Breathing deeply, I turn away, choosing none of the scents. Choosing a new path.

A fresh start to embark on this tryst for what it is—a neat, organized affair with a delicious man. There’s nothing messy about Christian. Nothing risky. He’s built for sin, yet safe for my heart.

As I head downstairs, I repeat my new watchword. Resolve.

I hereby resolve to play it smart and to make sure I don’t ever get too close again.

12ELISE

When I arrive at the tea salon on the left bank, with its extravagant gold script on the windows, I think of my grandmother. The last time my brother and his family visited, my grandmother caught the train from Provence, stayed the weekend at the Ritz, and spent her days taking my brother and his children to all the sweet shops in Paris, from my friend Veronica’s candy store to this salon, known for its fine selection of teas, hot chocolate, and madeleines. I can picture her clearly—her soft gray hair, her crow’s feet, and her regal but loving smile as she lifted her fine white teacup while my nieces nibbled on madeleines.

The image makes me both smile and laugh, because it reminds me of how elegant this establishment is in all its fin de siècle glory, from the marble-topped counter display to the gilded mirrors. This is Paris of yesteryear, and it’s so discordant with the thoroughly modern man I find holding court at a corner table, a crisp white cloth laid over the surface. He’s so casual and cool, in a sky-blue button-down shirt, a hint of stubble on his chin, and that sweep of blond hair across his head.

He’s dripping with sex appeal, and he’s the complete opposite of this belle epoque time warp.

I make my way to my Friday-night man.

He rises and drops kisses to each of my cheeks. These kisses linger—they whisper of what happens after midnight.

“Pleasure to see you, little mermaid,” he says as we separate, and I sit next to him in a curved corner booth for two.

I arch a brow. “Little mermaid. Is that my nickname?”

“I didn’t inform you of that yet? It’s been your nickname since the day you checked out my cock on the dock.”

A laugh bursts from my throat. “Are you the cat in the hat?”

“Meow.”

“And why on earth would that be my nickname? Are women of the sea known for being oglers of naked fishermen?”

He reaches a hand toward me, brushing a strand of hair over my ear. I’m beginning to wonder if I have so many loose strands or if this is his signature excuse to touch me. I hope it’s the latter. “Mermaids are sexy, and I met you on the water. Ergo, you’re my little mermaid.”

“It’s not a Disney kink you have?”

“More like a you kink, I’m beginning to realize.” He loops an arm over my shoulder and angles in to kiss me. He brushes his lips against my neck, but I change it up on him, turning so he meets my lips.

He groans against my mouth. Closing my eyes, I let myself slide into the feeling and enjoy the dizzying sensation of his lips brushing over mine. I savor it for what it is—a feeling, not a new way of life that cocoons me.

When he pulls back, his eyes have turned to fiery sapphires. The ice in them is gone. “So much for tea salons being un-sexy.”

“And to think I was going to tell you a story of the last time I went to one,” I say.

“Do tell. I like your stories.”

This is a safe one for sharing, a smart one. “The last time I was here was with my grandmother and my nieces. This was a few years ago, before she passed. We brought her here, and she dressed in tweed like Coco Chanel, the height of French elegance. You did well in choosing a location that seems completely platonic.”

“Interesting,” he says, as if he’s musing on the tale. “This place reminds you of your grandmother?”

“A little bit, yes. I suppose this un-date strategy is working.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t you think?”

His eyes appraise me, as if he’s cataloging me. “Were you thinking of your grandmother when you walked in looking fit as fuck in this red skirt?” His gaze lingers on my legs, as if he’s taking snapshots of where the bare skin of my thigh meets the hem of my skirt. His eyes stray down to my heels, then back up to the soft gray sleeveless top that reveals enough décolletage to hopefully drive him batty.

“No.”

“Were you thinking of her once you saw me?”

My voice wobbles as I answer, “I wasn’t.”

His fingers drift from my arm down to my skirt. “Are you sure?”

I gulp and nod. “I’m sure.”

“What were you thinking when you saw me here, waiting for you?” His eyes hold mine, his stare leveling me.

My pulse quickens. “How you looked.”

“How did I look? Elegant? Stuffy? Unromantic?”

I swallow thickly, past the dryness in my throat. “No. The opposite.”

A confident grin seems to tug at the corners of his lips, as his hand travels south. “You wore the red skirt,” he says as he fingers the hem.

“I did. Do you think it’s so short it should be illegal?”

“So illegal I want to be convicted.”

“I suppose you could try being very, very bad,” I whisper, leaning closer, buzzed on how our flirtation has climbed the heat meter tonight.

We’re on the cusp of slipping into the realm of permanent arousal when the waiter arrives—perhaps oblivious to the eye-fucking we’re giving each other—and asks crisply if he can get us some tea.

“Is Earl Grey suitably unromantic?” Christian asks me, laughter sparkling in his eyes.

“Yes, as well as the lime tea. Grandmother’s favorite,” I add.

He turns to the waiter. “Clearly, we need Earl Grey and lime tea, and that ought to save me from wanting to do inappropriate things here.”

The waiter smiles with his mouth closed. “Very well, sir.”

As he leaves, I nearly double over in laughter. “You scared him off.”

“I have that effect,” he says, then squeezes my bare thigh. It’s more playful than sexual, and it’s a little bit friendly too. He glances at my neck and runs a fingertip over the apple charm. “From your brother?”

“Last time he was here. We’d both laughed when he found it, since no true New Yorker calls that city the Big Apple.”