouldn’t have to be a genius to save the company—just someone with more intelligence and less ego.

Come to think of it, Julien’s fall from grace might affect her personally, too. The industry might delist her from the untouchables and put her in the deserves-a-chance category. She might have better luck next time she applied for a managerial position. It made sense that Julien’s warning not to hire her would matter less now that he’d failed at his job so spectacularly.

Amanda was so excited she showed the article to Jeanne and Manon. She shared the news with Amar and Pepe, who’d come by for his Arabic lesson with Amar. She even told José about it. Tonight, she’d fill Kes in, and they would celebrate with some good champagne. Amanda grinned as she pictured him raising his flute and saying, “Burn in hell, Julien. Mwahahaha!”

She was still grinning when someone tapped her shoulder. “Hey, you! It looks like this new job of yours isn’t as awful as you’d feared.”

She spun around. “Patrick! What are you doing here?”

“I took a day off and thought I’d drop by.”

“That’s so nice of you.” Amanda pointed to a table. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink? I’ll take my coffee break and join you in half an hour.”

“Promise?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “We’ve known each other five years. We’ve worked together, and partied together in Bangkok’s nightclubs.”

He sighed. “Those were the days . . .”

“Have I ever promised you something I wasn’t sure I could deliver?”

He shook his head.

“Ha.” Amanda nodded toward the table again.

Patrick smiled. “Can I have some sparkling water?”

“Absolutely.”

When she joined him thirty minutes later, Patrick launched into reminiscing about their year in Bangkok as green ENS recruits. He and Rob had left the company to launch a start-up. Given how successful they’d been, he had never regretted that decision. But, man, they’d had fun in Bangkok.

“You know,” he said, giving Amanda a strange look, “if you hadn’t been Rob’s girlfriend, I’m sure I would’ve hit on you at the time.”

“Oh.” She smiled quickly to hide her surprise. “But you’re into busty brunettes. It’s the only type you’ve ever dated.”

“I’m over busty brunettes,” he said. “I guess I’ve grown up. I’m no longer interested in women who look a certain way.”

Her lips quirked. “That opens up a whole new world of possibilities.”

“I’d like to have a relationship that can grow into something bigger—something for life.”

She didn’t comment.

“These days,” he plowed on, “I’m interested in women who are more . . . like me.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Tall, clean-shaven, and prematurely balding?”

“God forbid.” He chuckled. “I’m interested in a woman who, in addition to good looks, has brains. And ambition. And balls.”

She opened her mouth to comment on the last qualification.

“Figuratively speaking,” he said quickly.

“Ah.”

He looked down at his glass and then up at her. “A woman like you.”

She stared at him to ascertain if he was kidding with her, but he looked earnest. What’s more, he looked anxious to hear her reply.

“Patrick,” she finally said. “I’m not sure how to react to this.”

“I understand.” He leaned in. “Will you have dinner with me any day this week? Or the next. We could go to a Thai restaurant for old times’ sake and . . . just chat about life.”

She hesitated.

“Amanda,” he said. “I may never have told you this, but I’ve admired you since the day we met. You’re so elegant, efficient, so . . . together. In my eyes, you’re the ideal woman.”

She felt a blush warm her cheeks.

“All I’m asking for is one dinner. Afterward, if you decide I’m not your type or you could do better than me, I’ll totally understand, and we’ll carry on as friends.”

It was hard to say no to those terms.

“OK.” She stood. “My time’s up. What about Thursday night?”

“Thursday night’s perfect.” He gave her a happy grin.

After he left, she tried to figure out if she was more surprised or flattered by his sudden proposition. Patrick was one of the four people she called friends. She’d never thought he’d be more, even if he did tick most of the boxes on her checklist.

Vivienne considered him an ideal man.

She’d be over the moon to learn Patrick considered her disappointing daughter an ideal woman.

Amanda smirked.

Ideal, my foot.

It was the most misguided, delusional image anyone had ever had of her.

But it was undeniably gratifying.