A Texan cowgirl. A cinnamon roll Frenchman. Three months in Paris and a single bed… Picture this: a sassy Texas gal—that’s me—stumbles into the country that invented romance. Croissants, cobblestone streets, the whole Frenchie-French works! And then her passport’s stolen. Enter Mathieu, who I don’t trust for a minute after my first thieving Frenchman experience, but it turns out that’s he’s as sweet as crème brûlée with a cinnamon roll heart. We spend hours pouring out our souls as only two strangers can do. And since I have no hostel… He lets me sleep in his hotel room on that first night without even a hint of funny business, but I remember reaching out in the night to hold his hand. And then he went up in smoke. Or so I thought, because I swear I keep seeing him through the glass of the pyramid in front of the Louvre where I’m teaching English to a grumpy group of CEOs. Yet everytime I rush over to check—it’s not him.