Oh? “Where’d they get my picture from?” I wonder.

“From you,” he says, as if I’m being obtuse. “Because you must have an account with them. That’s why I’m calling. I thought maybe you’d forgotten to delete it since you and Loges started together,” he explains.

“I don’t have an account with them,” I say. Clearly. “I’ve never heard of it before. But, if it’s some sort of dating site, then it is possible that Amber created something behind my back.” Hmm, surely she would have reveled in putting me on a dating site, I think. But, then, who?

“Amber? The mirrors girl?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

“She’s happily married,” I tell him for the second time.

“That hasn’t stopped me before,” he admits.

“So I’ve heard.” The words are out of my mouth before I can hold them in. Fuck!

There’s a small silence before he starts laughing, “Yeah, I figured Logan would tell you sooner or later.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise him. “And I’ll call Amber now and get her to delete the profile or whatever it is,” I add.

“Cool,” he says.

Then, my big mouth getting the better of me again, I ask, “Do you always trawl for women during your lunch breaks, Buddy?”

“What else is a guy to do with a free hour?” he quips.

“What about your friend that you tested the swing with on Friday night?”

“I can’t see her again,” he says immediately, “not after the pain she caused my johnson.”

I laugh out loud. “Fair enough.”

“We were celebrating after I won a big job,” he tells me, and I remember Logan showing me Buddy’s picture in the newspaper. “Logan’s been so distracted with wooing you lately, that I poached it out from under him.”

My laughter dies. Oh, no! “Really?” I ask.

Buddy laughs, and again I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Don’t worry,” he tells me, “he’s got a few pennies stashed away.” He then clears his throat loudly. “No. No. No,” he says, no doubt flicking through his Tinder options.

“You better get back to it, then.”

“Sure thing. Say hi to Amélie for me, won’t you?” He presses his luck.

“Absolutely not,” I grin.

“Understandable,” he says, and I can practically hear that he’s grinning too. “I’m gonna try and call Logan again now. Want me to pass any messages along?”

“Yes, please,” I smile. “Tell him that I’ve never enjoyed an elevator ride more.”

“Urgh!” Buddy scoffs, making me laugh again. “Alright, I guess I’ll see you at the party on Saturday?”

“Yes, I’ll see you then. And thanks for alerting me to this Tinder thing,” I say earnestly.

“No problem. I just had to make sure you weren’t two-timing my best friend,” he reveals. “It’s my duty as his wingman.”

I smile into my phone — that’s not the explanation he gave earlier. “Of course, I understand. See you soon, Bud.”

“Bye,” he says, and we hang up.

“Pardon, Gemima?” Layla calls immediately from the reception doorway.

My head darts up. “Oui?”

“Quelqu’un est ici pour vous voir,” she informs me. Someone is here to see you.

“Can you send them through?”

“Excusez-moi, mais non. Ce n’est pas une cliente,” she explains. Excuse me, but no. They’re not a client.

“Oh, uh, OK,” I say, grabbing my purse and hurrying over to her. Beyond the double doors I find Amber impatiently tapping her foot against the floor, waiting for me.

“Gem!” she lights up when she sees me. “Can you do lunch?” she immediately asks.

I beam at her and nod vehemently. Then I stand between Layla and Amber smiling from one to the other and wondering if they’ve figured out who the another one is. It becomes quickly obvious that they’ve no idea that their partners are brothers.

“This is Layla,” I say pointedly to Amber.

“Hey,” Amber says lazily, clearly not registering the name.

“Layla,” I mouth at her again.

Amber looks at me like I’m losing my mind. “So?” she mouths back.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Layla says politely. The kind of polite that she reserves for clients or visitors.

I avoid the temptation to roll my eyes at them. Finally, I look at Layla and blurt out, “Amber is Patrick’s sister-in-law.” Then to Amber I say, “Layla is Patrick’s girlfriend.”

They both go “Oh!” and instantly become warmer towards one another. After a couple of minutes of chatting back and forth, during which they swap numbers (for potential double dates) Amber and I leave, arm in arm.

“I know where we can go,” I say, thinking of Cafe Genévrier, and setting a fast pace for it. There’s something there that I’m eager to see.

Buddy’s call fresh in my mind, I then quiz Amber about the Tinder profile, and as I expected, she claims her innocence.

“It was probably your mom,” she suggests.

“My mom? Do you think?” I wonder.

“Mine created one for me when I was single and miserable,” she explains.

“I wasn’t miserable, exactly. Though I wasn’t as happy as I am now,” I concede.

Smiling, Amber asks, “How is Logan Leary?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I smile back at her, though I’m reminded once more of my conversation with Buddy and what he revealed about Logan dealing with the fallout of his run-in with Jerry. Upon telling Amber this, we both irrevocably decide that it’s all Jerry’s fault, and we spend the rest of our journey trash-talking him.

Walking into the open square, I’m overcome with excitement when Cafe Genévrier comes into view. Despite the brilliant time I had in the south of France, I can’t help but feel glad to be home. This weekend is one of only a dozen times that I’ve left Paris since moving here and though a change of scene is nice, healthy even, I missed this city. The sounds, the sights, the smells. The endless flow of people, no matter where you are or what time it is. It’s good to be home, I think.

Standing in front of the Please wait to be seated sign, which I’m sure wasn’t there when I met Logan here for lunch a few weeks ago, unless of course I was too preoccupied with him to see it, I finally ask Amber, “To what do I owe this invitation?”

She looks at me in surprise. “Gem, can’t a well-meaning girl ask her best friend out for lunch without there being an ulterior motive?” she exclaims.

“A well-meaning girl, yes. But, you?” I grin.

She’s never showed up at my work before in all the years that we’ve been best friends. From that alone I know something’s going on. She tries her best to look innocent. It’s a look I know very well and it makes me laugh.

“I just wanted to say hi,” she attempts to convince me.

I narrow my eyes.

“OK, fine,” her facade crumbles, “well, obviously I want to know every last detail about your weekend away,” she blurts out.

Ah-ha! The truth, or part thereof. My senses tell me there’s still more to it than that, though for now, I indulge her. Smiling broadly, I say, “Amber, it was incredible!”

“Where did he take you?” she demands to know. “No, wait, wait…tell me this first: did he propose?” she says very quickly.

I laugh again. “No,” I tell her, shaking my head.

Amber stares at me impatiently, wanting more information.

I shrug. “What? We’re not engaged,” I tell her again.

Now her eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” I giggle. “I’d call you immediately, you know that.”

She smiles at last. “That’s true. You’re terrible at keeping things from me.”

“And you’re excellent at getting things out of me,” I counter. “We’re a perfect match.”

She laughs; her bubbly nature is infectious. One of many reasons why I love her, I think gratefully. But a brief moment later, her laughter stops and her tirade of unending questions for me begins.

“So, where’d you go? What did you do there? How was the food? I’m obsessed with food,” she tells me needlessly.