Page 40 of I Love You in French

Il me dit des mots d’amour

Des mots de tous les jours

Et ça me fait quelque chose

He slows even more, and I lean back to catch his gaze. The song speaks of words of love being spoken and that they are everyday words that do something. And his words have been doing something to me since we met.

Before I think better of it, I reach a hand toward the scar through his left eyebrow. He holds his breath as my hand hovers. I almost touch him and then pull back. His eyes search my face, and he nods. Ever so gently, I trace my thumb across the mark, and he breathes again. His eyes slowly close before they open again to burn through me.

“What happened?” I ask into the quiet space.

“Hmm, you’re just getting all my stories out of me tonight, aren’t you?”

I nod enthusiastically as he laughs.

“It was a fall when I was little. I tried to help my mother bake muffins in the kitchen, and I fell off the counter with a wooden spoon.”

“You did not!” My mouth opens as I try to process that the scar I find so appealing happens to be from one of my most-used baking utensils.

“I did too.” He pretends that he’s suddenly realizing we’re standing in a bakery. “It’s amazing I can even stand in here without twitching.” A grin covers his face. “It took a few stitches, but I kind of like the look. Gives me an edge, you know?”

“Definitely.”

“But you’re sworn to secrecy now.”

“Am I? I don’t think I agreed to that.”

“I can’t ruin my reputation.”

“Ok, fine.”

He grips my waist a bit tighter. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the feeling of being held by this man. It’s like I’m anchored and no longer wandering.

“That easy? You’re not going to make me work harder to convince you?”

I lean my head on his chest. “Not as long as you keep singing.”

We sway without music for so long I lose track of time. At some point in the silence, without a note to be heard within the room, Rafe has taken most of my weight and is allowing me to lean on him as we move back and forth.

“What do you dream of, Sparrow? When you are by yourself, and no one needs anything from you . . . what do you dream of?”

I inhale deeply, uncomfortable with the attention but also realizing this is what I’ve been craving. Who typically has the courage to ask us what we dream about? And I can tell from the tension in his fingers around my waist and the way his breathing has quieted in anticipation of my answer that he really wants to know.

“My father and I had a plan to expand this place.” I catch his gaze and notice the way his brows lift in response. “Oh, not a franchise. But expand into possibly creating a book of my mother’s recipes. Move online so we could ship items beyond our little town.”

He brushes my fringe bangs away from my forehead with a hum.

“Except ...” I begin. And this is the part that’s the hardest for me to admit. He keeps us moving, not a hint of impatience at my delay. “Well, I think I’ve lost my courage.” I avoid his eyes. “I wanted to submit the bakery for a regional magazine feature, and I can’t even look at the papers without shutting down. He’s gone, and he was all I had left. I just . . . it was rough for me. For quite a while. Lily is the reason I’ve been able to keep moving. Lily and this town. Because they keep making sure I’m not drowning in grief, even when I have felt so alone, I could hardly breathe.”

As if to make my point, I release a breath. His grip only tightens.

“Do you feel alone right now?”

I meet his gaze. “Not at all.” I shrug lightly, a weight lifting with every sway and step of our feet. In a minute or ten, he breaks the silence.

“What is it about someone who’s French exactly?” He stiffens slightly though keeping the rhythm of our movement.

“Well ... my mother was French.” I pause. “She was ... elegant. Magnetic. Beautiful.”

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