Page 10 of I Love You in French

Chapter Five

Rafe

I can’t tell if the adorable woman in front of me is stumped, irritated, or frustrated. It’s amusing the heck out of me. And yes, I’m describing her as adorable. She’s the one who was on my train yesterday.

I got back to my seat, and in my peripheral vision, there she was, stretched out with a book featuring a picture of a woman in some sort of period clothing—I’m guessing something in the age of Mr. Darcy—and a man wearing a surprisingly great coat. She was spread out on the train seat, a slight grin on her slumbering face. If she had been awake, I would’ve asked for her number. Somehow, I think if I had seen her fully, I wouldn’t have been able to.

There’s a child with a volcano of chocolate milk erupting in the corner and a frantic mother trying to clean the sticky mess off the floor, but I don’t even glance in their direction. Normally, that type of thing would draw my attention.

But I can’t stop looking at the woman in front of me who is annihilating my thoughts of anyone else I’ve considered attractive. I heard her declaration on the train yesterday, turned around, got my first look at the side of her face, and decided I couldn’t look at her ever again if I wanted to keep a hold on my heart. And then I caught a glimpse of her sleeping. The way her bottom lip had parted just a bit as if she was ready to talk in her sleep. My chest warms, and I suddenly wish for the colder air outside. It’s too hot in here.

Her hair is the color of dark honey, and her eyes are a river of melted chocolate. I was irritated when I heard her talking about wanting to date someone French—for the second time—but now, looking at her, I can’t remember why it frustrated me. Oh, probably because it complicates any hope of a relationship with her if I wanted one. My heart and body are fighting it out with my mind right now. And my mind isn’t winning.

“What else can I get you ... Rafe?” she squeaks out.

Her eyes flutter toward the window with a grin, as if my name is satisfying to say. But then she shakes her head lightly and gives me a shy smile. When I gave her my name, I tried to be charming, but the hopeful look on her face when we first made eye contact shattered the second she heard me speak. Instinctively, I understand that she was hoping for a voice other than my own.

I think a part of me died, and I brought on some wrath from my ancestors when I butchered “please” in French. My whole mouth is bitter with the aftertaste of such a crime.

Maybe I should’ve handled this all differently, but when she was talking about wanting to date a French guy, I couldn’t get the words out. And the reason sinks soul deep.

“Uh ...” my voice cracks. This isn’t doing me any favors.

The friend—Lily, I think her name tag reads—looks both riveted and confused. She glances at her friend and then looks back at me. Making a decision, she grabs a rag and heads toward the chocolate-milk kid. He may have left by now, for all I know, but who even cares at this point? The bell has chimed a few times, and there are definitely two or three people behind me, but again, I’m not moving. If this woman is looking at me, there’s no chance I’m doing anything to interrupt her.

“I’ll take an Americano, please?” Why do I keep turning statements into questions? I’m usually confident, able to accomplish anything I set my mind to—except for talking to this woman.

“For here?” she asks, and I manage to nod.

“That I can do ...I think,” she whispers as she slowly turns away toward the machine. She mumbles something about shaking. Without her gaze on me, my shoulders relax a bit, and I breathe a little easier. I can finally take in my surroundings.

The sounds of the café bring a smile to my face. Suddenly, I miss the mornings of sitting in the corner of a pâtisserie with the smell of brewed coffee, the café tables on the sidewalks, the sounds of the city, the view of mopeds rushing by ...

“Anything in it?”

ZAM. I follow the voice, and we make eye contact. I’ve been hit by lightning once again. I try to focus on anything but her eyes, probably looking like I don’t usually drink espresso and am thrown by the question or that this is a cry for help.

I shake my head too excitedly and sigh audibly when she turns back to the machine.

“You should just ask Sparrow out,” a voice behind me whispers.

I look over my shoulder to see a woman with whitening hair, a glimmer in her eyes, and a smirk as wide as the Atlantic Ocean looking at me. She nods toward the woman I now know is named Sparrow, and I feel my cheeks warm. I clear my throat. This must be what embarrassment feels like.

“I—uh—well, I . . . can’t.”

“And why not?” She’s clearly not impressed with my response.

The reasons it wouldn’t be a good idea to be involved with anyone right now filter through my head like a viewfinder: disappointed parents, writer’s block, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, nights in Paris, mornings in Los Angeles, an ominous deadline for a demo, that moment a few nights ago where I swear I did a very masculine version of crying myself to sleep.

“That will be three-fifty,” says the angel voice from behind the counter.

My answer to the nosy customer behind me is cut off, and I’m glad for it. I pull out my wallet and pay for the drink. Usually, I would take it and rush out the door, but today, I just want to be near her a little longer. I walk around the counter, not without noticing a wink from Mystery Advice Woman. I move to the stools overlooking the espresso machine and pull one out to sit.

Well, I try to sit. I basically pull out the stool, attempt to sit, falter, and then finally make it onto the stool. Hopefully, she didn’t see. Sparrow is placing the Americano—poured into a European-looking ceramic cup—onto the counter. I move to take it a little too slowly and realize I’m saddened our fingers didn’t touch in the process. What is with me today?

She gives me a little grin, and I breathe deeply, watching the steam from the cup dance in the air. My heart is beating out of my chest. Maybe it’s all the movement in my life lately, or it could be this woman. I can’t believe her name is Sparrow. I rub a hand over my heart to try to knead out the emotion that seems to have caught there.

I look up to see Sparrow making the next set of drinks, coffee cups already neatly stacked beside each other. I know she said the coffee maker hates her, but to me, she looks perfectly in her element. Like an actual angel dropped into the middle of a café. I’m wondering if she smells like croissants and coffee when she peeks over her shoulder at me with a look I don’t know how to read.

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