Love finds itself in the most unexpected of places in this sensual romcom that starts off the How Do You Say Romance in French series.
Left adrift in her secluded Canadian hometown of Les-Pistoles, Alexandra's life is in a downward spiral. Her mother's death, followed by her fiancĂ©'s infidelity, has left Alexandra in a holding pattern. Unable to move on with her confidence now shattered, sheâs near resigned herself to being the Maid of the Maritimes, dramatically poised on the icy Quebec shore.
But when the opportunity of a lifetime offers the budding chocolatier a chance to work for the famous French company Maison de Courcillion, Alexandra finds herself in a different reality as she navigates figuring out her job and how to impress the notoriously picky Parisians.
As she's introduced to a club for wealthy members with unique tastes, Alexandra is drawn into a hidden world of power, control, passionate love, and secrets. Hesitant when she grows closer than expected to one of the members, could this be Alexandra's chance to rediscover what it is to love and to trust? And, if she is to be happy again; to embrace who she really is?
Love finds itself in the most unexpected of places in this sensual romcom that starts off the How Do You Say Romance in French series.
Left adrift in her secluded Canadian hometown of Les-Pistoles, Alexandra's life is in a downward spiral. Her mother's death, followed by her fiancĂ©'s infidelity, has left Alexandra in a holding pattern. Unable to move on with her confidence now shattered, sheâs near resigned herself to being the Maid of the Maritimes, dramatically poised on the icy Quebec shore.
But when the opportunity of a lifetime offers the budding chocolatier a chance to work for the famous French company Maison de Courcillion, Alexandra finds herself in a different reality as she navigates figuring out her job and how to impress the notoriously picky Parisians.
As she's introduced to a club for wealthy members with unique tastes, Alexandra is drawn into a hidden world of power, control, passionate love, and secrets. Hesitant when she grows closer than expected to one of the members, could this be Alexandra's chance to rediscover what it is to love and to trust? And, if she is to be happy again; to embrace who she really is?
    âWhy are you entering France, madame?â The surly immigration clerk said while roughly thumbing my Canadian passport under the giant tous passports arrow above me.Â
âFor a job interview,â I said, though I still couldnât believe it was actually happening.Â
âWhere is the interview Madame?â he asked. His fingers typing quickly as he spoke.Â
âAt Maison de Courcillion du Passy, Ă Paris. On Rue âŠ.du Passy, 367 du Passy,â I said awkwardly.Â
He looked me up and down as if to calculate if I was de Courcillion material. Or maybe he was wondering if I had made it up. My wild dark hair had been tamed into a braid, and I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. I certainly didnât look professional, I looked like someone having an existential crisis.Â
         It was 9h in Paris but 4h in the morning back home in Les-Pistoles. Compounding the time difference was the fact that the journey had taken 15hrs.Â
         I was more than tired, I was fatigued.Â
âDo you have the letter, madame?âÂ
âWhat letter?â I asked back, and for a moment I thought his eyes were going to have to be surgically brought back from rolling too far into his skull.
âThe letter, madame, asserting that you actually have an interview.â
Unsettled by his constantly calling me madame, I pulled out my phone, fumbling to try to connect to the airport wifi.
âUrh, no, I can get it, they emailed it to me. Iâm from Quebec. Have you been?  They said I didnât need a visa from QuĂ©becâŠâ I said, small talk was generally my forte.
âYou need the letter, ma-dameâ he said, unmoved, turning back to his screen.Â
âSorry, je mâexcuse, le wifi, crisse dâidiotâ I said again, mumbling and staring intensely at the little icon at the top of my phone, willing it to join the network.  We were both speaking English even though our mother tongues were French.Â
âPardon, Ma-DAME?â he said, his eyeballs popping.      Â
My heart stopped for a full five minutes realizing he just thought I called him an idiot.
âMy phone, itâs just, it wonât. Maybe I saved a copy,â I said tempted to bang it on the desk. âThe phone, you know when it says connected, and shows you the bars at the top but then it just wonât load anything?âÂ
Finally, with a growing line behind me, he tossed my passport back at me. I was lucky he didnât order a strip search.Â
âYou are here as a visitor, you are not allowed to work,â he said typing angrily into the comically small keyboard. Then he scolded me and told me to be better prepared next time, madame.Â
The email had arrived just about a week prior to my landing. I had been mind-numbingly watching les habs with Papa. Gale-force, negative-35-degree February winds pummeling the old house as Iâd laid snuggled under a layer of blankets on the couch, half-following a tiny puck chased around by men on skates. I had nothing better to do in Les-Pistoles anyway, my ancestral village in the middle of nowhere on the GaspĂ© shores.Â
My notification had chimed:
         Subject: Interview Request.
Dear Mme Alexandra Mercier,
You will have the privilege of meeting the interview team on Jeudi, 9 fĂ©vrier Ă 10h.  Please reply confirming your presence with your passport details and city of departure. De Courcillion International looks forward to meeting you in person. Details of the interview process will follow.Â
Cordially,
Moranne Dubois de Lioncourt
I had sat up and stared at it for a few minutes before Papa asked what was wrong. I told him Iâd gotten an interview at Maison de Courcillion, and heâd been so excited that he hadnât even waited for the hockey period to end before running to the kitchen for cups of cinnamon-infused hot chocolate spiked with rum.
De Courcillion put me in an elegant hotel not five blocks from the Rue du Passy offices. Leaving the airport, the warm air hit me. It felt almost tropical after the below-freezing temperatures in Quebec. I peeled off my large puffer coat as the taxi pulled away from the airport, and           sat it next to me like a diligent travel companion. Once at the hotel, I didnât want to go out. I had been to Paris before and it didnât drive me to explore as it would for someone who had never been.  Besides, what was I going to do, run over to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower and take pictures alone?  Instead, I meandered down to Le Charles in the lobby. Although it was the more casual of the two dining options, the restaurant still provided white tablecloths and crystal glasses. There were friends and groups, but mostly couples. Fucking Julian. That could have been us. Sharing a chocolate mousse with two spoons under the candle-lit chandelier in Paris. But no, he decided that after 5 years together, we werenât meant to be, and he told me in the most humiliating way possible. My chest tightened, and I felt like I couldnât breathe.
On the flight over, I had practiced the intelligent commentary I would give in the interview. Despite not really believing this would turn into anything, I didnât want to be completely unprepared. I had a playbook to follow. I would explain the theories, which would expose my in-depth knowledge of the origin of De Courcillion chocolate culture and of every freaking cacao bean in the world. I would show I knew more than the competition. I used my law school study skills to pack in as much information into my brain as I could about cocoa, beans, the history of the company, and the history of chocolate. Studying came naturally to me, and I was good at it. Plus, studying cocoa was not triggering like law was. Law Iâd failed at, I couldnât manage my job like Julian could, he was already a junior partner. Maybe thatâs why heâd cheated on me, and there came all the questionsâŠ
The next morning, maybe because the time change confused my body or because Iâd barely slept that night, I fudged up the interview time and arrived at De Courcillion over an hour early. Their flagship store and offices were in the 16th arrondissement, a three-story masterpiece shopping experience. Half-grocery store, half-showcase complete with take-out counters for salads, sandwiches, ice creams, pizzas, bakery, noodle bar, cellar and chocolatier.Â
The store was stunningly beautiful, with black and gold awnings and dark wood shelves, scripted lettering and impeccably placed products. Designed like a hotel and not a grocery store, it was the opposite of the hippy dream that was Rever du Chocolat, my fatherâs chocolate shop in Les-Pistoles. After milling around and purchasing a small jar of olive tapenade, I popped into a very typical cafĂ© on the corner. I perched on the edge of the banquette and ordered my first cafĂ© au lait in a bowl. Delicious, earthy coffee cooled with warmed milk. People were strolling about, not racing but savouring. They were all so graceful, in chic tailored coats and leather gloves. Not like actual walking duvets, which had been a necessity in QuĂ©bec. The edges of the elegant metalwork on the building peaked below the red cafĂ© awning, and I watched the street. I was here, in Paris, a world away from everything back home. The thought of anonymity, of freedom from the painful memories, was an improvement from the night before when they pinned me down and left me suffocating. I took in a long, deep breath, and the coffee filled my nose.Â
âCanât you soften the board a little, eh?â a man said a few seats over. I casually glanced over while setting my cup down. He was handsome, sandy-haired, in a camel-coloured turtleneck, with a tailored jacket and black high-waisted pants. With him was an even more attractive man, with curly dark brown hair and an impeccable blue suit. I ordered a croissant.
âEt bon, what do you need, more time?â the second man said casually, leaning back. Their French accents were lower and smoother than the French I was used to at home.Â
âOui, everyone is on my back. I need more time, more candidates, I need a miracle. Itâs been 15 interviews. Quinze! And not one good option,â the first man said, seemingly growing in frustration. My blood pressure must have just gone up 10 points instantly. Interviews! My interview! In my savoring cafĂ© moment had I missed my time?  I reached for my phone to checkâ9:30, I still had time.
âCome on Christian, aprĂšs la pluie, le beau temp eh? There has to be someone,â the second man said, lifting his hands up from the table. He had several rings on his fingers and a simple but elegant cufflink peeking out of the edge of his suit jacket.Â
âNon. Personne. Not one. Not one! Itâs either old European fools who are so stuck in what they have been cooking for 40 years they canât think outside their own fucking box. Or young 20-somethings who recite the theory of chocolate they learned in culinary school and have no clue about real life,â the first man said running his hand through his short hair.Â
Even though my blood pressure dropped, it was now rising again. Interview, chocolate, Christian. My ears now perked up like a cat hearing a mouse. Sitting, not three tables off from me was not just some elegant handsome man. It was Christian de Courcillion, CEO of De Courcillion International! How had I not recognized him? I guess no one looked quite like their media pictures. Once Iâd gotten the invitation to the interview, I had told Gen about the whole thing, and we had then spent a few hours scouring the internet for photos and educated guesses about who might be in the interview. I picked up my coffee bowl and hid my face in it, listening intently.Â
âThe old dogs can learn new tricks. Hire one of them and some jeune academy graduates to liven up the space,âthe second man said.Â
âOld dogs donât learn new tricks, Renaud. They donât. You know this. They are stubborn, set in their ways. This isnât a training camp for the academy. I want someone who is modern, strong, different.â Christian said. I thought I heard the second man, Renaud, sigh.Â
I had once heard that the difference between English and French bespoke tailoring was that English fashion was conservative and impeccably understated, while the French lavished in the details. Both men fit in seamlessly into this distinction. Renaudâs suit fit him perfectly, adjusted to every manly curve of his body. His pants stopped higher up on the ankle, with no socks sticking out of his marbled brown shoes, and a silky off-white shirt lay under the navy suit jacket. A peach and green silk pocket square poked out of the breast pocket, complimenting the look. Christianâs outfit was striking in its textures, the fine knit of the sweater contrasting heavy fabric of the pants. But most of all, it was the confidence in which they held themselves. My heart fluttered and my cheeks flushed.Â
âYou and I know plenty of people who are passionate about this. They will do anything for the job,â Renaud said, his mouth carving the French words without any resistance.Â
âPassionate, yes but innovative? Different? Will they bend the rules if they have to? Can you see Antoine Cousineau doing anything other than what he has for the past 30 years? I donât want the same. I want new,â Christian said.Â
âBon. You want new, but Parisians donât like new, they like tradition. Cheeses done the same way for 200 years, 600 years, 1000 years,â Renaud said. I was most definitely enjoying listening to him speak. His lips extending the vowels slightly with each of his words. His voice creating accented sounds so much more smoothly than my own dialect.Â
âWell, I havenât found anyone doing chocolate for 1000 years. If you want to get that clairvoyant we met in Phuket, be my guest. Iâm open to anything,â Christian said.Â
âI donât think we need a clairvoyant. We need an exorcist. I think the demons of the accident still haunt you,â Renaud said.Â
âNothing haunts me now, thanks to the pharmacist,â Christian said, tapping his breast pocket.Â
Renaud raised his cup in cheers and smirked. I took a bite of my pastry to hide my own amusement. The fact was, this new information was throwing me off my game plan. My methodology had been solid. Gen and I had gone over it. Weâd researched articles, weâd read about the company, about the gossip. I could only imagine that the accident Renaud was referring to was the death of Christianâs father. Five years ago, Christian had taken over the family company after his father had gone missing while scuba diving off an island in Martinique. His fatherâs companion had disappeared as well. De Courcillion Sr. had not planned to leave as CEO for some time, heâd openly told everyone Christian was not ready. Police however, had determined no foul play, and ruled the death an accident.
âBon, anyway, Iâm going to shut down the whole thing if the rest donât work out today,â Christian said.Â
âVoila! So itâs over then. Youâve seen everyone. Shut down the entire chocolate volet. En tout cas, the position has been in need of a reboot for a while,â Renaud said, leaning back in his seat again, his jacket sliding open a little.Â
âYes, you propose that to the board and say it was your idea,â Christian said.Â
Renaud grinned.     Â
If there had been pressure on this interview before, now it was exponential. I imagined myself being the last person ever interviewed before they shut down the whole operation.Â
âExactly. Câest la galĂšre!  Itâs our history isnât it, itâs also not so easy answering to you all why our $200 million revenue stream shut down,â Christian said. My head spunâ$200 million, that was likely the value of the entire GaspĂ© peninsula.Â
âIt's been five years, mon grand! Youâve proved yourself. The issue isnât with them, itâs with you. Go with whomever you think is best. You know, hire the best-looking one in a skirt and forget about it,â Renaud said dryly.
Christian raised his hand, showing his wedding band.Â
âNot anymore, mon ami. Not like our old days,â Christian said.Â
âAh well, we all have to grow out of it eventually,â Renaud replied, clearly amused.Â
âMost of us. Not if youâre Laurent Malcourt,â Christian said.Â
They both laughed. I strained to hear more about Laurent Malcourtâsomething about an affair with a Russian stripperâbut a couple came and sat at the table between us, and I couldnât hear anymore.Â
After the adrenaline rush died down, I realized two things. First, CEOs of million-dollar companies sometimes needed what appeared to be pep talks. And two, I couldnât wow them with my knowledgeâI would be dumped straight into the 20-somethings category of useless idiots. Which I was, but couldnât be ignorant of now. Not that I wanted to, but I couldnât woo them with my skirt either. It was a $175 black skirt from the mall in Bathurst. Solid choice for an interview at a law firm, not so spectacular in the 16th arrondissement with Handsome and Handsome-er. I wondered how many people in the office had been hired so Christian could chase skirt.  Â
There had been something strangely endearing about the men, not to say that there wasnât also something completely attractive about them. The frankness of their talk, their support of each other, it was genuine and charming. When they stood up to leave, I hid behind my cafĂ©Â bol and watched them go. Renaud buttoned his suit jacket and I loosened my shirt collar. Christianâs tall frame strode out, and my eyes meandered to the way his sweater fell at his hips. Renaud's jacket fitted across his shoulders and I had to take more sips of my coffee. I might have fanaticized being the filling between their macaron wafers but instead I had to change my fucking game plan and I had to do it fast.  I waited until 9:55, then hustled inside De Courcillion headquarters and up the four flights of marble stairs in Genâs Louboutin heels.Â
          Sitting on expensive lobby chairs in an upscale Paris office, I had to be called into the boardroom. I already knew the interview was not going to be like most others. One of the emails explained that I wasnât going to sit facing the HR selection committee and explain why I was the best candidate. Instead, I was going to sit in front of plates of chocolate, taste an assortment of truffles and bars, and discuss them. They were going to analyze my tasting abilities, my critiquing skills, and me. As an agent of De Courcillion, I had to be, well, exceptional. The truth was I was anything but.        Â
         So I sat and analyzed the abstract art on the wall. I breathed five deep breaths to find my center, but it ran off to hide in the catacombs of Paris. I had nothing with me, the receptionist had taken my coat and bag, and pulled away my manilla envelope with my CV and some hastily put-together photos of my chocolate work. I had to do it though, on my own, with no support. Not even a fucking envelope to hold. Â
         A few minutes later, escorted into an elegant boardroom, I was in awe. It was just as I had read in the magazines. We were on a penthouse level in a glass-walled room that faced rooftop gardens and views of Paris. It was stunning.Â
âBienvenu, welcome to De Courcillion, Mme Mercier. My name is Christian De Courcillion. I am the CEO here at De Courcillion International. I hope your journey here was pleasant,â Christian said, almost bored with himself, from across the table.Â
âYes, it was fine. Nice to meet you,â I said warmly to him.Â
âGood. This is Morrane Dubois de Lioncourt, our VP of human resources, and Charles Bouvois-Generet, VP of research and development, who directly supervises the department,â he said.Â
âPleasure you meet you both,â I said again. Christianâs friend Renaud from the cafĂ© was not there. That was probably a good thing, because his tailored shirt with top two buttons undone had been too distracting anyway.
âThank you for joining us. As you know from the email, we will be asking you to sample these items and discuss your thoughts.âÂ
Christian was much more formal than in the cafĂ© with his friend. He sat, hands folded. There would be no talk of drugs or clairvoyants here, no laughs and smirks. His voice was slightly distant and dispassionate. Though I wouldnât have noticed had I not heard him in the cafĂ©,      I felt almost relieved in that moment that I had already seen him, witnessed him in his natural habitat.Â
In front of me were 10 gold-rimmed plates lined up in a row on the conference table, probably Limoges, with samples on each one, no names, no clues. Just the colour and shape of each of the chocolates to hint at what each was.Â
âYou may begin when ready,â one of the interviewers said. I nodded. I folded my hands carefully and studied the plates.Â
Since I had no seat and they sat in front of me, I started, like I was performing a ritual. I stepped slowly towards the table, closed my eyes, took one last breath.Â
After each bite, they would push me for an answer. âWhat do you think of this one? What stands out to you? What instructions would you tell the marketing team? What would you pair it with?â
It was like a cacophony of verbose parrots. I didnât let them badger me into answering. I made them wait. I was a lawyer after all, or someday I would be again. I knew the power of controlling the room. Controlling the dialogue, they had to wait for my answers and I was going to lead them. So I didnât say a fucking word. I simply raised my finger and shook my head. I made them wait until I tasted every single chocolate and gone back for seconds. Christian de Courcillionâs face went from polite, to annoyed, to genuinely curious.Â
âThank you for your patience, monsieurs et madame. Let me tell you a bit about these chocolates,â I said. This was the theatre of Alexandra.Â
âWe are hoping that you will,â Morrane said, a little edgy trill to her voice.Â
âThis one.â I pointed to the first plate with thin wafers, picking up a morsel and letting it melt on my mouth again. âThese beans, from the Ivory Coast, are the sweetest. Not earache sweet, but the kind of sweetness that gives you a little smile. Like when a small child kisses your cheek. Browned butter would give it more depth.â I stepped to the right, one plate over. This one had broken pips on the plate. âAh yes, almost pure Balao Malacha and almost inedible.â I looked at my interviewers, who were intrigued now. âIt shouldnât be so exposedâ. I moved again. âThis one is a tasting chocolate, obviously. Must be from Ecuadorian beans. Itâs earthyâitâs when you need power, like before coming to an interview.â I took another bite of it and could see Christian eyes watching me carefully but not committing to an impression. I continued.Â
âThis one is deep, rich, smoky. If it had a touch more sweetness, it would be perfect for eating on the banks of the Seine with your lover,â I said and moved over again. I pulled my shoulders back to trick my brain into believing I had the confidence I needed. "This one, is less original, with a little citrus, a little milk even though it presents as dark chocolate, likely beans from Ghana. Itâs for your husband, wife, or whomever you are bored with.âÂ
Christian face changed againâhe was now bemused. A little smile on his face and a cocked eyebrow.Â
âYou are a little storyteller, arenât you?â he said.Â
I shrugged. I was Acadian, it was in my bones.Â
âChocolate is an escape, one of my escapes from the stupid world we live in. It should not have rules. Except for tempering, never ever higher than 46 degrees,â I said, wiggling my finger at him.
Moranne seemed to scowl slightly at this. Christianâs body relaxed, and he was almost back to the ease heâd had in the cafĂ©. He got up and came around the table to stand beside me.Â
âYour deduction of the origins is entirely accurate, but your views on chocolate and life are fascinating,â he said.
âSo law school to      managing a chocolate shop?â Moranne said, looking at my CV on the iPad in her hands, also getting up to come to my side of the table. She clearly wasnât as taken by my little spiel as Christian, probably used to Christian chasing skirt. She wasnât about to let him make a decision based on my age, sex and choice of clothing. Even as pedestrian as they were.Â
âYou did both?â she said sharply.
âYes,â I said, meeting her gaze.Â
âWhat kind of law did you practice?â she asked.
âBusiness law,â I said.Â
âHow do you feel that is of any relevance to being a maĂźtre chocolatier,â she asked, rather pointedly.Â
I knew they were going to ask me this. I had prepared my closing arguments about how as a lawyer, Iâd been taught to read thoroughly, to think critically, to analyze. How my experience in business law would give me a leg up in this corporate position. The cafĂ© this morning changed everything.Â
âIâm not like everyone else,â I said instead. âI could explain to you how I have a keen ability to manage details. How I understand the fundamentals of the corporate world. But in truth, I didnât spend my last few years in a kitchen alone. Iâve been with people, all kinds of people, studied them, talked with them, understood them,â I said calmly,waiting for her to throw the iPad at me for my unconventional answer.Â
âAnd understanding them gives you what? This is a maĂźtre chocolatier position,â Morranne said. âNot a position on our legal team.â
âIâm not talking about the law. Though criminals like chocolate too, Iâm sure. I did the taste test, I got all the cacao sources right, as did probably many of your candidates. Thatâs not what sets me apart. What sets me apart is that I see things differently,â I said, again using what I learned from the cafĂ© as ammunition. I looked at each of them as I continued. âI apprenticed from the age of five from a maĂźtre chocolatier, my father Sylvain Mercier. Chocolate is in my bones. Yet, Iâve had the chance to explore a whole other world from chocolate, see the world through the eyes of the law, hear thousands of stories and be a fragment in them. Now Iâm hoping to be a fragment in a different way, in a less in-the-box way. You could say I want to bring the chocolate out of the box,â I said, trying not to smirk at my own clever metaphor.Â
âWhat would you do in this position then? In the box, or out of the box?â Charles asked. I sensed more openness from him to my âchocolate viewâ than Moranne. At least a curiosity.Â
âI would explore, discover, then create,â I said vaguely.Â
âWhat would you create?â he asked.Â
âI donât know yet, I need to see what Maison De Courcillion is, what it needs, what Paris needs, what the world needs,â I said rather dramatically. I was harnessing Sylvain Mercier from deep within my being.Â
There was a strange pause in the room. Perhaps world was a bit too far.Â
âRevez du Chocolate was it? How many employees?â Charles asked next. Both he and Morrane were back to looking down at the iPad, to their list of questions. Christian wandered over to the table and took a piece of chocolate to eat. I wish I had been able to see which one heâd taken.Â
âSometimes one, sometimes 10. Now that may not seem like much, but keep in mind Les-Pistoles has a population of less than 3,000 and is surrounded by lumber mills and the sea. You need a reason to travel two hours to come to the shop, and we gave people a reason. In the GaspĂ©, you wake up and your nose is blasted with sea air and cedar mills. Thatâs why you need to sink your teeth into a warm, buttery, chocolatine with a hint of cinnamon, to bring you back from nowhere to somewhere.â
I had no idea what I was talking about, but I was on a journey.Â
âOh this oneâŠ.â Christian said, wagging his finger at me. He was clearly considering if I was interesting or full of shit.Â
Moranne was just about to ask me another question when Charles spoke.Â
âAnd youâre free to come to Paris, to move, to put aside your other career?â he said.Â
This was a tough one to answer honestly. I knew I had to say yes, but I had to quickly figure out a way to say it that I was comfortable with.Â
âThere is nothing keeping me in QuĂ©bec right now or in the foreseeable future,â I said. âI think my passion for chocolate is one I will carry my whole life.âÂ
âWhy donât you have a cafĂ© in the lounge area, while we discuss,â Christian said to me, and as quickly as the whole thing started, I was ushered off to a little seated area facing the skyline of Paris, awaiting my conviction.Â
Alexandra decides to take on a job in Paris as a MaĂźtre Chocolatier, still reeling from a loved one's death and her treacherous ex's actions. She moves from Canada to Paris in a heartbeat, as she feels there is nothing for her to develop in her hometown. Navigating life in Paris, from the fashion to the food, to grasping understanding of what relationships look like, Alexandra has her hands full. The plot starts off slowly, we follow Alexandra as she feels aimless at first but then she has more purpose as she develops feelings and relations with her coworkers and people in her context. Trigger warning: explicit sexual content, including BDSM/sexually graphic details.
How Do You Say Mistress in French has an unexpected depth in emotions and self-discovery. I believed the novel would be light-hearted, and indeed there are some fluffy moments in the story especially towards the very beginning when Alexandra goes for the interview in Paris. However, for the most part, the novel gets down to the nitty gritty details of what it's like to recover from heartbreak and how exploring your desires and the consequences of opening yourself up in a new and unfamiliar place. I like the main character and think she's endearing. At one point, I felt so in-tune with her life story as different things happen to her. I question some of the major life choices she makes, such as continuing to see certain people when they share more than one context (employment/friendship/relationships) and how that impacts the story.
I think this book would work as a standalone, but when I got to the ending and saw that the story would continue in a second book, I was disappointed. The plot does not leave the reader with much to long for. The major conflicts are not pivotal and other than Alexandra and Christian, I do not really get a full feel for the other characters, though I suppose this can be worked on in the next book(s) in the series. I also spotted a few typos, "pleasure you meet you both", "what the am I going to do?", "rippled bello" and that lessened the overall professionalism of the book.
How Do You Say Mistress in French is worth reading, but in terms of plot I would have liked to see different endings being played out for certain characters and their relationships with one another. For instance, I think instead of drawing out what happened with Jakob and Alexandra for so long, the focus should be more on Renauld if he is to be the main male lead.