The afternoon was amazing. Sébastien took my hand as we rode a funicular up the hill to the top of Montmartre, and I didn’t pull away. His palms were soft and his fingers just a little rough as they threaded through mine. We saw the inside of the church, ate sugared crêpes on the church steps as we gazed out over the hazy city, visited the Musée de Montmartre and the Salvador Dalí museum, and even had a street artist sketch a portrait of us in the Place du Tertre, a square that Sébastien called the tourist center of the quartier.
When darkness fell, Sébastien took me to dinner at a tiny place called Le Refuge des Fondues that was like nothing I’d ever seen. The narrow dining room had space for only two very long tables, so everyone in the packed restaurant ate together. After waiting for a spot for twenty minutes, Sébastien and I were shown to the back of the room, where a gruff French waiter had to help me climb on top of the table to cross to the other side. I had to basically straddle the table, hovering over other laughing diners, to the bench on the other side. The second we sat down, we were handed small glasses of kir royale, and the moment we finished those, we were offered red wine—in baby bottles!
“Baby bottles?” I’d asked Sébastien incredulously, inspecting the bottle that had been handed to me. It even had a nipple!
“This place is a favorite of Americans!” he shouted back over the din.
We talked and laughed over a little feast of olives, cheese cubes, spicy potatoes, and saucisson sausage, several wine refills, and the most enormous fondue meal I’d ever had. The huge yellow pot of silky white cheese between us never ran dry, and our waiter seemed to be constantly refilling our bread basket. Just when I thought I couldn’t eat any more, the waiter brought over dessert—lemon sorbet frozen into hollowed-out lemon halves—and two small glasses of Alsatian sweet white wine, which Sébastien had ordered for us.
“What a perfect day!” I exclaimed as we left the restaurant and walked out onto the winding, cobbled Rue des Trois Frères to make our way toward a main street to find a taxi stand.
“I’m glad you had a nice time,” Sébastien replied. He reached up and touched my cheek gently. My world was spinning a bit, maybe from his touch, maybe from the wine. Either way, when he leaned down to kiss me, it felt amazing.
Is this what I’d been missing in all those years of kissing Brett? No wonder French kissing was named after these guys, I thought. His lips were soft, and as his tongue gently parted my lips and probed my mouth, I could feel my toes curl up in pleasure.
“You taste like lemon,” Sébastien said as he pulled away.
“You taste like wine,” I said with a smile, blinking at him a few times and trying to regain my balance.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft.
I could feel myself blush. “Thank you.” I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to me. “May I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Sébastien replied with a charming smile. He ran a finger slowly down the bridge of my nose, ending at the bow of my lips. I could feel my whole body come alive with goose bumps.
“What made you talk to me at the café today?” I asked. “What made you want to stop reading your book and spend the day with me?”
Sébastien studied my face for a moment. “You seemed lost,” he said. “And,” he hastened to add, “very beautiful. I would have been foolish not to suggest us spending the day together.”
Although the words sounded vaguely rehearsed, they did something to me. I couldn’t seem to stop smiling. No one had said anything that romantic to me in a long time.
Thirty minutes later, we stood outside Poppy’s building, with Sébastien gazing into my eyes.
“May I come inside?” he asked, brushing the hair back from my face.
“My roommate is there,” I said, my voice full of apology. “It’s a really small place.”
“I cannot spend the night?” Sébastien asked. The question startled me. He’d been a perfect gentleman all day, and the only moves he’d made had been to hold my hand as we strolled and to kiss me after dinner.
“Um, no,” I stammered. “I mean, there’s really not room.”
“But you are American,” he said, looking baffled.
I’m sure my expression was equally confused. I had no idea what he was getting at. “What does that matter?”
“American girls are usually happy to spend the night,” he said.
I frowned. “What are you implying?”
He backed off. “Nothing, nothing,” he said hastily. “Maybe another day, then? When your roommate is out?” He moved closer and ran his thumb lightly along my bottom lip.
I didn’t know what to say. “Um, maybe.” After all, the kiss had been amazing, even if he was being a little pushy now.
“You will give me your phone number, then?” he asked.
I almost gave it to him. But then I paused. After all, what did I expect would happen with Sébastien? We’d had a nice day, but I wasn’t looking for a relationship, was I? I tried to keep Poppy’s words in mind. It was okay to go out with someone without turning him instantly into the man of my dreams.
“Why don’t you give me yours instead?” I asked. He looked taken aback, but he acquiesced, scribbling his mobile number on a piece of paper.