Page 24 of I Love You in French

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her eyes still trying to figure me out.

“Feeding you.” A drip of melted ice cream hits my palm.

“Why?”

I move my gaze from her perfect lips to the spoon and back again. “I don’t know.”

She furrows her brow. “Oh, I thought maybe Jacques was still watching.”

“Hmm,” I hum. “That would’ve made more sense.”

I will my hands to put the spoon down and walk away with as much dignity as possible when Sparrow grasps my wrist. Her touch pulses through my arm and toward my heart again, like she just can’t help but check on its condition. Instead of turning away, she takes the bite from the spoon, whipped cream and a hint of apple filling now lightly resting near her top lip, and closes her eyes in delight.

“Good?” I choke out, my pulse pounding.

“Wicked good.” She grins, and I find my thumb brushing the cream off her face ever so lightly. She stills and then settles into my touch.

“Kiss her already!” Lucy cheers from behind the counter.

Sparrow’s eyes widen, and the spell is broken as I realize how close I was to doing just that. What was almost a movie moment now feels like Lucy pouring a pitcher of ice water on my hopes and dreams. I must pay attention so I don’t forget who I am and what I want. And while it looks, sounds, and smells like the Sparrow sitting next to me, and I wish I had met her before Jacques, we both know I’m not really what she wants.

Still, I look to Sparrow, who is looking at me with what can only be described as whispers of hope breezing through her eyes, and I want it to stay. I lift my hand, and she holds her breath as I grab a piece of hair falling near her eyes. She stays still as I lightly twist it between my fingers and set it right again, never pushing it back. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and I think this must be a glimpse of what it feels like to be cherished and seen by someone. And even if it’s pretend, something about this doesn’t feel pretend at all. In fact, it’s so real it aches a little.

I clear my throat.

“Um . . . so, did you want anything else? Another coffee?” Lucy says while fanning herself with a pot holder in my peripheral vision.

I open my mouth to say something but close it again just as quickly. Sparrow raises an eyebrow. Without looking away from her, I find myself softly saying, “I’ll settle for that, for now.”

Chapter Ten

Sparrow

We never did talk about the rules for our fake-dating charade. And I don’t want to worry about them. Because even though fear is beating around my heart, the thought of putting a rule in place like, Hand holding only when in public unless a kiss is necessary or Must appear to like each other, etcetera, seems too constricting. I’m learning that Rafe is more creative than I imagined—not just in music but in how he moves through life.

Last night felt like a dream. After our ice-cream-and-pie-eating moment at the diner, Rafe brought me home. He opened my car door and even walked me to my apartment. I left the Polaroid he took of me on the dashboard, not hating the way he looked at it before getting out of the car.

After hearing his music last night, I downloaded his playlist on my music app. There were a few singles and some covers. I may or may not have fallen asleep with his music playing (I did). Since I don’t have social media (I know, I know) I managed to text Lily to check him out for me. She sent me beautifully candid photos of him recording in the studio, playing his guitar, and even a few where he’s making ridiculous faces. His playfulness might be the most surprising attribute for someone as attractive as him.

I reach my hand inside my front apron pocket and feel the guitar pick I placed there from the show last night. I plan on giving it back to Rafe today. When I feel the imprint of his initial on the pick once more, I sigh.

I’m walking toward the flower market to meet Lily when I spot Jacques. He is so French it hurts. He’s chatting with someone who looks very important on the corner, his dress shoes and jacket giving the impression he just stepped off the runway. He spots me and leaves the conversation, moving toward me with purpose.

“Rory, salut!” Huh. He’s using my nickname. Where did he hear that? I flash to the memory of Rafe’s nickname for me and feel my cheeks heat.

“Hi, Jacques. Good to see you.” His eyes look warm and inviting today, in contrast to the cool, aloof demeanor he wore when we first met. “How’s Vivienne?”

He winces slightly and shakes his head. “Oh, we’re not together. I just didn’t want to go to the show alone.” He gives an adorable shrug, and I feel his reason. Because I don’t like to do anything alone either.

“And . . . she’s okay with that?”

He nods affirmatively. “Yes, of course. We both agreed it wasn’t a date.”

My mind flashes to my own agreement with Rafe. “Oh.”

He leans toward me, the scent of his French cologne revealing his sudden closeness, and my breath catches. “I’m only interested in one woman right now.” I startle at his directness and focus on my brand-new fascination with the pastry case between us.

“How is Rafe?” he says, but I notice the way his hands clench the sides of his jacket.

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