There I was, tucked away in that small, cozy bookstore on Rue de l'Amour—the kind that looks as if it was stolen out of a dream. The wooden shelves groaned under the weight of stories waiting to be read, and the scent of old paper mingled perfectly with the deep, earthy aroma of my Bordeaux. I traced the edge of my glass with one finger, savoring the taste that lingered on my tongue, each note…