“Tu es où?” I texted, peeking out the balcony to see if he was near. I checked my lipstick in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then fretted whether my kindergarten-level French was off-putting.
“I’m coming,” he texted. And before I could wonder about inviting a strange man to my home for a first date in a foreign country, Thomas knocked. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he took off his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more attractive than his Tinder photos, with messy blond hair and a glimpse of ultra-defined abs. While fetching wine as insouciantly as I could, inside my head I was screaming: “The plan is working!”
