“Tell you what,” Caitlin says. “You text her back. Tell her to meet you outside the Pink Bean at seven. While you spruce yourself up, I’ll take care of everything.”

I hold up my glass. “Why thank you, my friend. I’m also going to need another drink.”

Caitlin shoots me a big grin. Whatever her plan was, it worked.

Chapter Four

Caitlin has booked us into a new gastropub halfway between her building and the Pink Bean. Even though it’s still quite early for a Friday, the place is already heaving when we arrive. I wonder if she had to pull any strings—or drop any names—to secure us a table. But I’m not too concerned with any of that, because I’m seeing Camille in a whole new light tonight. She’s no longer the woman who’s renting my apartment. She’s my date.

“Welcome Miss Das and lovely friend,” a bearded hipster-waiter says. “My name is Thomas and I’ll be serving you tonight.”

We follow him to a table in the covered courtyard in the back, which is surrounded by trees lit up with fairy lights. A candle is already burning on our table. Did Caitlin request a romantic atmosphere when she made the reservation?

Out of sheer embarrassment, I’m inclined to say a friend set this all up, but then I remember Caitlin’s words when she ushered me out the door. “You’ve got absolutely nothing to lose,” she said. She was right. I’ve already lost the love of my life. And I need to take my mind off her.

“Very nice.” Camille sits down while a wide smile spreads on her lips. “I’m impressed. It feels like I’m somewhere in the French countryside.”

“I still owe you for a bad night’s sleep, so…” Our gazes cross for a split second.

“You don’t owe me a thing, Zoya.” She says my name in a voice so soft, I can barely hear her. But I do. It’s like walking into this courtyard has transported me to somewhere else entirely—maybe the French countryside. A place where my heart no longer feels so broken.

The waiter brings us the menu. Though he’s trying to be discreet, I can tell he has connected my name to my face. It’s always in the little things, like an unexpected nod or a gaze that lingers. As long as he doesn’t wink.

“They have some excellent wines,” Camille says. “Do you prefer red or white?”

“Whichever one you pick is fine with me.” I’m not going to argue with a Frenchwoman about wine, even though most of the wines on the list are from Australia and New Zealand.