The mere mention of Aude’s name has Jerome behind the glass retrieving the balloons. When he brings them out, they’re lovely, gauzy gold, and sheer enough to suggest the sliver of angel food inside. But before he bequeaths them, he nods at my outstretched hands.

“One graze of that hangnail will pop them,” he says.

Hastily I gnaw off a thumbnail.

“Your breath will pop them,” he says, “and the pastry chef can make no more today. So—” Jerome mimes sucking in his breath, a snide look in his eyes.

I’m about to ask who hurt him as a little boy when he surprises me.

“Ms. Azaiz . . .” His face has gone slightly splotchy. His tone has dropped its scathe. “Is she . . . attached to anyone?”

I grin at Jerome and slip a ten-dollar bill in his tip jar. “Quite single.”

That’s the thing about romance. Its prospect can make even the most curmudgeonly blush. And though I’m fairly certain Aude would eat Jerome for breakfast in between bites of croissant, I’m always happy to be proven wrong when it comes to things like this.

Jerome nods, his mood elevated. “The reimbursement— back to the same card?”

“Actually,” I say, thinking of Meg and Aude and the rest of our launch team, the long hours they’ve put into tonight. “Can I get that in pastries to go?”

“Lanie arrives!” Aude calls over her shoulder as I step out of the elevator onto the sleek white-tiled hallway of the Hotel Shivani’s twelfth floor.

Even though Aude quit smoking last year, she greets everyone as if she’s just stamped out a cigarette. She glides forward to relieve me of the balloons.

“Shit, these are so fragile,” she says. We both exhale once they’re in her well-manicured hands.

“Lanie!” Meg says, rushing toward me, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “I can’t believe you got those.”

“Accept the miracle.” I pass her the box of pastries, my hands now free to brush the snowflakes from my hair. Meg’s going to love the Jerome anecdote, but I’ll save it for a calmer moment. “Get in the zone with a scone.”

“Scone zone,” Meg repeats, taking a bite and chewing morosely.

“What’s the word on the signed books?” I ask.

Finally, Meg smiles, and I know Terry delivered.

“Come on,” Meg says, “I’ll show you.”

We maze through tables draped in golden cloth, past Aude schooling a group of publicists on how to fill satchels of rice for the table setting, and how not to wedge white candles into the wicker Chianti bottle centerpieces.

“Look at that chip in the taper! Stand back, I will do it myself.”