Page 38 of I Love You in French

“And they weren’t what you hoped for?”

She shakes her head and moves her feet into first position. She seems to find comfort in ballet poses. When I’m almost finished wiping away the wayward batter, I lightly wrap my hand around her wrist and move the towel back and forth across her fingers. There’s nothing else there, and we both know it, but she’s not moving, so I take a chance.

“Well, maybe there’s one out there that fits better.” And just like that, I’m not talking about the pot holders anymore, and she knows it. Sparrow searches my eyes, and I let her. I’m not sure whether five seconds or five minutes pass, but I won’t move until she finds what she needs. I almost hope she discovers my secret. When she seems satisfied with her search for now, she nods slightly and releases our hands. I don’t miss the extra press of her palm into my own before she moves to the sink and turns on the water.

I thought this had everything to do with her wanting someone French. It doesn’t. She’s waiting to move forward ... She just doesn’t want to do it alone. If she needs a dance partner, I’m ready to volunteer.

“Don’t worry, Sugar. Even if there were ten Jacques here, fighting for your love, they would never be worthy of you,” I find myself saying. “And I’m on a mission to make you believe it.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sparrow

The shop has long closed. Rafe told me earlier over his croissant and coffee that the studio in town is booked tonight and asked if I minded him using the bakery. I told him as long as he remembers me when his songs make it around the world, it’s a deal. His invitation to stop by probably has nothing to do with knowing what it feels like to have a lightness in your lungs and hope in your heart again. And just like when you’re caught in the flash of a camera, I don’t know how I’m going to see clearly when he’s gone.

His comment about ten Jacques not being worthy of me had me speechless. It won’t quit my consciousness. And I think his math must be wrong. Because I’m starting to believe that ten Jacques could never equal one Rafe. Oh, what have I done?

In this moment, I’m just doing my best to feel a little more like the woman I would want to be if he were mine and we were meeting or going out for an evening instead of the coffee-laden woman always offering baked goods. I love her, but she’s not the feeling I want tonight.

I find my blue dress, which I haven’t worn since my father was alive, and pull it over my head. It feels casual but looks elegant. To be warm, I throw a cashmere sweater over the top. I tackle my hair, gathering it in a hair scarf and creating a messy low bun. Throwing on some boxed-toe flats with satin bows, a coat (even though I only have to go fifteen steps), and some of my favorite red lipstick—the very same one I wore when I first saw him sing—I rush down the stairs.

I hope I look classy and like I’m trying in the five minutes it took me to put this together. But this is me. I take five minutes to get ready. Maybe it’s the former dancer in me, but give me anything that feels like satin and add lipstick, and I’m ready to take on the world.

Pausing just outside the back door to the bakery, I clutch my waist. My breathing has turned shallow, but I’m instantly at ease when I hear a sound from inside the café. Rafe is humming, and the strumming of his guitar casts a spell around the space. I open the door and see that, in the short time I’ve been away, someone else has been busy too.

The lights are off, and a few candles are lit throughout the front of the store. Rafe must’ve brought them. He’s also changed into a light denim button-up shirt under a mahogany-colored jacket, dark-blue jeans, and his signature, vintage-style sneakers. When he sees me enter, he stops strumming and stands. He walks over to me with his hands outstretched to take my coat. I slip it off, still a bit chilled from the brief encounter with the cold, and smile. He drapes the coat over his arm and places it carefully on one of the stools before turning back toward me.

I don’t miss the moment his eyes scan my body in a polite but lingering way. His dimples are on full display as he gives me a closed-mouth smile. His eyes crinkle slightly in the corners, and I nearly melt. If I thought he looked great on the stage, it’s nothing compared to seeing him by the soft light of the lamp in the corner mixed with candlelight.

“You look beautiful,” he says. And the way he says it so sincerely, so effortlessly, I actually believe him.

I motion to his guitar. “What were you playing?”

He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, and his eyes sparkle. “Oh, just a cover I’m working on for my next show.” Rafe doesn’t move, and I can’t help but adore how we’re both just kind of lost in this moment.

I move toward his guitar.

“May I?”

This earns me a full smile, and I almost fall into the instrument. Rafe catches me, his arms sturdy beneath my own. We each let out a breathy laugh.

“Do you play?” he asks, thankfully ignoring my clumsiness.

We haven’t yet let each other go.

“No,” I say seriously. “But you do.”

He laughs, and as I reach for the guitar, he tugs me closer to him. “How about we play something else right now?”

I look into his eyes, which are a mixture of mischief and vulnerability. “What do you have in mind?”

He moves to the corner and turns off the lamp so that only candlelight illuminates the space. “I thought it was safest if you could see where you were going when you first arrived.” He closes the space between us in a few steps. His hands glide softly along my arms until his hands are loosely around my waist. He grips a bit of fabric from my dress and, with his index fingers and thumbs, pulls me an inch closer. “Dance with me, Sugar?”

It’s not what I was expecting him to say. I haven’t danced since my father was alive.

“Only if you want to,” he says, probably noticing that words have failed me. He’s already playing music from a Bluetooth speaker resting on the coffee bar, the sounds of French jazz floating through the air.

“I mean, full warning, I’m not an expert—I’ve never had official training ...” he continues. I want so badly to join him. This is pure romance. I wrap my arms up and over his shoulders, my fingers lacing at the back of his neck. The ends of his hair brush the tops of my fingers, and we hover in front of each other, inches from being pressed together.

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