Page 26 of I Love You in French

I continue to pipe, swiftly circling the pastry bag across my baking trays. “Oh my, that does, in fact, sound like a problem.”

His foot taps more rapidly. He’s almost infuriating he’s so attractive.

Hovering a finger over a circle of batter on the tray, he waits, an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t,” I say simply and continue to pipe. Something came over me when I decided that, as long as he’s here, I’m going to soak up the warmth that he brings. Winter will be here before we know it after all.

He huffs and starts pacing. He’s all bark and no bite, pretending to be a pirate while he’s really a prince.

“Did you try The Music Store?” I manage to say while focusing on the tray, so I don’t see his reaction. It really is called The Music Store. Sometimes, in a small town, it’s function over flair.

“I would, except given the size of this town, there is only one. And they’re closed.”

I grin. “Ah, yes, Liam does like to sleep in on Wednesdays. Something about shooting reels of his cat. He’s famous, you know.”

He’s beside me in two seconds, the heat radiating off him and causing my hands, and thus the piping bag, to tremble. I toss it to the side and turn to face him.

“You took them,” he says matter-of-factly.

I scoff. “Sure, because between running a bakery and my own life, I have so much time on my hands that I just get a kick out of somehow stealing your guitar picks and hiding them. Yeah, sure ...”

“Sparrow, are you playing with me?” His eyes flash before they catch on something above my head, and I realize my mistake.

I should’ve turned the raccoon so he was facing the other way. I watch as Rafe’s jaw shifts back and forth. He’s so cute when he’s irritated, but I feel the energy of him trying to prevent himself from laughing. Rafe ever so slowly shifts his gaze to mine, and I feel my eyes widen.

“What is that?” He points over my head.

“What is what?” I ask innocently.

“That—that over your head.”

“What’s over my head?”

“On the wall, near the order sheets. What is that?”

I hide my hands behind my back to distract myself. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh ... “Really, Rafe, I don’t know what’s gotten into you today.”

He crosses the space between us and the wall at record speed. I keep my back turned. He’ll be back. And I’m right. After some shuffling and sighing, he’s in front of me again, the smell of him invading my space.

“This.” He’s pointing to one of his guitar picks—because I hid one back here.

“Huh,” I say.

“Huh? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“So strange that it would be here ...” I swirl my hand in the air as if to pull down answers from the sky. Suddenly I’m a dame in one of those Old Hollywood movies. I think about putting him out of his misery, but honestly, I’m still having too much fun. “Rafe, have you been sleepwalking or something?”

A mischievous look crosses his face, and I swallow. Seems like he’s ready to play too.

“Sleepwalking to the point that I manage to walk across town, break into this store, walk into the kitchen, and somehow decide to hide ONE guitar pick on the stuffed-animal thing that’s ...” He looks up again to study it. “... wearing a beret and holding a croissant?”

I throw back my shoulders and lift my chin. “It’s a raccoon. His name is Philippe, as it is pronounced in French. If you press his paw, he says, ‘C’est incroyable!’” His mouth drops. I dare him with my eyebrows.

“I will not touch his paw.”

I wave my hand again. “Your loss.”

His eyes dart from the back wall to me again before his shoulders slump slightly. “Fine, that little critter can have it. This time.” He looks at Philippe as if he would like to crush him if he could. “Isn’t that unsanitary?” he asks.

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