When Jeanne finally let go of Pepe, his face was red with pleasure—and probably failure to draw a breath.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, a happy grin on his face.

“Look at you! All grown up.” Jeanne circled around him, still incredulous. “How long has it been?”

“No more than a year. You came to Copenhagen for Freja’s christening, remember?”

“Of course I do. How is she? You haven’t posted any pictures in a while.”

“She’s doing fine. Thank God Nana works from home.” Pepe’s gaze met Amanda’s. “Look who’s here!”

Amanda stood to greet him.

“Wait a second—” Pepe surveyed her uniform. “Are you working here?”

“Who, me?” Amanda widened her eyes, feigning shock. “No way. I’m just cross-dressing as a waitress. Didn’t you hear? It’s the kink du jour in hip circles all over Europe.”

Pepe’s eyebrows began to climb, and his mouth started forming an O when Manon giggled and ruined the effect.

“As mean as ever.” Pepe glared at Amanda.

“It’s good to see you, too,” she said.

Once the introductions with Manon and Amar were made, Pepe informed the group that he’d been transferred to Paris to set up the local office of the real estate agency he was working for. Oh, and he wasn’t just setting it up, he was going to manage it because, well, he was going to be the local manager in charge of managing all the accounts.

“Well done, Pepe!” Jeanne patted his back. “I’m happy they sent you here. Paris hasn’t been the same without you.”

“I know.” Pepe grinned. “When my bosses decided to open an office here, I told them I was the natural candidate for the job. I speak perfect French, after all.”

“No, you don’t,” Amanda said. “Your French sounds like Spanish.”

“None of my bosses in Copenhagen speak a word of either language.” Pepe shrugged. “So who cares? Besides, I’ve taught myself some Arabic and Chinese.”

“Really?” Amar asked, a sly smile lurking behind his polite expression.

“I have big plans,” Pepe said. “I’m going to target rich buyers from China and the Persian Gulf countries.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Amanda said before draining her cup. “Let’s hope your Arabic is distinguishable from your Chinese.”

“I haven’t had much practice with either,” Pepe admitted, “but I’m hoping to find a tutor for private lessons. I’ll start with Arabic.”

“I could teach you,” Amar offered. “Forty euros an hour, here at La Bohème, nine to ten a.m.”

Pepe looked Amar up and down. Amanda expected him to inquire about the waiter’s level of proficiency in Arabic, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and smiled, probably deciding that Amar’s vaguely Middle Eastern features were enough of a qualification.

“It could work.” Pepe whipped out his phone and checked something on it. “The agency I’ll be managing isn’t far, so I could stop here on my way to work. I’ll pay you twenty.”

They shook hands on thirty.

On the métro ride to the Champ de Mars, Amanda went over the events of the day and got stuck on Jeanne’s invitation.

She wasn’t going to the wedding. Bridesmaid or not, she just couldn’t face Rob, Lena, and their cute baby boy—a happy little family, all smiles and benevolence—while she was a failure in every way. Amanda pictured herself at the wedding reception—a wallflower dressed in a puffy-sleeved pastel monstrosity with no date to lean on.

She shuddered at the image.

So what if Jeanne was going to be very, very upset? Big deal. She should be able to understand Amanda’s problem, no? A year ago, she herself had been shunning social gatherings to avoid the pain of seeing Mat with Cecile, his girlfriend at the time.

Not that Amanda expected to feel pain anymore. She’d hurt for a year after Rob broke up with her, but her prevailing emotion during that time wasn’t love. It was anger streaked with humiliation and regret. Even now that she was completely over Rob, the regret was still there. Rob was handsome, educated, and successful. The kind of man she deserved. The kind of man that she, the nearly perfect French woman—and not that mousy foreigner—should’ve ended up with.

What a shame they were all connected through Jeanne!

Amanda had to endure Lena’s weekly visits to La Bohème. The woman who’d stolen her Mr. Right didn’t mind crossing the city with her laptop and baby in tow just to spend some time with her best friend Jeanne. Amanda never failed to greet her—manners and all—but she always let one of the other servers take care of her.

Lena would typically stay for about an hour. She’d read and chat with Jeanne and some of the other waiters. If the baby napped, she’d work on her translations.

Amanda grimaced.

Watching her victorious rival and her baby having a good time at La Bohème was unpleasant enough. But to watch Lena, baby, and Rob enjoying themselves at Jeanne’s wedding would be torture. Whether her vantage point would be the glory of the newlyweds’ entourage or the pillory of the singles’ table, she knew she’d hate every moment of it.

No, she definitely wasn’t going.

“Will you accompany me to Jeanne’s wedding?” Amanda kicked her rollerblades off and shoved them into her backpack.

She’d skated around the Champ de Mars for a good hour, racing Kes and feeling proud at her growing ease.

He stared at her, flabbergasted.

“It’s in early July,” she said.

He sat down, pulled off his own rollerblades, and packed them. “I thought you were hiding me from everyone.”

“I was. But . . . I’m in a spot . . . and that spot overrides my other concerns.”

“Does it now?”

She nodded solemnly. “My ex will be there with his wife and baby.”

“The one that ditched you?”

“Yep. His name is Rob.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I can’t. Jeanne is my friend . . . and my boss. Besides, I’m one of her bridesmaids.”

“Who are the others?”

“There’s just one other bridesmaid, and it’s Rob’s wife.”

He whistled. “This is seriously messed up, ma belle.”

“I know.” She spread her arms helplessly.

“OK.”

“Really?”

“I’ll wear my Armani suit and tell your ex and his wife I’m a stockbroker.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know nothing about stock trading.”

He shrugged. “Buy low, sell high. Would that do?”

“It certainly covers the basics.”

“I have one condition.” He leaned back and crossed his legs.

“If it’s what I think it is, the answer is no.”

He tut-tutted. “Such a dirty mind inside such an angelic head! No, ma belle, it isn’t what you think it is.”

“Surprise me, then.”

“In two weeks’ time, you’ll come with me to my nephew’s baptism. My folks will be celebrating it in a camp site near Arles.”

An invitation to a Gypsy party? It could be fun . . . from a purely anthropological point of view.

“I’m officially surprised.” She extended her hand. “OK.”

He gave it a firm shake and then, instead of loosening his grip, just held it in the comforting warmth of his large palm.

She didn’t dare move.

“Am I allowed to tell your friends I’m a Gitan stockbroker?” His dark gaze drilled into her.

“You could just say you’re from Provence. Why bother with particulars if you’re never going to see them again?”

She stared into his eyes, daring him to counter her argument, drunk on his touch and the ludicrous hope that he’d keep negotiating.

And holding her hand in his.

And looking at her like that.

He released her hand and stood. “Why, indeed?”