The object of our conversation stopped by our table. My tongue froze, and a flush climbed up my cheeks. He looked down at us with courteous attention. “Vous avez choisi?” Have you decided?

“I—I’ve got a question about the menu.” Never say I can’t think fast when I need to.

“Yes?”

I put my finger on a menu item at random and lowered my voice. He leaned closer automatically to hear me. “The boudin, what is that?”

He smiled. It was just a little smile, but it warmed those dark brown eyes like a fondue flame warms chocolate. “It’s delicious,” he said enthusiastically. “You’ll love it, I promise. It’s intestine filled with blood, pork fat, and onions.”

I blinked.

“It’s really good,” he promised, smiling at me with those warm chocolate eyes.

“I’ll take one of those, then.” Was I insane? “And, um, the bavette. What’s that?”

“It’s a type of steak. Very good, too. I recommend the blue sauce.”

Thank God. “And the bavette for my main course.”

“Saignant, à point?”

Okay, it was maybe pushing it to pretend not to know the words for “rare” and “medium rare,” but he had a faint scent of vanilla that was just luscious with him standing so close to me. “Saignant is . . . ?”

“The meat’s red all the way through. It’s the best way to eat meat.”

A faint hesitation must have shown in my eyes.

“But if you prefer,” he said consolingly, “à point is cooked just a little past that and is quite good, too.” For sissies, I caught the subconscious thought. He didn’t seem to mind that I might be a sissy, though, or even hold it against me that I had an American accent.

“Saignant,” I threw caution to the winds.

“Very good. And I’ll save you the last chocolate mousse for dessert,” he whispered. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

Wow. Not only was he cute, he was my hero. “Is that what you recommend?”

His smile widened, glints of lust for chocolate mousse dancing in his eyes. “It’s the best. Didier always saves one for me.”

I was hoping Didier was the chef, but then again he might be his boyfriend. Or both might be true. Oh, well, if the waiter was gay, I had the benefit of being in safe territory. “I’ll trust you, then,” I said, which was a big lie, because he was way too cute and French to be trusted. I really only trusted him on the subject of chocolate mousse, and I was in a Paris restaurant, how wrong could I go with that?

Lacking French, Tory just pointed wordlessly to a salad and a steak while I hid a smirk. Hey, it wasn’t my fault she had chosen to travel in France without speaking enough of the language to act like an idiot.