“And now it is my pleasure to introduce one of our esteemed colleagues from the United States, Michelle Milo, whose research and insight into this topic is at the very forefront. We are delighted to have her here in Paris for our conference,” he said, holding out his arm grandly as Michelle walked onto the stage. The audience clapped routinely, the sort of welcoming sound you receive before the crowd knows if they like you.

But forty minutes later, at the end of her talk, the clapping was real, and strong, and it reverberated.

True, the standing ovation didn’t happen. Something better did. The whole conference room at the convention hotel in Montparnasse listened. They paid attention. They didn’t check their phones. They even laughed at the occasional joke she dropped in. She’d brought her A-game, and judging by the crowd gathered at the front of the stage, many had questions ready to ask her. She stayed for them all, listening and answering until it was time to clear out the room for the next speaker.

Julien, ever the gracious host, waited patiently and escorted her off-stage.

“I have one more person for you to meet,” he said, then guided her down the hallway to a tall, thin and balding man who extended a hand for her to shake.

“This is Denis Garnier. He runs a practice here in the 6th, and practically begged me to introduce you.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, as she shook his hand.

“I am so impressed, and we don’t have many psychotherapists here in France with your background, so I wanted to talk about your findings. Ask some questions. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course,” she said, and then found a nearby couch and sat down. She was due to meet Jack soon, but she’d simply have to be a few minutes late. She gave Denis her supreme focus as they chatted. The conversation grounded her. Her work was her anchor; it had kept her going through good times and bad. It was her rock; it had been there for her during the ups and downs of grief and unrequited love.

Men were different. They came, and they went.

Jack looked relaxed and devilishly handsome in the crowded lobby bar, drinking a scotch, one arm resting on the back of an emerald-green couch. He wore jeans and a button-down white shirt. No tie today, and she missed her favorite accessory on the man, but then he looked good in anything and in nothing. He’d texted her that he’d be waiting at the bar, and to take her time when she said she was running late. When she’d received the text, she was grateful she had her work phone with her, since it was the only one set up to send and receive international text messages.

He watched her the whole time as she walked over, his eyes roaming her from head to toe. Her skin sizzled from the heated way he stared hungrily. This man didn’t hold back. He didn’t hide his desire. He wasn’t afraid to check her out, to stare, to look at her as if he wanted to eat her up. Good—that’s what they shared. A deep, and bottomless desire.