Jeanne paced the bistro, nearly shaking with apprehension. Pierre had asked her to meet him at seven in the morning so that they could have a quiet talk. She kept urging herself to remain calm and positive. But the past month had been so lousy, she was now primed to expect the worst.

Pierre arrived at five past seven, unshaven and disheveled.

“Bad night?” Jeanne asked.

He nodded and gave her a tired smile. “Judging by your dark circles under, your night wasn’t any better than mine.”

Jeanne placed two croissants and two cups of coffee on a tray and picked it up. “Backyard?”

“After you.”

As soon as they sat at the teak table, she gulped down her espresso and looked the proprietor in the eye. “It’s the moment of truth. What’s your decision, Pierre?”

He rubbed his chin. “Are you absolutely sure you can’t partner with Didier?”

“Positive.”

“I see.” He nodded slowly. “Then it’s yours.”

“What?” The verdict was so unexpected she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “Could you say it again, please?”

“La Bohème is yours, Jeanne. I love you like the daughter I’ve never had. La Bohème has always been yours. I was just hoping you could take Didier along—”

Jeanne jumped up from the bench, ran around the table, and gave Pierre a tight hug. When she released him, her eyes glistened with emotion.

Pierre’s were downright wet.

He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and blew his nose into a napkin. “This is embarrassing. I’m getting sentimental with age.”

“I can’t thank you enough—” Jeanne began.

“Wait till you’re neck-deep in debt, can’t take vacation for a few years, and are forced to learn the art of plumbing. You may curse me then.”

Jeanne shook her head. “No chance of that. I’ll take good care of this place, and it will be a joy—even fixing the plumbing.”

“I’ll help you as much as I can for the next few months. But after Christmas, you’re on your own.”

“While you’re sipping a rosé poolside in your Baux-de-Provence villa . . .”

“It’s a small house, and I don’t think I’ll be sipping anything poolside in the middle of winter.”

“You should go visit my parents in Nîmes. It’s what, a one hour drive?”

“Thereabouts.”

Pierre finished his croissant and brushed the crumbs off his protruding belly. “Listen, Jeanne, I know you’re planning a major refurbishment, and the place does need one—”

“If you’re worried I’ll change everything, let me put your worries to rest.” Jeanne cut in. “I will change some things, but I’ll make sure La Bohème keeps its soul. It’s why we all love it, right?”

Pierre let out a relieved sigh. “That’s my girl.” Then he sighed again—heavier this time—and stood. “I should go talk to Didier now. And it’s going to be a much less pleasant conversation.”

You bet.

Jeanne shifted in her seat. “Do you mind if I dash home to call my parents? And my bank. And everyone else I’ll be borrowing from. Oh, and I could get some cleaning products or office supplies on my way back . . .”

Pierre smirked. “Take a look in the supplies closet. I’m sure we’re running out of something or other. Scoot now.”

When Jeanne returned to the bistro two hours later, Didier barreled toward her, his face red and his right eye twitching. He stopped only a few inches from her and jabbed her with his finger.

His voice trembled when he spoke. “How did you do it? Did you sleep with him?”

Jeanne took a step back. “Sure. Why else would he choose me over you?”

Didier clenched his fists. His eye twitched so rapidly it was painful to watch.

After a few long seconds he said, “I’m quitting my job.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re kidding me? How can I stay here with you as a boss?”

“Please, Didier. Take some time off. You can decide on this later.”

“Oh, you’re already telling me what to do. Well, my answer is no. I won’t take time off. I’m walking.”

He removed his apron and handed it to Jeanne. “I give you a year before La Bohème goes under. I’ll have a good laugh then.”

Jeanne said nothing as he turned around and marched out.

Would I have felt this bitter in his place? she wondered. Probably.

Would she have reacted the way he did?

Depends which part.

Asking him if he’d slept with Pierre? She thought not.

Quitting her job? Most certainly yes.

The rest of the day rushed by in a haze. Pierre asked the staff to stay for a few minutes after closing at midnight and announced that Jeanne was going to be the new proprietor of La Bohème. He handed everyone an envelope with a good-bye bonus and promised a big party before he left Paris.

After the cheers subsided, Amar said with a lopsided smile. “There may be a God in this universe, after all.”

“Wow. What made you a believer?”

“Science. I conducted an experiment. I prayed for Pierre to choose you over Didier, and it happened.”

“You may regret that experiment in a few months,” Jeanne teased.

“At least I’ll have a job for a few more months.” Amar countered. “Didier would’ve fired me on the spot.”

Claude smiled—an occurrence as rare as a Yeti sighting—and said, “I hope you won’t abolish our coffee breaks.”

“Never.” Jeanne took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. “I count on you, Claude. Don’t you dare quit on me like Didier.”

He gave her a quick nod.

She raised her voice, addressing the whole room. “I count on you all, guys. We’re in this together.”

Everyone looked at her expectantly.

She toyed with her apron strings.

Manon grinned. “Is this all you can come up with for your inaugural speech?”

Jeanne took a breath. “I promise I’ll do everything to be a worthy successor to Pierre.”

“That’s better,” Amar said.

“And don’t be tardy,” Jeanne added.

After a moment of silence, Manon cheered, “Yay!”

Claude smiled once more and went back to the kitchen.

“Great speech,” Pierre said, his mouth twitching.

“I thought so, too.” Jeanne deadpanned.

* * *

Mat and his mom had worked their tails off on this account. It was for very big fish—their biggest ever. The founding CEO of a large regional investment bank wanted a PR campaign portraying him as a cultured philanthropist.

According to everything Madame Gérard was able to dig up on him, the man was neither cultured nor a philanthropist—by any standard.

Mat nearly gave up after several days of racking his brain about how to build a public image out of thin air. Then it hit him. He needed a two-step plan: First, turn the CEO into a patron of the arts, and only then sing his praises. Which was why Mat produced a mammoth of a proposal that went far beyond his regular PR strategies.

The first part was a blueprint for a free art exhibit permanently housed in the bank’s spacious HQ in Rouen. It included a detailed floor plan, specific artwork, interior design suggestions, and a lot of funky green tech solutions. On a whim, he threw in a life-size dancing T. rex—an extravagant, non-fundable idea by a local artist—as the central piece of the art collection.

The second part was a traditional PR and media outreach plan.

The budget was Pharaonic.

“Do we absolutely need the T. rex?” his mom had asked when she saw the proposal.

They ended up keeping it only because it was too late to redo the whole thing.

Mat submitted the project last Monday, as agreed.

And waited.

Friday morning he received a text from the CEO himself.

Mat slowly expelled his breath as a huge wave of relief washed over him. It wasn’t just because this would be his most ambitious and lucrative project yet. Something much more important had been at stake—his drive and his self-confidence. This order was his first victory after the election debacle. It proved he hadn’t lost his mojo.

Mat booked a table at Le Cheval Bleu and sent a text to his mom. A celebration was in order.

Over dessert, Madame Gérard gave her son a long, meaningful look. “Talk to me.”

Mat raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been talking nonstop for the past hour. I thought you were listening.”

“Very funny. Mat, what’s going on in your life?”

He shrugged lightly. “I haven’t given up on politics, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if you’re happy.”

“Considering the circumstances—”

“To hell with the circumstances! That’s not what I’m talking about.” She placed her hand over his. “Are you happy with Cécile? Is she the woman you see yourself with in twenty years?”

“I . . . Mom, what is this about?”

“You.”

“Why are you suddenly so interested in Cécile?”

“Good question. Could it be because you haven’t mentioned her name in weeks?”

The remark gave him pause. “Haven’t I?”

She shook her head. “I started to wonder if you were still together.”

“Of course we are. I guess I was just overwhelmed by recent events.”

“Mat, are you sure she’s the right girl for you?”

“Why? You don’t like her?”

“I didn’t say that. I admire her many qualities. It’s just . . . she lacks warmth, and a bit of sincerity wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“You don’t know her.”

“Do you? Are you two happy together?”

“We have some issues . . . but we’ll work them out.”

“Issues, huh? Do they happen to be named Jeanne?”

Mat nearly jumped at her name. “How do you know about Jeanne?”

Madame Gérard smirked. “Your dad heard you repeat that name when you slept over at his place.”

Great. There was no such thing as privacy for sleep talkers. He might as well tell her the truth. At least the gist of it.

“Cécile and I, we’re great together in every way except . . . the physical. And Jeanne . . . I’m attracted to her, but we have nothing in common.”

“How do you know her?”

“She’s a waitress at the bistro where Rob used to work.”

“I see.” Madame Gérard pushed her eyeglasses up. “Mat, I may not be the wisest person on Earth, but I can tell you this: If a couple’s chemistry is wrong, sooner or later that couple will fall apart, no matter how well they get along in other ways.”

“Mom, I love Cécile. I learn from her, I rely on her. She’s so driven, so together.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“And I’m . . . I’m not tough enough for politics. I need a woman like Cécile, Mom. When I’m down or demotivated, she tells me to get my act together. She eggs me on and pulls me up.”

“Do you believe Jeanne will pull you down?”

“No. It’s more that I’m afraid we won’t have much to go on once we’ve finally . . . done it.” Mat’s ears and cheeks grew warm. It was seriously weird discussing this with his mother.

“It could happen,” she said. “But being with one woman and fancying another isn’t so great either, don’t you think? How long have you had this crush on her?”

“Since September.”

Good Lord, next month would be a year—a whole year since his relapse. He sighed and added, “Not counting the two years in grad school.”

“I see. Have you kissed her?”

He nodded.

“Have you done more than kissing?” She stifled a smile.

He wasn’t finding the situation amusing at all. “Yes. But we haven’t . . . made love,” he said, his face on fire.

She chuckled. “That wasn’t what I meant, actually. I was wondering if you’d done any talking. Have you discussed things with her?”

“Not a whole lot, but yes. Why?”

She tilted her head a little in a can’t-you-see look. “Were you bored by her conversation?”

Jeanne, boring?

He shook his head. “She’s fun to be around.”

“Is there anything about her you find objectionable?”

Mat gave his mom a quizzical look. “Define ‘objectionable.’ ”

“Is she vulgar? Unscrupulous? Racist? Smelly?” She smirked. “Is she one of those lost souls that refuse to recycle?”

It was Mat’s turn to smirk. “None of the above.”

“Then I’ve got another question. How was the kissing . . . and whatever else you two did together?”

He couldn’t look in her eyes and answer that question. So he turned away from her and fixed a spot on the wall. “Great.” He paused, chewed on his lip, and added, “Better than great.”

She fell silent for a moment before asking, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Early June.”

“And you still can’t get her off your mind?”

He looked into her eyes. What kind of point was she trying to make?

She shrugged. “It’s your life, sweetheart.” She hesitated.

“Ye-e-s?” he prompted.

She cupped his cheek and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll figure this out sooner or later . . . I just hope it won’t be too late.”