“Don’t downplay your work,” she says fiercely. “Don’t make yourself small just because someone else has.”

A piece of hair falls in her face and swings precariously close to her coffee. I tuck it back, behind her ear. “Objectively, what I do requires fewer elite skills, less time in residency. A surgeon is a more prestigious career in my family’s eyes, except for my brother Sam. I’ve made peace with it. It’s just that my father hasn’t. Arthur doesn’t let me forget.”

Bea frowns. “I don’t think I like Arthur.”

“That makes two of us, but I’ve learned it’s easier to ride the waves of his disapproval rather than argue with him.”

“Can I just say something?”

I nod. “Of course.”

Bea leans in. “I hope you know this without me saying it, but you are the farthest thing from a disappointment that I have ever met, Jamie Westenberg. The people who matter know that. As my mom says, anyone who can’t love you for you doesn’t deserve your heart.”

Her words seep in and warm me better than the best cup of tea. “That’s kind, Bea. Thank you.”

She smiles as she sits back, tugging apart her chocolate croissant. “So. Game night coming up. Are you prepared?”

“It’s board games. I’d imagine so. Why?”

“Not the games. The cutesiness. It’s got to be next-level acting in front of them. We’ve been together—you know, fake together—for a few weeks now. We have to canoodle, like we’re really starting to get into each other.”

“I think we can handle it. Are you worried?”

Her gaze dips to my mouth, then dances away. “Well, no. I mean, I think we’ve got the kissing thing down. Right?”

I try not to stare at her mouth, but it’s hard. It’s very hard not to think about how easy it is—how pleasurable it is—to kiss Bea. “Right.”

Eyes down, she pops another bite of croissant in her mouth, then picks up her pen and draws on the coffee napkin to her left.

“Solid kissing, that’s in our favor,” she says. “But it’s different than spending hours around people, pretending like you’re into me. The real question is, James, can you canoodle?”

“Oh, Beatrice, I can canoodle.”

And I’ll enjoy it more than I should.

“What about you?” I ask. “Are you bringing your canoodle A game?”

She peers up and narrows her eyes. “You bet your ass I am.”

The door opens to Boulangerie and my heart lurches into my throat. My ex-girlfriend, Lauren, walks in, hair back, scrubs on, most likely after a morning of surgeries.

Thankfully, Bea’s unaware, lost in her sketching.