Page 14 of I Love You in French

My gaze slides over to Rafe right as he looks up at me, like we’re already so in tune with each other that he knows my next move. He shrugs lightly, a grin ticking up one side of his mouth, and I find myself doing the same. Lily catches the exchange, and I can see she’s about to squeal. If it wasn’t so busy today, I’d banish her to the back of the store. Permanently.

I try to ignore him by taking stock of the store. Fall flowers on every table? Check. Tables cleaned and wiped? Check. Our adorable little boxes and napkins restocked? Check. Ability to ignore the beautiful man to my right? Absolutely none.

Rafe is still holding a pencil, and now he’s tapping it on the notebook. The motion makes me think of teacups, the tiny ones that rest in my apartment. Suddenly, I remember the familiar smell of chamomile and the steam that would rise from the porcelain vessel while my mother wrote with a worn-down pencil in her journal or jotted letters back home to those she loved still in Paris. I haven’t thought about that memory in years.

“Excuse me? Sparrow?” Dang, if that voice isn’t as rich as a dark-chocolate ganache. And I think I was staring. Again.

“Mm-hmm?” I manage to get out—and wait, he knows my name?

Rafe nods with a grin, and my feet involuntarily move toward him. If he has a magnet specifically crafted for me on the other side of this counter, I won’t be surprised. Dangerously, I place my elbows on the edge of the furniture between us and lean toward him. His thumb casually touches the rim of his coffee cup.

The fingers on his other hand brush the counter, seeming to move to a beat that only he can hear. I love these counters. They’ve been here since I was a little girl and are just the right amount of antique white worn down with a layer of charm. Rafe could be a model for these counters if they were available to the general public. But my father made them, so they’re one of a kind.

“Don’t ask me for another coffee.” I grin. “I can’t give it to you. I have my limits.”

Rafe contemplates what I’ve just said by continuing the tapping noise. I glance toward the rogue, familiar pencil, but it only picks up speed.

“I wanted to ask you ...” he says, leaning closer to me. Our faces are only inches apart at this point, and I notice a dark-green ring encircling those forest eyes that seem to pull me in deeper the longer I stare at them.

“Mm-hmm?” Still nothing verbally creative happening here, folks. Keep it moving.

His eyes flicker to my lips for a fraction of a moment, and then they’re back to my eyes, intensely trying to figure me out. So, of course, I lean a little closer. The bell on the door signals that a customer has entered the store. I ignore it due to the important work of trying to discover another color in Rafe’s eyes. Lily can take care of the customer.

“Sparrow!” I hear my name spoken in a musical, French accent. Or maybe not.

I’m shocked out of the trance Rafe has me in and feel my cheeks blush. Rafe looks amused and clears his throat but not without sending a glare toward the man at the register.

“Jacques!” I hate how my voice cracks, but this man has had this effect on me since I first laid eyes on him. He’s been in town to work with a French restaurant from Boston that is opening a location in Portsmouth, which is only a town away. I’m not sure why he decided to stay in Birch Borough and not closer to the restaurant, but I haven’t been complaining. Portsmouth is typically full to the brim with renters, and we’re the next best option.

I push disheveled hair behind my ears and try not to grimace when I realize it’s already pulled back. Nervous habit. Rafe’s brow furrows even more as he looks between me and Jacques. I pull away from Rafe and ease toward the register. Meeting Jacques’ light-brown eyes, I take in his outfit: well-tailored pants (I’m guessing, since they’re blocked by the counter, but he always wears them); a grey, button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows and showing off his impeccable, caramel-toned forearms; hair always neatly arranged. He’s the version of a Frenchman that you’d see in the magazines. The one that most definitely has modeled at some point in his life (and I know this because Lily once looked him up for me). I mean, the man has literally been in a Chanel photoshoot ...in Paris. And I ...have never left New England.

I feel Rafe’s interest but can’t bring myself to look his way, not when there’s so much at stake. I don’t like how this is unfolding, but the man I’ve been hoping would ask me out for months is now here, and what if he’s ready to give me something other than his coffee and pastry order? Lily told me not to focus on Jacques, but she also said he asked about me. So, guess what, Lily? This could be my moment. Maybe all the embarrassing events that have happened in my life up to this point could turn around. This could be redemption.

“Sparrow, I’m happy to see you back,” Jacques says smoothly, his accent blurring the words in a pleasant way. “My heart stopped when you weren’t here yesterday.” A smile I haven’t seen from him yet appears as he breaks the imaginary barrier over the counter. “Don’t worry. I think it’s working now,” he says softly.

“Oh, gosh,” I mumble. I immediately see his amusement and try to make it right. “I mean, I’m happy to see you too. So happy.”

At this, I cringe. I chance a glimpse over toward Rafe, who looks confused, irritated, and like he’s trying to figure out what’s happening between me and Jacques. Me too, Rafe. Me too.

Usually, I look forward to seeing Jacques. However misdirected and absurd, in my panic, he is the one I must’ve been thinking of yesterday morning during that critical moment on the train platform. He’s the one I’ve been thinking of every morning since he showed up in town. And all this time, I’ve been hoping he would look at me in the way he’s looking at me now.

I’ve been swearing to everyone (aka Lily) that Jacques is exactly what I need. What I want. I even declared it (sort of) to the world on an (almost) moving train. He’s the very embodiment of what I’ve been waiting and praying for all these years. I mean, isn’t he?

I think about all our interactions up until this point and quickly assess the situation. Handsome? Check. Fashionable? Check. French? CHECK. Single? As far as I know. Witty? To be determined. Personality? Possibly. Interest in me? To be determined. There was the time he mentioned that my croissants reminded him of the ones he used to get when he traveled to Cannes (yes, that place). Right now, he’s making eye contact with me and isn’t breaking it, so that’s something. And yes, I realize the bar has been set really low for me to even have eye contact as a qualifying factor. But I’m also so embarrassed over all the events that have unfolded recently that my fingers are crossed that I can finally celebrate a win in getting Jacques’ attention.

“Your usual?” I manage.

“Oui, s’il te plaît,” he says. Yes, please. Familiar. He’s using the familiar tense, not the formal. He never uses the familiar tense. Are we familiar? Jacques knows I understand some French, so when he is here, he throws in words and phrases here and there. But it’s always been formal. Is this a sign? It feels like a sign.

I get in motion to gather his usual order, my mind racing with possibilities. Surely this is how it begins. It must be. It starts with speaking French formally, and then informally, and then we’re in love. Sounds about right.

I stare up at the clock. It’s been exactly two minutes since Jacques walked into the bakery, and I’m shaking. My nerves are absolutely not because Rafe is watching my every movement as I grind espresso and take a pain au chocolat from the case. It’s not because of the way Rafe’s navy sweater stretches over his shoulders. Or the way I want to run my hands through his hair like I’m folding pastry dough. Wait, what?

“Sparrow, what have you been up to?” Jacques asks, looking at me over the pastry counter as I pull shots of espresso. He’s moved out of the way so Lily can take care of other customers—much to her not-delight—and I crinkle my nose. I have to get Rafe out of my mind so that I can focus on this situation.

“Oh, you know ... this and that.” I shrug.

“D’accord.” Okay.

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