Sophie and I head to my place, our feet sinking into the heat-softened asphalt with every step. If I focus on it, it looks as if it’s steaming. Just like my brain.

The plan is to drop in, take a quick shower, swallow some coffee and toasts, and jump on my scooter. I’ll give her a lift to her office and hightail it to the swimming pool.

We haven’t uttered a word that wasn’t practical since we woke up this morning.

Last night was… I don’t even know what it was.

We drank a can of beer. Neglected to admire the stars. Chatted. Connected.

She flirted with me… I think.

I lusted after her, touched her, hugged her.

She let me.

But she wasn’t ready for more. She suspects she’s frigid.

As we lay down in the bivvy, I breathed in her head-turning scent and struggled to appease a raging hard-on. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I fell asleep, still clutching Sophie to my chest.

I woke up to the alarm on my phone, a little dizzy—and very confused.

My mind is still muddled. The sticky heat that hasn’t abated in weeks isn’t helping. I can’t wait to climb into the shower and let a cold jet lower my body temperature a notch. Perhaps it will cool my brain, too.

I glance at Sophie, but she won’t look at me. She’s eyeing an ice cream stand instead with an expression of desperate longing on her lovely face.

Halting in front of it, I touch her arm. “Ice cream break?”

She beams.

“What flavor for Mademoiselle?” the vendor asks.

“Strawberry cheesecake and chocolate chip cookie, please.” Sophie opens her purse.

I beat her to it, placing a tenner onto the counter.

She scowls at me.

I scowl back.

She closes her purse and takes her cone from the vendor.

“Aren’t you having one?” she asks me.

“I lost my sweet tooth with my milk teeth,” I say, collecting the change.

“You should’ve let me pay,” she says as we march away. “Five euros for two scoops is a ripoff.”

“I delivered four pepperonis in the 6th yesterday, and the guy tipped me five euros.” I shrug. “Easy come, easy go.”

“Still…” She gives the frozen treat an enthusiastic lick. “So good. And exactly what I needed right now.”

Watching her tongue flick in and out of her mouth, I struggle not to dwell on what I need right now.

“I hope the heat lets up by Saturday,” I say to take my mind off those dangerous thoughts. “The Derzians are coming back with my dog, and I wouldn’t want the poor thing to suffer the way he did before they left.”

“Is he very furry?” she asks, turning to me.

“Not very, but enough to have a harder time than humans coping with the heat.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s nice of your neighbors to take care of your dog like that.”

I nod. “They’re the best. Of course, it helps that Oscar and their own dog, Cannelle, get along like gangbusters, but still. The Derzians have been incredibly kind to Oscar and me ever since I moved into the apartment.”

“Do they have children of their own?”

“A grown son and a daughter, both living abroad with their spouses and kids,” I say. “The son is in China and the daughter in the US.”

“You know where?”

“LA.”

“Don’t your neighbors want to move closer to at least one of their kids and grandchildren?” she asks. “Or are they such hardcore Parisians it would take a bubonic plague epidemic to get them to resettle?”

I chuckle. “As it happens, they are hardcore Parisians, even though they weren’t born here. They’re Armenians from Lebanon.”

“Oh?”

I nod as we stop at the traffic light. “They visited Paris as tourists in the seventies and fell in love with the city. When war broke out in Lebanon and they fled, Paris was an obvious destination.”

“They must’ve had a hard time rebuilding their lives from scratch in a foreign country.”

“Apparently, it was easier than they’d expected,” I say as we turn onto my street. “They made friends, found jobs, and felt at home within a month of their arrival. Madame Derzian is convinced the love they have for the city is mutual.”

Sophie smiles. “So she believes Paris fell in love with them, eh? Just like that, at first sight?”

“Yep,” I say. “Not immigration authorities, though.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“When the Derzians applied for a residency permit, an immigration official said, ‘You must understand—we can’t allow everyone who loves Paris to stay here. If we did, we’d have to make room for at least a billion people. You should return to your home country.’ ”

“What did the Derzians do?” Sophie asks.

“They momentarily forgot they spoke fluent French like many Lebanese.”

“And?”

“Monsieur Derzian spread his arms and said, ‘Pardon. No speak French. Speak Armenian.’ ” I raise my hands, palms up, imitating Monsieur Derzian’s gesture and accent. “The official didn’t speak Armenian, which gave the Derzians an excuse to ignore his instruction and stay put.”

She laughs. “How convenient! So your wonderful neighbors are illegal aliens?”

“Not anymore,” I say. “They reapplied a few years later and were granted a residency permit.”

We enter my building and rush up the stairs to my apartment. Which, technically, is Sophie’s. Just another bit of weirdness she’s brought into my life.

I hand her a clean towel and a new toothbrush. While she showers, I brew some coffee.

She comes out of the bathroom less than ten minutes later, smelling of my shower gel. “Your turn.”

When I return to the kitchen, having washed and changed into clean clothes, Sophie has toasted two slices of bread.

I pour both of us some java.

She takes her cup from me and points to my toast. “Wasn’t sure how you like it.”

“With butter,” I say, opening the fridge. “You?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

I make a face. “Really?”

“I know,” she says. “It’s an affront to good—that is to say, French—taste. But it’s stronger than me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have either of those foods.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’ll channel my French half and eat my toast with regular butter. We have to go in a few minutes, anyway.”

I glance at my watch and nod.

“About last night,” Sophie says, as I drink my coffee.

I set the cup on the table and stare at her.

“I feel guilty.” She looks downward. “I sort of led you on and left you hanging.”

“I don’t—”

“I just want you to know I wasn’t playing or anything.” She glances at me and looks down again. “I did enjoy being touched by you. It’s just… I don’t know if I can handle another disappointment if it turns out that I am hopelessly frigid, after all.”

“Sophie Bander,” I say in a know-it-all teacher’s voice. “You are not frigid.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you want me.”

She looks up at me again.

I hold her gaze.

She mustn’t suspect how much I’m gambling here.

Both of my claims—that she isn’t frigid and that she wants me—are based on a gut feeling, not certitude. Especially the latter one. For all I know, it’s Zach she’d rather hook up with. He’ll probably take her to dinner one of these days, charm her, date her, pamper her, and marry while the iron is hot.

“You know what?” she says at length, her gaze still locked with mine. “I think you’re right. It does look like I want you.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

She tilts her head to the side. “So what are you going to do about it, Noah Masson?”