Page 28 of I Love You in French

I nod again because my throat is feeling tight.

“But she hides.”

“Do you know why?” I ask because I’ve made some guesses, but it’s startling to me that I’ve been all over the world, and the woman I wouldn’t have believed existed has been tucked away in this small town, content to call it her home and yet aching to go to Paris.

“The same reason most of us hide, I think ... wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time.”

∞∞∞

I jump when I feel Sparrow’s hand against my face, lifting the side of my headphones so she can talk to me.

“You’re humming again,” she announces.

She’s gotten a bit more friendly with me the last couple of days, and while I know I can’t read too much into it, she’s only adding to my level of attraction. We barely talk about the premise of fake dating but have somehow fallen into an understanding and a rhythm of being together. She’s the drum beat to my life right now, and I am here for it. I’ve been here for less than a week, and I’m already tired of seeing how she’s put into a box in this town. They love her, but they label her. She’s the steady creator of their coffees and croissants. They don’t see her as someone who could completely change someone’s world like she’s already changed mine. And I think it’s time she was given a new reputation.

I slip off the headphones and turn to see her in what I think to be a fourth position in ballet but with her hip relaxed and arms crossed in front of her. I grin and shake off how sweet I find her faux ballet positions. She’s like a ballerina who just won’t let herself forget that her resting posture is undeniably elegant. She says she’s clumsy, but it’s mixed with grace.

“I don’t get why I’m still tired. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had about four of these today.” I tilt the coffee cup on the counter to show her its emptiness. I’ve been here for hours, and I’ve had so many coffees. Too many coffees.I stretch on the stool and rub my eyes. When I open them, I watch Sparrow’s eyes widen as she clears and cleans the counter around me but avoids my gaze.“Sparrow?”

She doesn’t stop moving, and I notice her nose scrunching in an adorable way.

“Please, look at me.”

She keeps cleaning.

“What have you done?” I whisper.

Dramatically, she walks over to the coffee maker and starts examining the containers of beans she has.“Hmm ... that’s interesting.”

I cross my arms in a surly pose, but I’m trying not to smile. Her playfulness is delightful.For some reason, it keeps surprising me every time. “What? What’s interesting?”

She grins at me in what can only be described as a wicked manner and pretends to examine the coffee containers. I know she’s pretending because she doesn’t need to check them—they’ve been there for decades.“Sorry. Guess you’ve been getting decaf all day.”

I moan.“Sugar, why do you keep doing this? Why?”

She did this yesterday too. After my third cup of coffee, when I felt the lack of caffeine weakening my resolve to create, she confessed to switching out one of the cups with the drink of despair: decaf. My shoulders are slumped, and I’m holding my face in my hands. I haven’t been sleeping as a result of the woman standing in front of me. I need her to just give me the coffee goods, and for some odd reason, she’s been holding out on me.

She leans closer to me, her addicting scent of caramelized sugar, vanilla, and something spicy today lingering in the air. I inhale deeply and hope she doesn’t hear. Yep, I definitely need to write a song about the way she smells—in a totally non-creepy way, of course.

“Some of us like to keep our customers alive and not set them loose from here as a destruction to both themselves and the world.”

I do my best to squint menacingly, but given the way she’s biting her cheek, I imagine it’s not as ominous as I would wish.“Half-caf. You couldn’t give me half-caf?”

Sparrow surveys the little coffee cups with a valiant effort.

“Non,” she says with a French accent that makes me grateful I’m sitting and not standing.Sparrow speaking French is going to cause me to implode. It’s not painful when it comes from her.

“Let me ask you this,” she says, holding a finger in the air.“How many cups did you have before you got here today?”

I shift on the stool. “Well, I don’t see how that’s relevant ... ”

“How. Many.”

I lift my gaze to hers and lose myself in the swirling chocolate of her eyes. They’re stormy right now, like when she makes truffles or melts the chocolate over the double burner and swirls it around before dipping the madeleines. Not that I’ve been paying attention.I inch my way closer to her and hold my breath as she leans in toward me too. Her eyes fall to my lips, and I hold myself so still before the spell is broken.The sound of the bell over the door has us turning our faces toward the noise. And there, in all his French glory, is the man and the menace, Jacques.

“Him,” I mutter.

Sparrow turns to me, her eyes riveted. A look of amusement passes over them as I realize my error: Jealousy has come out to play.

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