I can’t believe I have somehow gotten a guy to cook me dinner in my own home, I thought, smiling at Mr. C as he dodged about awkwardly in my petite cuisine looking for knives, having insisted on coming to chez moi to let me relax while he made a meal.
When we sat down to eat, I started to giggle. This had to be not only the most clichéd moment I’ve experienced in Paris, but also the most clichéd moment you’d find in most movies. There I was, sitting down to my table with a view of the Seine, having a handsome French man politely correct my français as he served me a meal, accompanied by an expensive bottle of St. Emillion, and Frank Sinatra crooning in the background.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. C asked, topping off my glass.
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