She’d gotten up at five in the morning to make as much progress with her work as she could before heading to La Bohème. Having watched him from afar over the past week, she’d figured out his schedule. It looked like he went to the bistro twice a day: first for breakfast and a beer and then for dinner and more beers.

At around five in the afternoon, Emma grew so restless her concentration eluded her. She packed her sketches and her laptop with the unfinished design and walked out into the golden afternoon. The métro ride was crowded and much too long, and when she jostled her way out of the train at Cadet, it was already six. Which was OK, she told herself as she raced the escalator to the exit. She still had at least an hour’s head start—enough time to complete her project and rehearse her little speech before Cyril arrived.

To her surprise, he was already at the bistro. She spotted his thick brown hair as soon as she crossed rue LaFayette onto rue Cadet. He sat outside on the sidewalk terrace, lounging in a red and cream wicker chair, his nape leaned against the glass behind him and his face turned up to the soothing September sun.

Emma’s pulse quickened. For a brief moment, she was tempted to go up to him and say, Hi, it’s Laura, but my real name is Emma Perrin.

She pictured the look on his face. He’d be shocked, for sure. Probably angry. Possibly disgusted. No, no, it was too soon. In spite of Geraldine’s assurances, Emma feared that Cyril hated her. She hated herself, after all, for the suffering she’d caused him.

She approached him. “Hi, it’s Laura.”

At the sound of her voice, he broke into a big smile. “Laura! What are you doing here?”

She had intended to feed him another lie about her fictitious photo shoot. But her mouth refused to deliver it. Emma hesitated, then made up her mind. Even if she’d resolved to continue her charade for now, she could at least tell him the truth about her motives.

“I was hoping to find you here,” she said.

Cyril’s smile grew bigger, but he remained silent.

“A little help, please?” she pleaded.

“Apologies. Where are my manners?” He pointed to the chair next to his. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you.” She took her seat and dropped her backpack on the ground between her feet.

“Sounds heavy,” he commented.

“My laptop’s in it. I was planning to finish some work before you arrived.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Kind of… Actually, yes.”

“Go ahead, finish it. I’m not going anywhere.” He raised his empty glass above his head and continued speaking. “I’ll have my second beer while you’re finishing your work, and then I’ll invite you to dinner. If that’s agreeable.”

“That’s very agreeable. Thank you.” Emma opened her backpack and pulled her laptop from its protective case.

They spent the next hour in companionable silence. Cyril didn’t ask her what she was doing and how well she was progressing. He let her concentrate on her work, which was terrific. The only time she lost her focus was when she felt the sun tickle her face as it was about to disappear behind the building across the street. She touched the spot on her cheek where it had kissed her and stole a glance at Cyril, who sipped his beer, listening to something on his smartphone.

She felt ridiculously content.

Dinner turned out to be a different story. Not in terms of contentment but with respect to the number of questions Cyril had for her. He wanted to know everything about her: where she’d grown up, if she had any siblings, if she liked her job, what her favorite books, shows, and movies were, and the lowdown on her first love and first heartbreak.

She attempted to reply as truthfully as she could, given the circumstances. The questions about books and movies were the easiest.

“You’re the first female science fiction buff I’ve ever met,” Cyril said.

“Then you haven’t met a lot of women. How unusual for a musician.”

“I had the same girlfriend for many years. And I’m only twenty-six.”

“Do you still love her?” Emma’s voice was composed even as her hands trembled.

“I don’t know.” He furrowed his brow. “I do miss her. But it may be that I just miss the company of… a woman.”

“Arthur C. Clarke,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My favorite sci-fi author. If you haven’t read him, you absolutely should. Start with Rendezvous with Rama.”

“Will do.” He touched her forearm. “You didn’t answer my earlier question.”

“Which one?”

“About your first heartbreak.”

“I’ll tell you only if you tell me about yours.” She rolled her eyes at her cheap stalling trick. Oh well, desperate times and all.

“OK,” he said, surprising her. “It was Gerrie, my girl—um, ex-girlfriend. We were eighteen. We were finishing school, and she told me she wanted to date another guy. I was devastated.”

“But you took her back again later, when—” Emma shut her mouth, realizing she had said too much.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice her slipup. “And so I did, yes.”

Would you do it again, if she came begging?

Emma didn’t dare voice the question. What if he said yes?

“Now you,” he said.

“OK, fine. It happened when I was thirteen.”

“The little bastard dumped you?”

“No.”

He cocked his head. “What, then?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong, actually. He was simply in love with someone else. And I broke my heart all by myself.”

“Well, I hope you’re over him now,” Cyril said with an amused smile.

You have no idea. “Yes, of course. Ten years is enough time to lick a wound.”

One of the waiters approached their table. “I don’t want to rush you guys, but we’re closing a bit early tonight. It’s my going-away party.”

“Thailand, right?” Cyril asked.

“Right. Listen, if you aren’t otherwise engaged, would you like to stay for the party?”

“I’m in.” Cyril said. “Laura? You emailed your project off, didn’t you? So you’re free as a bird now… unless you have other plans for tonight.”

What other plans?

Even if the President of the French Republic had called to invite her to a reception at the Elysée Palace, she’d have declined without a moment’s hesitation.

“I happen to be free tonight,” she said and turned to the waiter. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“My name is Rob.” The waiter held his hand out. “The blue-haired Goth over there is Jeanne, and I’ll introduce you to the others as soon as we’ve closed the place.”

“I have a condition, though.” Cyril said.

Rob grinned like he knew what was coming. “Shoot.”

“You won’t play my songs.”

“Fine.”

“And you won’t try to sing them, either.”

“Who told you about my singing?”

“Nobody.”

Rob turned to the bar where Jeanne hovered and narrowed his eyes. “Then nobody will pay dearly for this act of treason.”

Cyril sighed. “Nobody is innocent.”

“As for you, Cyril,” Rob said, snarling theatrically. “Your ‘tortured genius’ status doesn’t entitle you to repress my freedom of song.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cyril said.