By the time I’m dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, damp hair and all, Alexander is peeling potatoes in the kitchen with my linen chef’s apron tied around his waist.

He arches a brow at me as he continues his work, asking me in French, “Why were you out eating that food when you have a fully stocked fridge?”

“I didn’t feel like cooking, and I wasn’t aware that you knew how.”

“I had to teach myself after I left St. John’s. It’s not like Maman would have ever taught us.”

I snort. “She’s never cooked a day in her life.”

“Exactly. Now, are you going to help or just stand there?”

I head for the refrigerator. “Chapon? Or poularde? My housekeeper went to the butcher for me yesterday. She was going to prepare a whole meal, but I told her not to bother.”

“Let’s cook both.”

Sheesh. “Who all are you planning to feed?”

“The two of us. Jonathan and Emelia, the lovebirds, are in California visiting family. I can’t be bothered to worry about Maman and Ignacio, and poor losers that we are, we have no one else to consider.” He shrugs. “We’ll have leftovers.”

He starts to slice the potatoes with a mandoline, dropping them immediately into a simmering pot that’s filled with milk and garlic. He’s preparing one of my favorite dishes: Gratin Dauphinois. Already, the kitchen smells divine.

“What about that woman you were attached to at your house a while back?” I ask. “The one in your kitchen I thought I’d have to pry you off of.”

He furrows his brows as if genuinely perplexed. “I don’t even remember who you’re referring to.”

Of course he doesn’t.

I start gathering what I’ll need to cook the chapon: fresh herbs, an onion, garlic, butter, lemons, sherry, and salt and pepper. Alexander and I spend the better part of the day in the kitchen cooking and listening to some of our favorites: Edith Piaf and Jean Sablon. We stave off our appetite with cheese and wine, enjoying two bottles of my vintage Chateau Margaux red blend.

At the end of the day, we have a good meal sitting at my kitchen table. When he’s finished, Alexander sets down his fork and knife and leans back in his chair to sip his wine.

I feel him studying me, and yet I ignore him, finishing off my food.

Still, he persists.

“What is it? You look as if you’re trying to solve all the world’s problems in that head of yours.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve let you get away with sulking all day because I didn’t want to rock the boat, but now I’ve had too much wine and I don’t give a damn if you plan on rearranging my face just for bringing her up. What will you do about Lainey?”

I take my time sitting back and dabbing my mouth with my napkin while he stares at me expectantly.

I shrug. “The way I see it, there’s only one option that would bring me happiness.”