Page 56 of I Love You in French

Rafe rocks back and forth on his heels and moves his hand to run it through his hair before he stops and puts it back at his side. A boyish look crosses his face as he clasps a hand behind his back while grabbing his other arm. He’s adorable, and I don’t know how I will ever get over the way his hair falls lightly over his forehead. The way his eyes can tell me the weather of his heart. The way I now crave him, like I’ve been hungry for love for years, and he’s the first glimpse of it I’ve ever actually seen. He turns his perfect profile toward the window, and I take the opportunity to soak him in, the parting sunlight outlining his lashes and his full mouth.

Rafe is gorgeous, but he doesn’t seem to know it. It’s disarming. And he’s not immune to aging, but it adds character. The slight lines around his eyes are more etched when he laughs. The scar near his eyebrow pulls and shifts his face when he raises a brow. When he smiles, the indents near his jaw only make his dimples shine more. I think of how much more handsome he’ll be as he ages. The way the creases and lines will only make him more endearing.

He turns toward me, his eyes intense and a little hesitant. Whatever line we’ve crossed, we both know we’re not leaving the same way we entered this apartment. The least I can do is give him caffeine for the journey.

I point toward the stovetop coffeepot, and he nods slightly. I move close to the stove and stop when his arm lightly crosses me. He points to himself, and I nod. He wants to take care of it—take care of me. As he fills the pot with water, I allow myself to watch his movements.

I watch his hands move, carefully measuring and methodically in motion. He does everything with intention. From the notes he chooses to each word in the songs he sings. The way he moves through this world is like music because everything he does is music. Fast, slow, unsure, confident . . . it’s all beautiful.

For a moment, I think of how normal this feels. Him being in my home. Him being my home. I’ve never felt this way for a man but have also rarely ever felt like this—as if I want to stay a while and not wonder about the world I’m missing because this, being near each other, is enough. And it’s then that I realize that the gnawing feeling of loneliness I’ve felt here in my home isn’t wrapped around me now. Feeling empty is like a memory with space between me and the constant companion loneliness used to be.

We’re still playing the no-talking game as he gestures back toward the pastry box. I nod, and he opens it, revealing the croissants that are the best found in the States—the only ones better found in Paris. I wouldn’t know that to be true myself, but I remember my father taking me there where my mother thought they were the best. He said he could tell when she really missed Paris and those croissants were the cure every time. It’s hard to imagine that Boston, of all places, would be the place that puts croissants on the map for me, but I trust what my father told me.

My eyes burn at the gesture Rafe has made. He went to Boston just to get them, and now, as he holds out a croissant in his hands, I swear I suddenly catch a glimpse of who he must’ve been as a young man. Slightly shy. Timid. Uncertain of the world. A flash of anger moves through my heart at the idea that his parents have had years with him and never really seen him. They still don’t see him. I suddenly feel robbed of all the days I’ve waited for him, not believing someone like him was walking the earth too.

His eyes shift to the floor, as if he’s also thinking about something, before he meets my eyes again. As I reach for the croissant, our hands touch, and neither of us pulls away. The pulsing through my body starts at my fingers and charges up to my heart, which is suddenly beating so loudly through my chest that I’m certain Rafe can hear it.

My eyes travel quickly to his heart to catch it beating so strongly it’s shifting the fabric of his shirt. Ok, so I’m not the only one. He grins, using his free hand to rub the back of his neck, as if to confess that he’s caught.

I release some air I’ve been holding, the sound of my exhale the only noise besides the ticking of the clock on the wall and the coffee now brewing on the stove.

Rafe reaches into the box and pulls out another croissant. Bending to catch my eyes, he lifts back up to his full height and lightly taps our croissants together. Cheers.

We smile softly at each other and move in to take a bite of the beautiful, buttery wonders. It’s only two seconds in that I recognize how big of a bite I just took. My cheeks are slightly puffed out, and I’m trying to cover my mouth with my hand, my cheeks reddening at my own clumsiness. I was so distracted by whatever is happening in this moment that I bit off more than I could chew. Literally.

Just when I think I have it under control, I feel his hand wrap around mine, tiny dots of the flaky pastry stuck to his rough fingers.

I swallow the bite and steel myself to look up. When I do, it does not disappoint. Forest-green eyes meet mine, and suddenly, I see everything. Like I’m waking up for the first time and realizing that how I was seeing the world is nothing compared to how I could see it. He’s unlocked whatever he’s withheld so carefully from me before. There’s no guardedness. Rafe is letting me see him fully, and if I thought the gesture of bringing my favorite pastry was sweet, this gesture takes my breath away.

It would take me years to decipher what he’s showing me in this moment, his layers vaster than the galaxies above this tiny apartment. I inhale sharply and watch as his eyes lock in on my lips. He stares so intensely that I feel myself being pulled closer to him.

Without breaking his focus from my mouth, his finger circles around his own mouth to gesture that there’s something on my lips. I breathe in slowly and lift my hand, my fingers brushing over croissant flakes. Tons of them. Like they are my new form of lip gloss. I try to chuckle, but really, the embarrassment takes over. Before I walked home, I applied some lip balm to protect against the cold air. I now regret this decision as I realize that the croissant has stuck to it like sugar on a powdered donut.

I manage to wipe some of the crumbs from my mouth, my hands trembling and my lips pulsing from the friction. When I meet Rafe’s gaze, expecting to find laughter or pity, I find reassurance. I don’t think another human has ever looked at me the way he is at this moment—appreciating me despite my blunder and staying close. His feet move a fraction toward me. One would hardly notice, but it was movement just the same.

His eyes shift again to my mouth, and he swallows. I reach my fingers to brush away more of the offending flakes when Rafe’s hand meets mine. This time, he doesn’t let go. He laces his fingers through mine, and when our palms touch, I suck in a breath. If I wasn’t alive before, I am now. So very alive. I should be embarrassed, but ...I’m not. I’m actually liberated. I don’t have to be perfect with him, and I force my eyes closed to etch this feeling into my bones. I’m wishing and willing it to sink in and never leave me.

He takes the arm with our hands and fingers entwined and wraps it around my back, pulling me closer to him.

I open my eyes to look up at him, an element of desire radiating out of him that causes me to shiver. His face is hovering just out of reach, his warm breath sweet and buttery, his skin radiating with that cedar-and-coffee smell that is just so him. I’ve never been so still in my life, waiting for what will happen next.

He tilts his head toward me, asking my permission.

I hitch my own breath and nod slightly, the heat from him warming not just my body but my soul. Rafe steadily breaks through the barrier that’s hovering between us, his nose lightly brushing my cheek as he tilts his head and slightly nuzzles the side of my face, his scruff marking my skin. I inhale when I feel his eyelashes flutter closed and grip his hand around my back even tighter. I’m desperate to know what his kiss feels like. I’m aching for it. If I’m going to be crushed by the feeling of love when he leaves, I know that having this memory of him will be worth it.

With his free hand, his calloused thumb swipes stubborn croissant flakes from my mouth so gently I almost miss it. He slowly traces my bottom lip, and I lean into the movement.

“I’ve got you, Sugar,” he raggedly whispers against my mouth before his lips meet mine. Warmth moves through my system, and the magnetic pull that we share intensifies. He slowly moves from one end of my mouth to the other, tiny kisses touching stray flakes of buttery pastry, and I’m dying. His lips are like warm rose petals brushing against my skin and melting the butter leftover from the croissant. My heart is thrumming. I sway lightly from the emotion of it all and feel pulses of light as his palms guide my hips to rest gently against the counter.

He kisses me slowly and gently, and I feel him trembling from the intensity. He’s layering me with affection. Layers and layers, like the pastry that started this otherworldly experience. Rafe stops kissing me for a moment, and I lean into him. I don’t want to beg, but a small sound escapes me. I feel his breath moving in a staccato rhythm over my mouth, smell his warm scent, and still feel my lips pulsing from the ghost of his kiss. Our hands come unclasped but not before he pulls me closer to him so that we never lose contact. I search his eyes, now dark as a night sky over a forest with only hints of light. The universe is in them, and he’s holding all the stars I’ve ever wished upon.

It’s then I make a choice. I’m not ready to let him go just yet. So I wrap my free hand into his hair and feel when he lets his head relax into my touch. I let my fingers flow lightly through the tousled strands, then slide them down his neck and around until my fingers trace his stubble and the curve of his jaw. He moans softly, and I’m convinced it’s the most alluring sound I’ve ever heard.

Now it’s my turn to ask him for more. I tilt my head, any hesitation I may have had politely on pause. He nods and then shows me how much he’ll meet me when I ask him to by lifting me up so that my legs wrap around his waist. Feeling his strength as he carries me breaks a wall in my heart. I feel tears sting my eyes as I pull him closer. I press my lips to him and start to tell him all the things I haven’t had the courage to say before. How much he’s changed my life. How I never knew there could be anyone like him. How scared I am. With his hands under my thighs, he guides me back gently to sit on the counter, our mouths never losing contact. He meets everything I’m telling him and tells me, in his own way, how much he’s in awe of me. He’s wanted to do this since we met. And I’ve unraveled him in the best way.

His calloused thumb—suddenly my favorite thing—traces my spine where my high-waisted jeans end and my skin begins, and I’m branded. I’ve never been kissed like this in my life, and just when I feel like I should probably put on the brakes and hide, I do something I never thought I would—I let my heart move even closer. We started to see the shoreline, and I threw us back into deeper water.

My lips part to invite him in, and when I finally taste him, everything is light and comets and things I’ve never dared to dream. It’s gold and stardust. I let out a content sound and feel the effect it has on him as his hands move to trace the flow of my hips, the bend in my waist, and the curve of my neck. He’s on a mission to map me, and I let him explore. I run my hands up his chest, over his tight shoulders, and feel how he plays me in a way that’s art. Like his hands would play his guitar, finding the notes and melodies, all his focus on making the perfect song—so he is with me. He’s learning and finding what would make me sing.

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