Page 55 of I Love You in French

It turns out, long after we left each other, I am up until three in the morning, trying to find the right notes and words because I have to be sure to somehow never forget that one of the most magical moments of my life was seeing Sparrow studying the stars and choosing to hug me under an autumn night sky.

Chapter Twenty

Sparrow

I’m on my way to grab something for dinner at our local farmers’ market, still humming “La Vie en Rose” from our slow dance in the bakery and trying to concentrate on something other than Rafe dressed as Seb. It’s not working well. Especially not after the way he played the piano at the tavern and realizing he seems to know how to hold me just right.

The problem is that I’m scared. Terrified. And even looking at life through rose-colored glasses isn’t going to wipe away the years of hiding and the deep desire in me to somehow know, with certainty, that I can have the kind of love my parents shared.

“A good song,” a rich voice says behind me. I freeze and turn to find Jacques with some farm-fresh eggs in a tote bag and some locally made jam.

“Jacques, hello—or bonjour!”

He grins sweetly. “Bonjour, Rory!” He looks at my tote bag of nothing and grins. “Looks like we had the same idea, although it doesn’t look like you’re having much success.”

I smile at him and try to push down the anxiety creeping up my spine.

“My mother used to sing that song,” he says. Unlike when I’m with Rafe, something in me constricts, and I can’t find the words to mention my parents.

“How’s work?” I ask, attempting light conversation.

“Good, good. I’m thinking of signing a contract—to stay after all.” A look of questioning crosses his face, like he’s very interested in my reaction, before I see it fade.

And I do my best to stay composed. Because if he stays, that means there could’ve been more of a chance for us to get to know each other after all. And Rafe is still leaving. Something I’ve had trouble holding on to lately.

“How was Halloween?” he asks.

I can’t contain the smile that crosses my face. “It was ...magic.”

Jacques gives me a puzzled grin, his button-down shirt and classic cardigan advertising his good fashion sense. At the moment, all I can think of is how Rafe would wear it better. And my heart does a little skip. As much as the man before me used to occupy my thoughts, I think of Rafe telling me I’m brave. I think of how it felt to be in his arms. Even though we agreed not to get our hearts involved (well, I came up with the idea, and he went along with it), my heart is very much involved. And I know what I need to do.

“Excuse me, Jacques? I’m so sorry, but I need to go.”

He looks rightfully confused. “But you didn’t get anything.”

I let out a laugh. “I’m not so sure about that yet.”

My fingers fly over my phone, and I just hope that the man who held me last is close by enough to see it.

∞∞∞

It’s been a rush since I first laid eyes on Rafe. And something in me has snapped.

How anxious I am without him is the degree of peace I feel when I’m with him. My stomach twirls as I feel a pull to see him and be near him. And little does he know that I wait to see him every day. That when I’m not seeing him, I’m hoping to see him. I’m always waiting to find any valid reason to ask him to stay or come back.

I turn the corner of the store to climb the stairs to my apartment, and there, sitting on the steps outside my door, is Rafe. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through it a few times. His denim-blue t-shirt is wrinkled in one spot, another indicator he’s been pulling on it. Could it be that he’s just as nervous to see me as I am to see him?

He’s here. I give him a slow smile and walk to my door. The energy crackles between us, and I don’t miss the addictive smell of him already filling the space outside my apartment.

He grins and stands, a look of relief in his eyes and a box of pastries beside him.

We walk up the stairs, him trailing behind me, and already I can feel tingles moving up my back and through my fingers. I stop at the door and pray he doesn’t see how my key shakes in my hand. I get my answer when the key knocks against the lock before I can insert it. I wince but set it straight and get us through the door.

I motion for Rafe to put down the pink pastry box from the French bakery in Boston that I love and watch as he carefully puts it on the counter. He handles them like they’re valuable—yet another reason I’m undone. I don’t even know when he would’ve gotten those, but I tuck away the fact that he even did.

We haven’t said a word to each other yet, and I don’t know what the rules are right now, but I fear that any sound will break whatever magic is happening between us. From the look on his face, Rafe understands and feels the same.

He points to my empty tote, and I just shrug. I’ll worry about dinner later.

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