James

“James, I swear, dating men in Paris is like dating hell in the United States. For a city that’s filled with love, these guys have no idea how to treat a lady.”

I abhorred hearing her talk about other men, although I secretly smiled each time she told me about a date gone wrong. None of them had been horrible; they just weren’t me. Cora had yet to figure that part out; she assumed it was the men, when in fact, most women would have swooned at the accent alone.

“They dress like pop stars, James. A guy shouldn’t look better in skinny jeans than his date. And they pair them with fitted shirts. It’s like boy band gone wrong.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Cora, not every guy in France dresses like Justin Bieber.”

“The ones I’ve met do.”

“Maybe it’s the industry you’re meeting them in. Aren’t they all rather artistic in some form or fashion?”

“No.” The humor danced in her voice. “What gave you that idea?”