The first thing I see as we enter the Moose is a rustic stone wall behind the bar with a couple of flat screens tuned to hockey.

“How very North American,” Uma says with a smile. “Not that I’ve been to North America, but that’s exactly how I imagined a sports bar somewhere in Seattle.”

“This one is more Montreal than Seattle,” Zach says.

The place is lit by the dim glow of ceiling spots and at least a dozen wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. Polished wood and moose antlers dominate the decor.

The four of us had met by the statue of Danton at Odéon, which is spitting distance from here. I’d ridden the métro from work, Uma and Zach had arrived in his car, and Noah on his scooter.

Now that it stays warm after dusk, I revel in the pleasant coolness of this bar.

We make our way to the sitting area and pick one of the two vacant tables.

To our left, a large boisterous group is having a lively conversation in Quebecois French so thick you could slice it with a knife.

I jerk my chin in their direction. “Looks like we’ve found the place where Canadian tourists come to chill after a hard day’s sightseeing.”

“But that’s a good sign, right?” Uma says. “Canadians wouldn’t come here if this place wasn’t authentic.”

Noah smiles. “The main reason they come here is that there aren’t a lot of sports bars in Paris.”

Zach nods. “And even fewer where you can watch the Super Bowl, Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs in real time.”

“And eat a decent poutine,” Noah adds.

Zach raises his index finger. “Pootseen, please, if you want to sound Quebecois.”

“What’s a Pootseen?” I ask.

Noah and Zach exchange a meaningful glance.

“You’ll discover soon enough,” Noah says.

I think he was warning me, and I burst out laughing at his amusing air of mystery.

“Ladies.” Zach looks from Uma to me and then to Noah. “Gentleman. Do I have everyone’s permission to order your food and drinks?”

I narrow my eyes. “Depends on what you’re ordering.”

“You allergic to anything?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Relax, Sophie,” Noah touches my hand. “Nobody’s treating you to fried crickets. We’ll have Moosehead—a Canadian beer—and poutine.”

I sigh. “Beer is fine. It’s poutine that I’m worried about.”

“Hang on.” Uma rummages through her tote bag, muttering, “He used to do this all the time when we were kids—asking if I’d like a profiterole or a bit of aligot or a slice of tatin, and I had to say yes or no before he’d tell me what those things were.”

“Did I ever trick you into eating something you hated?” Noah asks her.

“That’s not the point.” She pulls out a smartphone. “Ta-da! Don’t you love modern technology? No more surprises. We’re going to find out what poutine is in a moment.”

Zach waves a server over, while Uma fumbles with her phone.

“Found it,” she announces a few seconds later and begins to read out loud.

Uma drops her phone back into her handbag and grins. “Sounds yummy.”

Does she mean it?

I peer at her face and conclude to my horror that she does.

If I were a blunt kind of girl, I would’ve told these people what poutine sounded like from a health-conscious Floridian’s perspective. It sounded like love handles, pimples, and a heart attack.

Zach turns to the waiter. “We’ll have four Mooseheads and four classic poutines.”

“Awesome.” I bare my teeth. “Right up my alley. Can’t wait.”

I wonder if any of them can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

Noah hems before shifting his gaze from me to one of the TV screens. His lips are twitching.

Five minute later the server brings our frosty beers and steaming plates.

I stare at the huge serving of fries and rubbery cheese curds smothered in gravy. “This doesn’t look very… appetizing.”

“Don’t be afraid to say it looks like shit,” Noah says.

“The proof of the pudding isn’t in looking pretty,” Zach says. “It’s in the eating.”

With the fuck-it-all determination of a kamikaze pilot, I pick up my fork and knife. “All right, let’s eat.”

The cheese curds squeak in my mouth as I chew.

“I recommend you wash it down with beer,” Noah says, his eyes riveted to my mouth. “It’ll help your palate handle the shock.”

Uma turns to me. “Isn’t this the kind of food you’re used to?”

I shake my head. “In Key West, we have lots of options to choose from. You can eat Cuban or vegetarian or French or… whatever. I usually go for French as I’m used to it.”

“Sophie’s mom is French,” Noah says.

“That explains it.” Zach gives me a bright smile. “I was wondering why your French was so good—barely a hint of an accent.”

I acknowledge his compliment with a polite smile.

“What kind of place is Key West?” Noah asks.

“In one word?” I chew on my lower lip, thinking. “Relaxed. You’d like it.”

“Tell me more.” His eyes are on my mouth again.

Is that why I keep biting my lip?

I’m not in the habit of doing that—actually, I never do that. But there’s something highly addictive in the way he stares at my mouth. The heat of his gaze makes me want to encourage him, makes me hungry for more.

Get a grip, Sophie.

I shrug. “In a nutshell—we have a tropical climate, the best beaches and sunsets, occasional hurricanes, and hordes of tourists on Duval Street.” Winking, I add, “As well as lovely wood houses for sale via my dad’s agency. Should anyone be interested.”

An hour later, Zach settles the bill, and I use the occasion to study his face. The man is certainly good-looking. He’s been the perfect gentleman throughout the dinner. So, why am I hoping Noah will offer me a ride home?

“Can I offer you a lift?” Zach asks me, standing up.

“I live in the 18th,” I say. “You and Uma would have to make a huge detour and lose an hour, if not more.”

This would be Noah’s cue to jump in and offer that ride.

But he doesn’t. He studies his shoes.

Uma turns to Zach. “Why don’t I take the métro so that we don’t delay Mathilde, and you take Sophie home?”

“I’ll give you a lift,” Noah says to Uma. “It’ll be faster.”

Shoot.

Inside Zach’s Beamer, he makes small talk and I nod as we drive north through the quiet city bathed in the soft light from windows and street lamps. The stereo streams jazzy French music. Add that to the air-conditioning and Zach’s deep, masculine bass, and this should be a very pleasant ride. Romantic, even.

But it’s confusion, not romance, that fills my mind right now.

My thoughts return to the Moose. The food sucked, but I truly enjoyed the company. Uma was totally sweet. Zach was gracious. Noah was… Noah. We ate, drank, joked, and pretended our “dinner among friends” wasn’t really a double date, and we weren’t really two couples in the making.

Couple Number 1—Uma and Noah, childhood besties teetering between friendship and something more.

Couple Number 2—Zach and I testing the waters to see if we click.

Do we click? I guess so.

In addition to being gorgeous, Zach is also a wealthy go-getter interested in a relationship. Unlike Noah.

Besides, he fits Dad’s idea of a perfect catch to a T.

If I am to give the whole dating thing another shot and go out with someone while I’m in Paris, it should be him. In fact, I can’t find a single reason why we shouldn’t date.

My mind conjures up an image of Uma and Noah huddled together on his scooter.

It’s decided.

If Zach asks me out, I’ll say yes.