Page 44 of I Love You in French

Chapter Sixteen

Sparrow

I still have the application for my shop to be featured in The Seacoast Gazette hovering in my mind but haven’t yet applied. Online shop? Recipes of my mother’s? It’s swirling uncomfortably in my mind. Despite the irony, Rafe has been the only one who brings me a sense of peace these days, even if I’m melting because of the tension between us. I find myself hoping that he’ll stop by the bakery today, which explains why I’m hovering at the front of the store, grabbing things from the back so I can keep my eyes trained on the entrance.

I’ve been doing my best not to completely lose sight of the fact that Rafe is going to move on. He has to. And he’s not French. (Can’t forget that ...even though that argument of mine wasn’t sound from the beginning.)

Lily is rolling her eyes so much I’m sure she’s going to do some damage if I don’t get this situation under control.And if she was here right now, she’d have me blaring a playlist about not needing men and being independent, but because I’m me, I have soft French café music surrounding us (me and the few regulars here). I’m rearranging a tray of salted caramel macarons for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes when I hear the door open. My eyes bounce up to find Grey and Ivy walking in, and I feel my smile grow at the sight of them.

“Rory!” Grey yells.

I wave and lean over to give them hugs across the counter. Grey’s light-brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, her wide, cat-eye glasses peeking out from under her bangs. Ivy’s dark-golden hair is nestled under one of those headbands with the knots on top like a vintage icon. They’re both wearing long, cozy sweaters and boots, a sign that fall is certainly here. It makes my heart happy to see them because it’s been way too long.

“So, any men from France hanging around here these days?” Grey asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. If anyone would recognize a storybook romance, it’s her. She’s constantly surrounded by books and is the fastest and most prolific reader I’ve ever met. She’s been mostly single in the time that I’ve known her, although I suspect it might be because of a mutual friend of ours, but she’s a romantic at heart in every way.

Right now, I know she’s talking about Jacques, but her words don’t get my heart fluttering like they used to. Ivy grins a bit, her husky voice breaking through the air—the type of voice you want to read to you or sing on a cold winter’s night in front of a fire. She’s always had the coolest voice of anyone I know.

“Or, you know, any other men hanging around here?” She shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be French.” Ivy and Grey share a look.

“Okay, so, you know about Rafe, clearly ...” I start.

They are practically giddy as I turn to get their usual orders: a pumpkin spice latte for Grey and a hot chocolate for Ivy. She really is like a Christmas card come to life, now that I think of it. I set to steaming the milk and allow the familiar sound of the steam frothing to settle my nerves.

“I understand why people would be so fond of him. I mean with his hair ... and his eyes.” I sigh and lean into the counter for a second.

“What about his eyes?” Grey asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I pour a splash of house-made syrup into the cup and grind more espresso while I give her question some thought. “Oh, gosh . . . his eyes hold secrets. An enchanted forest full of them, saying you’ll get lost, but you’ll have fun along the way.” I pour the steamed milk—perfectly frothed, might I add—into the coffee mixture, content with the hint of pumpkin meeting crema at the rim of the cup, a heart in white foam clearly outlined. I put a lid on it and work on the hot chocolate. Ivy’s voice breaks through the routine.

“Hmm ... sounds dreamy. Anything else about him?”

I pour some of our homemade chocolate sauce into the cup, add a little steamed milk, and mix so that it’s integrated before pouring in the rest of the milk. I put in a pump of house-made, salted caramel syrup for good luck.

“Well,” I begin. “I mean, I know he’s not Jacques, but he’s his own version of a dream. The hair, the height, the way he dresses. You know, his style is kind of like a classic, Old-Hollywood-meets-boy-next-door type of vibe.” I drizzle some chocolate over the top in another heart design. So many hearts to match the ones I’m sure are in my eyes. I grab two of our to-go bags, light-brown patisserie paper with our logo stamped on the front, and insert a sampling of macarons in each one. I also package up some croissants in an attempt to make up for our lack of time together lately.

“And I just have to say . . . ” I start, adding the treats to a bag with a satin ribbon handle. I put the drinks in a to-go carrier, gathering everything together. “I don’t know, sometimes I just want to tell him—”

“Tell me what?”

I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. I nearly knock over the drinks but recover in time. Even with my eyes tightly shut and my back to the man, I know who is behind me.

“Please wake up, please wake up...” I whisper.

“You’re awake,” Grey assures me.

“Yes, very awake,” is the added (non-helpful) encouragement from Ivy.

I take a deep breath and roll back my shoulders. When I turn toward my friends, I also spot Rafe grinning at me. Something is clouding his expression, but I’m too focused on the fact that he’s wearing glasses. As if he needed yet another reason to make him more heart melting, he now has solid frames accentuating his green eyes. I clear my throat and focus on my friends, who are standing wide-eyed and slightly slack-jawed at the sight of Rafe. I know, friends. Hard to believe he’s real. And the glasses really take it up a level. He is not making this easy.

Feeling my eyes take on a bit of a “help me” glint, they finally turn to face me. They’re a step behind Rafe, and with his eyes still on me, they use this opportunity to both give me a thumbs-up sign. Before I can manage another word, the little traitors grab their treats and are out the door, but not before I see them through the window peeking back at me. Ivy fans her face while the to-go bag swings wildly from her wrist, and Grey pulls her away from the window.

“How long were you standing there?” I ask while pretending to reorganize some pastries. Again.

“Not long. Except, tell me, what do you think of this shirt?”

I look over to see him in a sage-green V-neck sweater, his eyes illuminated with amusement. “Do they bring out my forest eyes?”

I roll my own eyes and try to act unaffected. “First of all, you don’t know I was talking about you. I could’ve been talking about Jacques.”

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