Page 2 of I Love You in French

“‘May I ask why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus repulsed?’”

I grin at this. Pride and Prejudice. The movie. The man has taste. He’s cultured. The once-glaring lady across from me nearly falls into the nearby cement pillar. A middle-aged man takes one look at Graham and starts to take notes on his newspaper. He catches my amused look and rolls his eyes. No one will let me travel here after this moment if I don’t accept his hand immediately.

I turn slowly toward Graham. I shake the iciness out of my posture and try to be more human and less wounded—I need to ride this train. Lily is waiting on me at the store, and I can’t mess this up just because it makes me uncomfortable to turn him down. It’s not this guy’s fault I can’t date him. He’s exceptional. He’s well-dressed. But, nope, not the one. And something in me deeply wishes I wasn’t so keenly aware of it.

“You seem like a nice guy,” I say.

He startles, clearly not expecting to hear my voice. “I am.”

I nod politely. “My friend Lily would be obsessed with you.”

“I don’t see how that detail matters at this moment ...and, wait, did you say Lily?” His brow furrows, and I see a flash of something in his eyes before he shakes it off.

“But this is where you and I stop.” I maintain eye contact and nod as if the conversation is over.

The alert sounds for the incoming train.

He clears his throat. “We’re getting on the same train.”

“Ahhh, but that’s where you’re wrong, buddy.” Yep. I said it. It’s metaphorical. Let’s see if Mr. Millions of Bucks picks up on that cue.

He shuffles in his Italian leather dress shoes and crosses his arms over his broad chest tucked behind a camel-colored trench coat. An expensive designer scarf is even sticking out from the top of the coat, framing his strong jaw. I don’t relent.

“It’s not personal.”

“It can’t be personal. You don’t know me.” His eyes are amused while calling my bluff.

I grin again. “Well, it’s not. I just can’t date you.”

The train car screeches on the rails. It’s loud. The kind of loud that says they haven’t greased these rails since the Boston Tea Party. Extreme? Not if you’ve heard this noise.

We wince. Once the train car stops, I turn toward him. I have ten seconds to get this right before the doors open.

I look into his questioning eyes. No doubt this will haunt him for a while. He checks every box, and he knows it. But he can’t check the most important one of mine.

I square my shoulders as the door opens, and I step into the car. I turn quickly, the commuters already creating space between us.

“May I ask why not?” He amplifies his voice in a weirdly professional and acceptable way. Again, so very polite.

“Well, Graham, it’s simple . . .”

He leans forward but doesn’t attempt to get on the train car. I time the rest of my response. Three, two, one . . .

“You’re not French.”

His jaw goes slack as the doors close. We’re taking off, and the force throws me onto the closest faux-leather seat. I can see his silhouette, unmoving, no doubt in shock from the one rule of my dating world: Date a Frenchman or date no man. And in case it’s unclear, it hasn’t worked for me so far.

I’m still staring at the closed doors in front of my face, my spine rocking and swaying lightly from the momentum of the moving car. Something is stirring my gut, but I try to push it down. I can feel the weight of the stares of the commuters around me, and I want to block it all out. I don’t like the feeling of needing to explain myself. It would sound ridiculous if I did anyway.

So I scrunch my nose and turn to prepare for another battle when my eyes catch sight of the most beautiful frame of a man I’ve ever seen in my life. His back is to me, his head slightly angled to the side. He’s within range and without earphones, so there’s no way he didn’t hear me a few moments ago. And this has me cringing with regret. Still, the curve of his shoulders under a bomber jacket and the way the pieces of his hair flip under a baseball cap has my mouth stuck together. This is ridiculous.

“Are you going to find a seat or not?” says an older woman with her eyebrows furrowed as if I got the last item she was looking for at a Black Friday sale.

My exhale is loud as I quickly attempt to move away from the embarrassment and her scorn and toward the only open seat I see, which is five rows behind Handsome Stranger. I don’t need to see him to know his face would be devastating—his voice too, probably. Sometimes, you can just sense attractiveness even before you encounter it, and it’s in this moment I recognize that the battle I’m facing today wasn’t outside this train car. It’s now.

I may have won my freedom by ensuring Graham won’t ever ask me out again, but I most definitely have lost if it means this Handsome Stranger is not for me. I look out the window, warmth creeping up my neck and adding a new and unwelcome blush to my cheeks.

After waiting a few seconds to catch my breath, I glance again toward the back of his head (in case I blacked out and hadn’t seen him clearly), but he’s moved on...because he’s no longer in his seat. I risked a glance, and now I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t. It figures the man I would want a better glimpse of is nowhere to be found, while the man I was trying to avoid has no problem approaching me. I should’ve known after the way this day started, even before my commute. The croissants didn’t rise properly, and the sugar spilled all over my usually clean counters. It was a sign.

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