If I thought dinner was delicious, it pales when compared to dessert. The mousse is the fluffiest, airiest, most decadent thing I’ve ever tasted, and I savor each bite, moaning every time I swallow. “Lord, girl,” I sigh. “I don’t know why you aren’t still living in France. If I could eat this every single day, I’d die happy. And weigh about three hundred pounds, too.”
“You’d get tired of it eventually,” Meredith tells me.
“Maybe, but I’m willing to give it a try.” I let the last spoonful linger on my tongue, where it slowly dissolves to trickle down the back of my throat. “We are coming here again.”
“We can make it a sort of anniversary thing,” she suggests.
I shake my head. “Oh, I’m not waiting a whole year to come back. Maybe we can have a month-aversary, or something.”
With a laugh
