“What would you like to drink?”

“Oh—apricot juice. But I’m the one who invited you, shouldn’t I get it?” I reached for my wallet.

He laughed. “No, you shouldn’t.” He left to get the drinks. “And you shouldn’t keep your wallet in your jacket pocket like that, someone’s going to steal it,” he added when he got back.

Okay, can we all agree that men have no business telling women they barely know how to live their lives? I disgraced independent women everywhere by getting a kick of excitement from the remark. He noticed, he cared, and he spoke with such authority. And he was so darn cute. Off to my left, the bartender flexed his muscles and gazed at him longingly.

“You have your wallet in your pocket,” I said.

“Trust me, no one is going to get his hand in my front jeans pocket without me noticing it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure?”

He grinned. “I’d dare you to try, but you’d probably run. You are so shy.”

My jaw dropped. That was so unfairly true. “How dare you say that? I just asked out a man I never even met.”

He blinked and stopped smiling. “You did? When was this?”

I stared at him. “Friday.”

He’d been leaning forward on the table, so close, and now he sat back. “So who did you ask out?”

“You,” I said, aggravated. “Hello!”

His eyebrows went up. “You didn’t ask me out. You just left me an invitation to some party.”

I felt as if I’d opened my mouth to talk and someone had punted a football into it by surprise. “That’s not asking you out? Are we speaking the same language here?”

“I think so. You’ve got a really cute accent, though. Are you Canadian?”

It was tempting, but I haven’t yet stooped to denying my country, not even in the most hostile of climates, like Paris. “No. American.” I braced.

“Oh.” He considered that. “I thought you must be Canadian.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously. “Because I seemed nice? Not loud, obnoxious, and arrogant?”

“No, because the invitation you left me said ‘Maison du Canada.’ I like fast food,” he offered in the way of cultural conciliation.

Oh, for God’s sake. Was he kidding me? Probably the one perk to dating a Parisian was that I’d get to eat well. “I hate fast food,” I said uncompromisingly. I’d managed the boudin noir, but that was as far as I was willing to go in terms of eating horrible food, damn it.

He laughed and leaned forward again, meeting my eyes. Meeting a woman’s eyes with attraction just peeking out is a European technique American men should try sometime. “Well, look at that. We have so much in common.”