A tall well-dressed man entered the bistro, dripping rain and hotness. He stopped by the door and surveyed the room.

Must be looking for Rob.

Jeanne tried to peel her gaze off him and focus on the conversation around her. Easier said than done. Aside from his general attractiveness, the stranger was full of contrasts that mesmerized her.

He had long legs and narrow hips, yet his upper body was deliciously brawny. The poor fellow must have a hard time finding suits that fit. Speaking of suits, his was a sleek number cut from the finest, smoothest wool to grace La Bohème on her watch. The trendy jacket overlaid the lines of his V-shaped torso as if it were tailor-made. Which it probably was. On top of all that, his friendly, clean-shaven face sported a masculine nose and a firm jawline.

Just as the mysterious hunk turned to survey her side of the room, Rob approached him and gave him a big hug.

“I’m so glad you made it! It wouldn’t have been a proper engagement party without my best man.”

“It’s a matter of having one’s priorities straight,” the hunk said. “I told the boss I was leaving at five thirty, whether we were finished or not.”

His crooked smile sent a couple of Jeanne’s internal organs into a happy little somersault.

“That’s the spirit, man.” Rob grinned.

The stranger winked. “Having Mom as my boss does have its perks. Where’s Lena, by the way?”

“Fetching her folks. They should be here in half an hour.” Rob patted him on the shoulder. “Now, why don’t you give me your wet jacket and get yourself a drink. The party doesn’t officially begin until eight thirty, so you can chill and talk to the people you know.”

The hunk removed his jacket, uncovering an expensive-looking shirt—and a better view of his broad chest.

Jeanne swallowed. Was this guy real?

Rob took the wet garment from him and walked away. And then something weird happened. The hottie remained by the door instead of walking toward the guests or the bar. He looked around the room as if searching for someone—his gaze lingering on the females until it met Jeanne’s. He beamed and strode toward her, his eyes trained on her and full of warmth.

Does he know me? Do I know him?

It was downright impossible she would forget a stud of this caliber, even if she had met him during her wild teens.

“Hi, Jeanne. Don’t you remember me?” He was close enough for her to discern the hint of five-o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw.

“I’m sorry . . . Are you sure we’ve met?”

“Every day for almost two years.”

Righto.

She tilted her head to the side and sneered. “Next you’ll tell me I used to go out with you.”

“Unfortunately, you didn’t.” The dreamboat sounded genuinely sorry. “But it wasn’t for my lack of trying. I spent most of my money eating at this bistro just so I could see you.”

She gave him a puzzled look. Who was he?

“OK, you really don’t remember me.” He bowed ceremoniously. “Mathieu Gérard, also known as Mat. I’m a friend of Rob’s. We studied together here in Paris a few years back.”

“Mat?” There was no way this guy was Mat. “You can’t be him. Mat was . . . he was . . .”

“Nothing like me?” he prompted, the corners of his mouth twitching.

To put it mildly.

“Thin,” she finally said. “Anorexic thin. And his hair was like an explosion in a spaghetti factory, and he had these bulging eyes—”

“Ah, so you do remember me.” He smiled that crooked smile again. “I’m reassured because I often wondered if you’d even registered my existence.”

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance, and Jeanne turned in the direction of the noise, happy for the distraction so she wouldn’t have to react to Mat’s remark.

The bride and her family had arrived. The ambient music Jeanne had compiled for the occasion was no match to the decibels produced by Lena’s little half sisters. It was amazing how much noise a toddler and a baby could make.

“If you’ll excuse me,”—Jeanne stood—“I’ll go greet Lena and her tribe.”

“Of course,” Mat said. “I’ll do the same.”

After endless hellos, hugs, kisses, “pleased-to-meet-yous” and “how-are-yous,” everyone settled into small groups, chatting and sipping their predinner aperitifs.

“Jeanne took care of everything,” Lena told her dad. “I’m so lucky to have a professional restaurateur for a best friend!”

“This place is cozy,” Lena’s father said. “But I would’ve preferred to celebrate such an occasion at a more . . . upscale restaurant. If you and Rob had let me handle things, of course.”

“Have you tried the food here?” Mat asked him.

Anton shook his head.

Mat gave Jeanne a lingering look. “Is it still the same chef as three years ago?”

“Yep.”

He turned back to Anton. “He’s one of the best in Paris. Believe me. You get better food here than in a Michelin-starred restaurant, for a fraction of the price.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but our chef is good,” Jeanne said, not without pride. “You’ll tell me what you think of him after the dinner tonight.”

“Besides, there’s no way Rob and I are celebrating our engagement anywhere else.” Lena turned to her father. “This is where everything began, Dad.”

“Ah, oui?” Anton gave his daughter and her fiancé an amused look.

“I used to work here with Jeanne and Pepe,” Rob said. “And Lena used to come here to write her thesis. This is a special place for us.”

“How’s Pepe, by the way?” Mat asked.

“Pregnant,” Jeanne said. “I mean his Danish wife. They live in Copenhagen now.”

The exchange was interrupted by the chef, who peeked out of the kitchen and signaled he was ready to send in the first course.

His special menu turned out to be everything one could hope for.

Three hours later, the guests had finished their meals, downed an impressive amount of wine, and begun to order their petit café. Lena’s youngest sister was fast asleep and the older girl was nodding off in her chair.

“I apologize for what I said earlier this evening. The food is so good, I would’ve licked the plate if I were less inhibited,” Anton declared.

Whether because of the drinks, the amount of food or simply the fatigue, Jeanne began to feel sleepy and a little lightheaded, too.

“Who’s the DJ?” Lena’s stepmom, Anna, asked.

Jeanne raised her hand. “Me. Are you tired of this music?”

“It’s a great playlist. Perfect for the aperitifs and dinner.” Anna winked before adding, “And getting the girls to sleep. But now we need something we can dance to. I don’t know about France, but in Russia, a party isn’t a party without people dancing until they drop.”

“I thought it was more like drinking until they drop,” Jeanne said with a sly smile.

“That too,” the older woman agreed, unfazed. “So, do you mind if I play my dance list?”

“Be my guest.”

Lena’s dad carried the sleeping girls to the staff room where two portable cots had been set up. In the meantime, his wife changed the music and enlisted helpers to move some tables and chairs around for an improvised dance floor.

“I’m curious to hear Russian pop,” one of Rob’s friends said.

“It’s not only Russian and not only pop,” Anna countered. “I’ve got a nice mix of everything, including a couple of slow songs so we can catch our breath.”

At the first notes of the first slow song, Mat walked over to Jeanne, who was downing a big glass of water by the bar after a string of exhausting Latin dances.

“Shall we dance?” He offered his hand.

“Sure,” she said nonchalantly.

Yahoo! her body sang.

She put her hand in his, and he led her to the middle of the room. Lena and Rob were already on the dance floor, and so were Anton and Anna. Both couples held each other close, and Jeanne wondered if Mat would do the same.

When he went for the classical ballroom position, she exhaled in relief—or was it disappointment? They began to move to the music, sliding their feet on the floor tiles. He maintained a polite distance, and their bodies touched only in the prescribed places—his hand on her mid back, her hand on his shoulder, and his other hand holding hers. All very comme il faut. Except for the way Mat looked at her lips . . . and then at her chin, her neck, her bare shoulders, and her cleavage. And then at her lips again.

Had Jeanne been shy, she would have blushed and lowered her gaze, but as it was, she stared right back, feasting on his handsome features and savoring the effect she had on him. His light gray eyes darkened, burning into hers. His lips parted slightly, and his chest heaved as if he’d been running.

And all at once, the pressure of his hand against her back and the soft grasp of his other hand felt intimate—a motionless caress that raised hairs on her body. In some spectacular trick of Jeanne’s mind, everyone except Mat vanished, leaving them alone, weightless, outside time and space. When she caught a whiff of his musky male scent that his cologne could no longer contain, her hand shot up from his shoulder and cupped the back of his head. She took a tiny step closer.

Then she moistened her lips and whispered, “Kiss me.”

* * *

The music stopped, breaking the spell. As they held each other for a few more seconds, Mat looked at her with a mixture of regret and relief. Jeanne could definitely understand the regret, but why the relief? Hadn’t he been the one who ogled her during the dance?

She pulled her hand from his. “All good things must come to an end, I guess.”

He gave her a funny look. “I need a drink. What about you?”

“I’ve had too many already . . . Oh well, one more won’t make a difference. Your table or mine?”

He threw a quick look at both. “Definitely mine. We still have a bottle of that terrific Château-Grillet.”

“So, what do you do for a living these days?” she asked, filling their glasses.

“I work for my mother’s PR company, and I’m the Green candidate for mayor of Baleville.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“My home town in Normandy,” he explained.

“Green, huh?” Jeanne raised her glass. “Here’s to your success. Is it looking good?”

He touched his glass to hers. “Fifty-fifty. I need to work hard over the next months to convince the good citizens of Baleville that my youth is an asset rather than a handicap.”

“You have a good team?”

He smiled. “I’m not running for president, remember? The regional Greens are helping as much as they can, but I’m basically on my own.”

“What, not even a private chauffeur for the future mayor?” She tut-tutted. “Where is this country going?”

“Well, my biggest helper—and mentor—is my girlfriend. She’s an environmental litigation lawyer, a great strategist, and a perfectionist to boot.”

Ah. Now she understood why he’d been relieved when the music stopped.

He continued. “Cécile is my Pygmalion.”

“No less?”

“I’m not exaggerating. She’s molding me into a winner. She corrects my speeches, picks my suits . . . I couldn’t do this without her.”

“Why isn’t she here?” Jeanne asked.

“She had to prepare for a court case she’s pleading on Monday.”

Jeanne took a big gulp of wine and closed her eyes to savor it. “Oh yeah, it is good. I’m glad I insisted on Château-Grillet over Rob’s choice.”

“Rob is from Jura, remember?” Mat swept his hand in a need-I-say-more gesture.

“Why, the region has a couple of excellent—”

“Cheeses,” he cut in. “They may know a thing or two about cheese over there, but not much about wine.”

“Whereas in Normandy, I’m told, wine education begins in the nursery.” Jeanne gave him a wink. “Jokes aside, you’re discerning for a green politician.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment, coming from a professional waitress.”

“I’m no longer a waitress,” she said.

“What are you then?”

“A barista by day and bartender by night. Oh, and bit of a sommelier, too.”

“Wow—a one-woman band. Sounds like you’re working double shifts.”

“On most days.” She emptied her glass. “I’m hoping to take this place over when Pierre retires.”

“More?” He asked, and after her nod, refilled both their glasses. “I remember him. An easygoing chap with a beer belly, right?”

She nodded.

“What about the headwaiter?” he asked.

“Didier? Still here, still the headwaiter. Also interested in buying the bistro, by the way.”

“Well, I hope it goes to you and not to that jerk.” Mat banged his fist on the table. “He never missed an opportunity to show how much he despised me and most of the other customers.”

“He’s not that bad. He learned to look down his nose at everyone from his mentor. Now it’s a habit.”

“Hey, guys.” Lena approached their table. “We’ll be heading home soon. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Jeanne looked around. Everyone had already left except Mat, Lena, and Rob. The rest of the bistro staff was gone, too.

“Thanks again, Jeanne, for helping us put this together,” Rob said.

“My pleasure.” Jeanne stood to say good-bye.

“I hope you’re not staying to clean up the mess,” Lena said as they hugged. “Remember your promise to forget you’re hosting this party, and behave like a regular guest? A special guest—my maid of honor and my best friend!”

“I’ve kept my word so far, and I intend to stick to it. I’m going to finish my drink, close the place, and go home. Scout’s honor.”

Rob grinned, hugging her in his turn. “Says the former Goth.”

“Oh well, Goth’s honor then. Come on, off with you now.” Jeanne nudged him toward the door.

“What about you, Mat? Need a lift to your dad’s place?” Rob asked.

“No, thanks—I’ll walk. Besides, I won’t leave as long as there’s a drop left in here.” He pointed to the last bottle of Château-Grillet.

Jeanne raised her brows. Why wasn’t Mat leaving with Lena and Rob? He’d just told her he had a girlfriend who meant the world to him. This was very confusing.

After Lena and Rob left, Mat picked up the bottle. “Shall we finish it?”

She held her glass for him to fill. Her cheeks felt warm, and all her muscles were blissfully relaxed.

“I’ve often wondered if you’d changed over the past three years,” Mat said.

“And?”

“Well, the hair’s no longer blue and the lip piercing’s gone. But other than that, you’re the same.”

As he spoke, his deep, velvety baritone enveloped her, caressed her, added depth to the scorching heat of his gaze. They sat a good two feet from each other, and yet she felt as though he was stroking her. Her skin prickled and a heavy awareness began to build in the pit of her stomach.

“You, on the other hand, are thoroughly transformed,” she said.

“I guess I’m one of those guys whose puberty is so delayed it kicks in at twenty-five.”

She shook her head, summoning her no-nonsense persona. “OK, I can buy some of it. The hair is easy to crop. The muscles—I suppose you took to weight lifting?”

He nodded.

“And this whole”—she pointed at his chest—“Vikingy virility thing . . . hormonal change?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Must be. By the way, a lot of people in Normandy have Viking ancestry.”

“OK. But what about the eyes? Plastic surgery?”

“What do you mean?” He gave her a perplexed look. “Why would I need plastic surgery on my eyes?”

“Your eyes used to make me think of a . . . toad.”

He frowned for a second, and then burst into laughter.

“It wasn’t my eyes; it was my cheap eyeglasses. I’m farsighted, which means I need a plus prescription.” He pointed to his elegant glasses. “These ones are thinner and hi-tech, so they don’t magnify my eyes. See?” He drew closer until his face was only a few inches from hers.

Jeanne told herself to draw back, but her body refused to obey. She glanced at his eyes as he had requested and tumbled headlong into their stormy depths. Her breath caught in her throat, and she quivered as her body began to ache for his kiss, for his touch—for any form of physical contact with him.

How weird to burn like this for someone I barely noticed three years ago.

Someone who was no longer free.

Mat’s world spun like a top, round and round, faster and faster, until it concentrated into a single spot. . . which happened to be a luscious female mouth. Jeanne’s mouth. In a last bid for sanity, he reminded himself that he wasn’t a philanderer, that he’d never looked at another woman since he’d been with Cécile. But when the tip of Jeanne’s tongue darted to moisten her lips, he didn’t stand a chance.

The crush he’d thought long gone was alive and kicking.

Right where it hurt.

A primal hunger surged in him, thickening the blood in his veins, assaulting his senses and robbing him of his free will. There was no fighting it.

As if hypnotized, he brought his hand to Jeanne’s face and traced his thumb across her lower lip. He moved slowly, pressing lightly enough not to hurt her, but with sufficient force to miss nothing of the texture, warmth, and fullness of her lip.

Her chest heaved as she closed her eyes.

“God,” he rasped, hardly recognizing his own voice. “You have no idea how often I’ve dreamed of doing this. I’m crazy about your lips, Jeanne. Even without the piercing.”

When his thumb reached the corner of her mouth, he trailed it across her upper lip, savoring every sensation and growing so aroused it hurt. It was much too soon when he completed the circle, but no force on Earth could make him break the contact or make him stop touching her. His thumb slid down to her chin, his palm cupping her cheek. Oh, the sweetness of her, the long-forbidden treat he was finally about to sample. It was heavenly. It made him want more.

His gaze traveled down her graceful neck framed by auburn hair, to her shoulders. He bent down and began to cover them in hot kisses as his hands wandered across her back, bared by the figure-hugging dress she wore. And what a clever dress it was—specially designed to drive him out of his mind. Its skirt reached the middle of her thighs, revealing most of her shapely legs. Its seemingly demure neckline skimmed her collarbone and then plunged in the back, descending all the way down to the two sweet dimples in the small of her back. Which was exactly where his hand was going. . . until she opened her eyes and pulled back.

“This is wrong,” she said.

He stared at her, disoriented.

She sighed. “I’ve been here before, Mat, and I got burned. I can’t . . . I won’t . . . fool around with a man who’s taken.”

He swallowed hard and released her. As his heartbeat slowed and his breathing evened out, his speech capacity returned.

And so did reason.

“You’re right. I’m so sorry, Jeanne.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.

He gave her another long look. “Let me walk you home.”

She shook her head. “I live five blocks down the street. Really . . . Just go.”

She spun around and rushed away, leaving him no choice but to grab his jacket and bolt out the door.

* * *

“And then she told me I was too old and too ugly for her.” José, a regular at La Bohème, smoothed the long-gone hair on his shiny skull.

“Her loss.” Jeanne shrugged. “Are you coming back for lunch today?”

He shook his head. “I have another date this afternoon, in the park. I’m tired of paying for drinks and dinners only to hear I’m too ugly.”

“Honey, you’re not ugly, and don’t give up yet. You started this Internet dating thing only a month ago.” She wrung out the dishrag and wiped the copper surface of the bar.

A newly retired vieux garçon, José was a little chubby and seriously grumpy. But Jeanne didn’t mind his ranting, especially on days when she didn’t want to be alone.

And on this beautiful Sunday morning she needed company more than ever. The brunch crowd would provide a welcome distraction, but it was still too early. So thank God for José whose stories took her mind off what had happened last night.

“What’s the name of today’s date?” she asked.

“Clementine. I know—terribly old-fashioned, which makes me think she probably lied about her age.”

Jeanne smiled. “You’ll find out soon enough. Besides, would it be so terrible to date someone your age or older?”

“Hmm,” José said. He took a sip of his brew. “Your coffee’s better than the previous gal’s.”

“You’ve already told me that. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you changed the topic.” She turned away to empty the filter basket. “But thanks—I’m flattered.”

Somebody else spoke from José’s right. “Can I have one, too, since it’s so good?”

Mat.

She hadn’t seen him come in. Why was he here?

“Espresso?” she asked without turning to look at him.

“A double, please,” he said.

As she began preparing his coffee, she sneaked a peek at him. He looked even hotter than last night. No expensive suits today—just a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue V-necked sweater over a white T-shirt. He propped his elbows on the counter, a tiny smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

Jeanne looked away, flabbergasted. One quick glance at him had been enough to make her pulse quicken and her hands grow clammy. How was this possible? After all, she had happily snubbed this same person a few years ago. Granted, he was more masculine now than in those days. A lot more masculine, what with those biceps and pectorals he hadn’t showed the slightest inclination for in the past. Besides, his general demeanor was more confident. Even his voice was deeper. Sexier.

But people couldn’t change so completely, could they? Somewhere deep inside this gorgeous male was hiding a mild, nerdy guy with unruly hair and eyes like a toad’s. If she could only spot one or two telltale signs of that guy, she’d be able to shake this spell and forget about his existence.

“I’ll be off. See you tomorrow, Jeanne.” José paid for his coffee and plodded away.

“A regular?” Mat asked.

“Nine o’clock every morning,” Jeanne said, placing his steaming espresso on the counter.

“Are mornings a busy time?”

“Not really. A half dozen builders and drivers who come for an espresso and a cigarette outside. Another half dozen white collars pop in for various blends and croissants to go, and then José and a gang of moms.”

“What do the moms order?” Mat asked, looking vastly entertained for some mysterious reason.

“Café crème or tea.”

“And after they leave?”

Jeanne shrugged. “I make myself a nice strong coffee and read my paper.”

“Still loyal to Le Monde?”

She nodded, absurdly pleased that he remembered.

“What about the cig that always went with the coffee?” he asked.

“A thing of the past.”

“So you gave up smoking then?”

“It’s been two years now.” She smiled. “I quit after Lena started emailing me horrible photos of blackened lungs. Daily.”

“I quit, too, thanks to Cécile.”

He looked down at his cup, and Jeanne suddenly needed to occupy her hands with something. She grabbed the dishrag and started wiping the spotless countertop.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Mat said.

Jeanne stopped wiping and stared at the dishrag, noting absently that it was dark green and had too many holes from overuse.

“I behaved like a jerk . . . like one of those sleazebags I enjoy feeling superior to.” He gave a heavy sigh. “This isn’t who I am, Jeanne. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Château-Grillet. Too much of it,” she said, trying to make light of the situation.

He shook his head. “Anyway, I just came to apologize and . . . to say good-bye.”

Why did it hurt to hear him say those words? Had she expected him to announce he was changing his life after an evening with her? Had she actually entertained the idea he had come to tell her he was dumping his girlfriend because of their ground-shattering moment? She was such a pathetic fool.

“Bonne chance on your election.” She turned away to fumble with the coffee machine.

She heard coins clank against the countertop and then Mat’s retreating steps.

It’s over, she told herself. Just a bit of drama that came and went.

She’d forget him in no time.