Page 1 of I Love You in French

Chapter One

Sparrow

My fingers always smell like croissants. The real ones. The buttery ones. It’s not ideal, but it helps to block out the other smells when I’m on the train home from Boston. I don’t intend to smell like croissants. But when you work in a bakery—or une boulangerie—and a French American one at that, you don’t stand a chance. And because we’re in America, we also sell coffee and sneak in other pastries as we please.

I look to the overhead Lite-Brite style train marquee sign. Three minutes.

I slump further into my right hip—my former-ballerina posture taking a break—and observe the yellow, fluorescent lighting and cavernous tiles. Any remaining warmth from the outside world has stuffed itself beneath the earth and through the train platform as my fellow commuters and I wait.

A movement catches my eye as I see the silhouette of a fashionable man a few feet to my right looking my way. Today’s the day. I feel it. He’s finally going to talk to me. The last few months have been a dance. I see him but try not to let him know I see him. He tries to get my attention, and immediately, I put up all my defenses. He even left a business card near my seat once with his social handles so I could look him up. He’s always been respectful, and you can tell he’s a decent human. The man doesn’t give off any creep factor. He just seems to know what he wants. Truthfully, he’s swoon-worthy and handsome, but no. Just no. I have valid reasons for my standoffishness with men, even if my best friend always tries to convince me otherwise.

I adjust the earphones in my ears and try to pretend that we didn’t make eye contact. The movement beside me tells me I’m too late. I grimace and politely point to my earphones. Not interested.

“Hi,” he says.

I don’t look his way.

“Okay, well, I’m sure you can hear me . . .”

I avoid his eyes and try to pretend I’m oh-so focused on my phone. It’s no use. His cologne is strong enough to wake the swooned, as if he is prepared to both cause women to faint and then wake them up again. I sigh. This is happening.

“I’ve seen you here before. On the train. I’m not a creeper.” He rushes the last part. Glad to know my inkling was correct.

“My name is Graham. Graham Winnings,” he continues.

It sounds like he’s prepared a pitch. I shift my stance and look up at the marquee light. Two minutes.

“I work in corporate law. I’m single. Never been married. No kids.”

He tries to stay within view as a rush of commuters has us bumping shoulders. I turn and catch his eyes. It’s confirmed—he is, indeed, very handsome. Not a Chris Evans type of handsome, but more like a my-town-would-be-thrilled-I’m-no-longer-single-and-he-probably-modeled-once type of handsome. Lily is going to have words for me for not accepting this one. I know it.

I nod my apologies and look back toward the tracks.

“As I was saying . . .”

His voice isn’t even annoying. But he’s not the one. How do I know? Oh, I know. Took me two-point-five seconds to know. The smell of oil and exhaust surrounding us isn’t distracting me from my mission of avoidance.

“...I’m thirty-two years old. I call my mom every morning because she lives alone, and I never want her to miss someone telling her ‘Good morning.’ And I don’t have a dog, but I want one someday. A big one.”

Oh, this comment makes women moan in frustration everywhere. The monster.

I slightly roll my eyes and hear a cough nearby. I look up to find a woman glaring at me with a look that says if I don’t accept him, she will, and this could be my last chance before becoming a spinster. Yep, her eyes say all of that. I grin my apologies and try to focus. Mystery man—or now Graham—has continued listing off his qualities. I’ve missed most of them.

“...I own my house. I have never been arrested.” He sighs.

I give him nothing. I can’t.

“And it’s not just because of how you look.” My eyes widen. “Not that you aren’t very attractive, but I just had a sense that we would hit it off somehow.”

The truth is, he does seem nice. And I could see him somewhere in my world. Just not beside me. I’ve never been more certain.

“Um...I’m guessing by your lack of response that you don’t care. I’m hoping it’s not because you’re married or have a boyfriend who is going to beat me up for talking to you.”

I steal a glance at his face and see him staring at the phone in my hand. My earphones are not connected to my phone. The adapter is dangling in the wind. He stifles a laugh, which is polite.

“And I’m also guessing that you’re not going to stop pretending that you actually have music playing in your earphones . . .”

I wrinkle my nose. I’d fail as an undercover agent.

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