Page 36 of I Love You in French

Sparrow uses the sugar to magically create a concoction of flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and some brown stuff that looks like cinnamon. “This is nutmeg,” she explains, catching me eyeing her progress. “It makes vanilla batter taste better, in my opinion.” She grins, and I find myself grinning too. Her hands carefully weave together milk, eggs, and melted butter. “Could you please hand me those muffin tins?”

I nod and grab the muffin tins and a stack of what appears to be paper cups of some sort.

“And the muffin liners,” she adds. And I stand a little taller, knowing that I somehow knew she would need them too. She raises a brow when she sees I already have them in my hand and effortlessly lines the tin and scoops most of the batter like it’s easier than an inhale. I watch her mix what I think is another cinnamon mixture. “This is cinnamon and sugar. And we’ll melt some butter to dip them in when they’ve baked. But first, let’s get these in the oven.”

“Allow me,” I say in a way that makes me wince. She laughs lightly, though, and I’d say it a thousand more times if it meant she would make that sound again.

While the muffins are in the oven, I lean against the counter and try to appear calm. I can make small talk. I have the thought that if I can make her see I’m not awkward in her kitchen, she’ll see I won’t be awkward for her heart.

We chat about her favorite things in Birch Borough and how my songs are coming along, the timer keeping a steady rhythm to our conversation like a game show without the pressure. She asks me about my time in Europe and when I started playing music, and I’m careful to give her the parts of me that I’m ready to have her see. We’re dancing a fine line between me revealing everything or holding back. Because the truth is, she’s already been breaking down my defenses. They’re crumbling. But I’m trying to believe I still have a choice whether or not I allow her in all the way.

We’ve switched back to the topic of baked goods when she casually mentions, “These are called French breakfast puffs.”

I furrow my brow. “Huh. I never heard of them ... when I was in Paris.”

She grins and leans closer to me as if we’re conspiring. “That’s because they’re not really French.” Sparrow scrunches her nose, and we laugh. I absolutely know they’re not French. “Carrying them in the bakery was my father’s doing,” she explains. “It’s a bit of a French fry situation, this ... and this is who I am.” She shrugs. “Very American, but sometimes French ... and these muffins are not one of those times.”

I nod, only half-listening as I watch her hands orchestrate these everyday ingredients into the start of a batter.

“My father knew they weren’t authentic but wanted something new to add to the menu. These made the cut.” She hums. “They are delicious ... my best seller after maple croissants, but I don’t love the name. Puffs should be reserved for cream puffs.”

“What happened to your family?” She looks at me slowly, her smile sinking. And I immediately wish I could take back my question. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that, of course ...”

“No, it’s okay. I actually can’t believe it hasn’t come up ... you know, since we’re dating and all.” She grins, and I know that we’re okay. “It was his heart. And for my mother . . . we lost her in an accident.”

She looks up at me, and I can see the silent request to refrain from asking anything more right now. I nod but can’t let the moment pass without saying, “Sparrow. Tell me when you’re ready, okay?”

Her eyes are glassy as she gives me the saddest, softest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s time for me to return to my nonsense over the muffins. “So, why don’t you just call them French muffins?”

“What?” She’s amused but tries to keep it in check.

“Well, we have English muffins ... why can’t we have French muffins?”

She laughs, but I can see the wheels of her beautiful mind turning. “I’m not sure my father would’ve approved of it.” I know my father would hate it. She looks up into the corner of the room as if she’ll find the answer there. “Actually,” she laughs, “he probably would’ve loved it.”

“So, why are you rejecting my idea to call them French muffins?” I dip my finger in the bowl and watch as she intently follows the journey of the batter to my mouth.

She catches my gaze and quickly shakes her head. “Because this is a bakery—my family’s bakery. And I’m trying to elevate things a little, so calling another baked item something so pedestrian feels a little bit like ... I don’t know ...”

“Not French?” I finish the sentence for her.

She nods shyly, and I grin.

“So, you’re the type of girl who binges Emily in Paris but is also kind of mad about some of the inaccuracies?”

Her mouth drops open.

“You have seen every episode ...” I put a dish into the sink and turn to face her. “Haven’t you?”

She tilts her chin up, and I see her resolve to call her own bluff.

“I mean, wasn’t Alfie just the dreamiest?”

Sparrow turns around so fast a puff of flour gets thrown onto the counter. “No, Gabriel!”

“Ha! I knew it.”

Suddenly, magic happens as she bends away from me, her shoulders shaking silently. When she rises again, she’s wiping tears from her eyes and laughing. Her smile lights up the whole room, and I never want this radiance to fade. I thought she couldn’t be any more lovely, and here she is, lifting the limit on what I thought possible.

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