Page 37 of I Love You in French

“And just what is so funny?” I ask, my arms crossing over my chest.

“It’s just ... you,” she laughs. “Emily in Paris references.”

Little does she know I’ve binged the show too. (And love to hate it.) I’m grinning as she smirks and begins to wipe up the flour on the counter. I move over to help her, and soon, my hands are covered in flour while she has a neat little pile in front of her.

“I mean, who knows? You could even call your new French boyfriend a French muffin.”

At this, her nose crinkles, and she tilts her head to the side. Her hands go a mile a minute as she remembers something that she finds exciting. “Oh my goodness! In college, there was this couple on my floor, and she was American, and he was English, and she always called him her little English muffin!” Her mouth opens in shock while her eyes light with amusement. “I couldn’t possibly,” she says, more like Audrey Hepburn than Sparrow.

I lean closer to her and wiggle my eyebrows dramatically. Her eyes widen. “I’ll be your French muffin.” The funny thing is, I’m not joking. I would totally let her call me her French muffin if it meant I could be near her like this more often.

The smile falters on her face. Her eyes scan me as if looking for something she hasn’t yet found the answer to. “But you’re not French,” she whispers.

I swallow. “What if I was?”

Now she swallows, and her teeth pull on her bottom lip, brow furrowed. “But you’re not.”

My heart sinks a little, and I feel the urge to get away from this pressure building in my chest as quickly as possible. The batter left in the mixing bowl in front of us calls to me, and when I see her pick up a few items and turn toward the sink, without overthinking it, I smear my thumb in the batter and paint her hand with the mixture. She freezes and turns to me, her eyes wide again and mouth slightly open.

I force myself not to look at her lips as I hold back a laugh.

“How. Dare. You.” Her eyes send warning flares, but I see her holding back another laugh. I don’t break eye contact and dip my thumb back into the bowl in slow motion. Her mouth opens wider as a big heap of batter rests on my thumb, and I wait.

“Don’t!” she warns as the blob of batter lands directly on her nose and catches in her eyelashes. I watch it drop from her face to the top of her t-shirt. When it rolls to her apron like a Slinky toy, a laugh escapes me.

“That’s it!” she yells as she reaches for the rest of the batter, but I block her before she can reach my face. Instead, her hand swipes across my chest and stains my blue sweater with a handprint of muffin batter.

“Ugh!” she’s yelling, and I’m laughing more than I’ve let myself laugh in ages as she successfully gets another handful of batter and smears it in my hair while I double over. She’s ruthless.

I stand to my full height and watch as she waits for me to retaliate. Instead, I change tactics and step closer to her. The smell of the batter and her distinct scent of caramelized sugar is a heady combination. Her eyes darken slightly as we stare at each other. A few drips of batter from our messy fingers flop to the floor. I reach for her hand, the sticky batter gluing us together. Our fingers intertwine, and I never want to let her go. Even though the moment is chaotic, it’s wonderful.

My heart rate accelerates, the sensations in my hands heightening, and I feel my eyes taking in each detail of her face. She tips up her chin, and I watch, mesmerized, as her eyes land on my lips. She’s trembling slightly, and I gain courage in knowing I’m not the only one about to explode from the heat in this kitchen. Finally, she lifts her eyes to mine, and I know it’s my moment.

If I don’t kiss Sparrow right here, right now, I may never recover from the regret. I stare at her lips and commit to memory the moment they part slightly. I lessen the space between us but pause as my mouth barely brushes hers. Inhaling shakily as the very edges of my lips burn deliciously, I know I’m about to be a changed man.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Sparrow jumps back and stares at our muffin-battered hands woven together. She gasps and shakes her head slightly. I let out a breath. The moment is gone.

“Oh, don’t burn!” she pleads, searching everywhere for something to grab the muffins. Little does she know I’m already toast. I see a pot holder on the counter in front of me and clear my throat.

“Can’t talk about it right now!” She rushes toward me. Seeing the pot holder, she grasps it frantically and flings open the oven doors. The kitchen smells amazing, and nothing seems to be burning except for me. She places the tins on cooling racks, and I see her slouch over like she just ran a marathon and didn’t just do what she’s done thousands of times before.

I walk up and stop right behind her, the intensity between us still humming. The moment may be over for me to kiss her, but it isn’t too late to let her know I’m not done with whatever is brewing between us. Lightly touching her arm, I reach for a towel on the shelf above her. She stiffens but doesn’t move. Her breath catches, and I close my eyes for a moment, relief washing through me. My reaction wasn’t just one-sided, and I didn’t dream whatever just happened only moments ago.

I wipe my hands and reach for another towel. Gently, I capture her shoulders and turn her toward me. I need her to know I won’t push for anything. Instead of holding her close like I’d like, I reach for her hand and begin carefully wiping away the batter that’s crusting onto her skin.

“Baked goods are a serious business,” I say, my voice raspier than usual, while she focuses steadily on our hands.

“I think the pot holder is shot,” she whispers. “It never did fit right.” The opening of the item she’s referring to is nearly sealed shut from the batter that transferred when she hurriedly put it on without washing her hands first.

I look around, and at least a dozen of the same pot holder lines the shelves near the oven. She has things in her kitchen that she doesn’t even like. It’s infuriating. In the short time I’ve known her, I’m convinced this woman deserves to be surrounded only by things that bring her joy, especially when she is so content with the smallest details.

I don’t know what her dreams are quite yet, but if I can make them happen, I will. Like those pesky pot holders, I think she is holding onto ideas that need replacing. From everything I’ve seen so far, she’s got the wrong narrative of who she is and what she deserves. I won’t stand by and let her believe the lies anymore. We may not be ready to face the full truth between us, but what I feel is honest. I decide then and there that I’m going to be the one she finds shelter in, as much as possible, for as long as possible.

“If you didn’t like how they fit, why did you keep buying them?” I ask softly.

Her eyes get a bit glassy. “Um ... because they were supposed to be what I needed.”

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