Indigo-blue eyes settled on me, golden arched brows rising delicately. “Titou? Is that your nickname? You don’t look like a Titou.”

Sal snickered, choking on a mouthful of coffee, and Emma—damn it, even her name was cute—grimaced, as if it just occurred to her that maybe she’d been rude.

Mamie trilled out a kind and gentle laugh. “In a roundabout way, it means little boy.”

Emma’s eyes widened as her gaze flicked to my body. A flame ignited in my chest. I ignored it. But I couldn’t ignore the slight husk in her voice. “Little boy?”

Hell.

Mamie smiled indulgently. “Well, he was little at the time.”

“Must have been when he was two,” Sal said sotto voce.

I cut him a glare, and he winked at me before blowing a kiss.

“Two?” Mamie shook her head before sipping her coffee. “Non. My Titou was small for quite some time. It wasn’t until he started playing—” She cut herself off so quickly she nearly choked, her papery skin going pale.

Inside me, everything clenched and rolled. I was almost used to the sensation, it happened so often now. Almost didn’t make it remotely better.

A small wrinkle pulled between Emma’s brows, as she caught on that something was off.

But Mamie rallied quickly and pulled a wide, tight smile. “Playing, running, and so on must have given him an appetite for growing. And speaking of appetites, let us eat. Emma, darling, you simply must try one of these.”

Mamie liked a wide selection of treats, so there were assorted macarons, a plate of butter cookies half dipped in bittersweet ganache, candied-orange-and-cardamom cakes, and, my personal favorite, a paris-brest with praline cream and raspberries.

Emma hesitated, looking at various trays dotted over the table. Her eyes glazed over, rosebud lips parting with a soft exhalation. Yearning and lust all rolled up into one. Like that, I was turned on.

Jesus. Would this coffee ever end?

“Oh, I don’t . . .” Emma stalled, clearly at war with the desire for sweets. I got it. During the season and in training, we were hounded about what we put into our bodies. Fitness was everything, and trainers had particular ideas about how to achieve it. I was under no illusions: Hollywood had a shitty and exacting standard, especially for women.

Mamie put her hand on Emma’s slim wrist. “I used to be a model; did you know this?”

“Really?” Emma shook her head slightly. “I’m not surprised. You’re beautiful.”

Mamie always had been and was not the least bit humble about it, but she was good at acting the part. “How sweet you are.”

“Only stating a fact.”

From one stunning woman to another, I supposed.

“This was in the sixties and seventies.” Mamie selected a cardamom cake and gently placed it on the center of her plate like it was art. “Everyone had to be as thin as a stick. One was expected to live off water and cigarettes,” Mamie said with some asperity, but there was a teasing note as well.

Exaggeration was part of her lexicon. It threw some people off because they never knew when she was being serious. Those people never got a second invite.

Emma, however, grinned. “I haven’t tried the cigarette diet. I’m not certain my lungs could take it.”

“Most certainly not. Keep them pink and healthy, darling.”

“I’ll try.”

I didn’t want to think about anything pink or healthy on Emma. With a grunt, I reached for a vanilla-cherry macaron. Emma noticed—seemed she was as aware of me as I was of her—and then looked quickly away. Like me, she was trying to ignore the problem. Somehow, that only made it worse.

“But what is life without food?” Mamie continued with a shrug. “Not one I want to live in. So . . .” She slapped her hand down on the table. “This is what you do. Pick one thing to try, and you savor it. Eat your treat slowly, letting the flavors play over your tongue. And tomorrow?” Her shrug was insouciant. “If you feel you absolutely must do something, go for an extralong run up the hill. Or perhaps simply imagine doing it, and go on about your day, which is what I would do.”

Emma laughed. And every hair on my body lifted. Jesus, her laugh got to me every time I heard it. A bedroom laugh. The kind you expected to hear after a good long morning of lazy fucking, when everything was languid and warm, and you laughed for the simple fun of it.

I swallowed down a mouthful of macaron, and it nearly got stuck. I didn’t know why that particular analogy came to mind; I certainly never had mornings like that. I never relaxed enough with anyone to get there.

But the image remained. I saw her in the sunlight, golden hair spread over my rumpled pillow, her lips swollen and soft. Rubbing a hand over my face, I tried to get it together. I was not doing this. Sal’s gaze clashed with mine, and he looked about two seconds away from laughing his ass off. Yep. He knew exactly how badly I was affected.