She woke up with a diffuse sense of happiness. For a moment she lay still, eyes closed, trying to figure out where that feeling had come from. Had she been flying again in her sleep? When she did, she rode the wind wherever it took her, zooming out on magnificent landscapes—ragged mountains, lush forests and crystal blue lakes—and then closing in on people’s faces and smiling as they looked up and waved. That recurrent dream was the most inspiring, most beautiful experience in her life, and whenever she had it, she would spend the whole day in a state of unsinkable benevolence.

But this time, she couldn’t remember flying. It was something else, something… Oh God. Oh, dear God. Images of last night flashed in her mind as she remembered where she was and what had happened. Suddenly, she became aware of a large palm splayed across her tummy. She opened her eyes and turned her head to gaze at the owner of said palm.

This was real. She was in bed with the love of her life.

And he was smiling.

Her hand went to his face, and she stroked his chiseled cheekbones, his trim little beard, and his scar-slashed eyebrows.

This was better than flying in her sleep.

“Good morning, mon ange,” he said.

She loved the endearment, the husky voice that delivered it, and the crooked smile that accompanied it.

“Good morning,” she replied, hesitating to give him a pet name of her own.

Soon.

“I slept like a baby,” he said. “Haven’t slept like this in months.”

He moved closer to her and propped himself on his elbow. “Will you promise me something?”

“Depends what.”

“That you’ll sleep here tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.”

“OK,” she said.

“How about the rest of the week?”

“Granted.”

“And the rest of the month?”

“Aren’t you rushing things?” she teased.

“Absolutely not. But I’ll take the week for now.” He pulled her close and combed his fingers through her hair. “Renewable upon tacit agreement.”

She laughed.

“Laura,” he murmured, running his fingers over her face. “Laura. What a beautiful name.”

Oh no.

She winced as her little bubble of unadulterated joy burst apart, leaving her to grapple with the truth of her situation.

He kissed her shoulder. “I dreamed I was playing my guitar.”

“Will you play for me now? I’ll get it for you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not ready.” Then added with a smile, “Yet.”

“I can wait,” she said. “I have all day.”

“It may take longer than that, mon ange,” he said, a tinge of sadness coloring his handsome voice.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

I can wait a lifetime.

He gathered her to him. “The thing you wanted to tell me last night—does it still apply?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I was hoping… It doesn’t matter.” He sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. “Tell me then.”

Already?

She couldn’t possibly. She needed to stock up with more of this connection, this baggage-free trust between them, before she emptied a bucket of water over her sand castle and prayed it would resist.

“I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

“Agreed. Which means you’re coming to La Bohème with me.”

“Why?”

“That’s where I eat breakfast.”

She laughed. “A man of habit.”

When they stepped out of his building into the bustling Parisian morning, Cyril paused and turned to her, a smile dancing on his face. “Can I ask you a small favor?”

“Ask away.”

“On our way to La Bohème, do you mind describing the surroundings and… holding my hand?” He stretched out his left hand for her, the right one holding his cane.

“Sure.” She walked over to his left side and placed her hand into his. “For your balance?”

“Not at all.” He extended the cane in front of him. “For my sense of wellbeing.”

Her mouth twitched. “It won’t hurt mine, either.”

“You see,” Cyril said as they walked down the street, “I used to live in the eleventh before, and the twelfth before that. I know the area around Opéra Garnier, but I have trouble picturing what this part of the ninth is like.”

She looked around. “Your neighborhood is perfect.”

“In what way?”

“You know how some parts of Paris are handsome but insanely boring? And some are so ugly you wonder if you’ve been transported to the outskirts of Brussels or a Moscow suburb? Well, your neighborhood is a perfect mix of elegance, grit, and hipness.”

“That’s good to know.” Cyril smiled. “But I want details. For instance, I can sometimes smell fresh bread around this spot. Is it a baker? What does the shop look like?”

“It’s called ‘Boulangerie Châteaudun.’ The front is art nouveau—curvy wrought iron painted pale mint green. Reminds me of Ladurée. Rather well maintained. Lots of customers inside, so I guess their croissants must be good.”

“Mental note number one.”

“Take another one while you’re at it—right after the baker there’s a garage entrance. You should watch out.”

Crap. She hadn’t just said “watch out,” had she? Yep, she had. Emma rolled her eyes. What an imbecile.

“I know about the garage, but thanks for the warning. Anything else of interest before the convenience store?”

“Let’s see. Oh yes, there’s a fishmonger further down the street. But you may have figured it out already.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “I kind of suspected there was something fishy going on around there.”

“And crabby, too.”

He chuckled. “Now tell me about the passersby.”

“Why? You don’t think it’s always the same people, do you?” She stood on tiptoes and whispered into his ear, infusing exaggerated gravitas into her tone. “Your life isn’t The Truman Show, believe me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Remind me why I should believe the woman who just popped up out of nowhere?”

She knew he had meant it as a joke, but it still turned her stomach. Emma clenched her jaw. That was it—she would confess as soon as they ordered breakfast.

And then come what may.

“OK,” she said. “The passersby. I spy with my little eye… a white-haired monsieur with a little boy—must be his grandson—who keeps jumping up and down.”

“The old man or the boy?”

“Take a wild guess.”

He puckered his lips, feigning intense mental effort, and shook his head. “I give up. OK, who else do you spy?”

“A new couple, madly in love. They’re cute.”

“How do you know they’re new? And how do you know they’re in love?”

“I don’t know that, of course, but it’s the way they hold hands, the way they look at each other… And here’s the most telling detail: They stop every ten seconds for a smooch.”

He stopped in his tracks, pulled her to him, and gave her a searing kiss.

As they resumed their walk, she asked, bright-eyed, “Were you trying to make a point?”

“Absolutely.”

Inside the bistro, Emma picked a cozy window table, a little removed from the others. Cyril ordered croissants, buttered tartines, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and coffee for both of them.

Emma smoothed the napkin on her knees.

Time to fess up.

She glanced behind her to check if a particularly speedy waiter was heading their way with the croissants.

But it wasn’t a waiter she saw advancing toward them with the inexorability of a falling tree.

It was Geraldine.