Page 8 of I Love You in French

I stumble forward from the impact of Lily pushing me toward the register, where this human (at least, I think he’s human) is looking at me. For a second, I think I catch a look of sadness crossing his face. But that can’t be possible. He blinks slowly and then seems to mentally resolve something.

I catch a new glimmer of amusement in his eyes and feel my cheeks flush.

He’s achingly handsome, but there’s something about him that’s also playful and unassuming. Realizing what I just announced to the universe, I immediately try to undo my declaration—or make it come true, at the very least.

Please be French. Please be French. The wish is on repeat. My whole body wills it to manifest. Now.

He narrows his eyes and looks at Lily and then back at me. I clear my throat and will myself to speak. I’ve got nothing.

“What can we get you?” Lily squeaks. Way to play it cool, my friend.

He seems to debate something as his eyes bounce back and forth between us before landing on me for good. “So, again with the ‘only someone French,’ yes?” No accent. But his voice sounds freaking angelic. Deep. Slightly raspy. Melodic.

“Wait. Again?”

He narrows his eyes playfully, and understanding creeps into my bones.

“You did hear me . . . on the train.”

My cheeks are on fire, and my shoulders deflate, but I can’t look away. I catch a twitch near his mouth, almost as if he’s trying to will himself to remain unaffected. He doesn’t break eye contact.

“Uh-uh,” I stutter. I’ve never stuttered in my life. I feel a thump at my back and realize Lily has thrown a baked good at me to snap me out of it. What a friend. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” I manage. “Either time.”

He grins. “Well, I did . . . I have . . . and I don’t think I’ll forget it.”

Lily chokes on something behind me. I love her, but she deserves it.

“What can I get you?” Please say me. I shake my head to loosen the thought. As if that would work.

“What do you recommend?” he croons. I stand by this description. His voice is, indeed, music.

A child screams in the corner, and I witness chocolate milk explode somewhere in my peripheral vision. I ignore it. Let the whole place burn down. I’m locked in with an actual hallucination. This feels like a test that the universe is asking me to pass.

As if she hears my thoughts, Lily walks by and pinches me from behind. “Ow!” I screech.

Okay, so, not dreaming.

He clears his throat and lightly bites the edge of his lip. I mimic him, a flash of something warm and dangerous flooding my stomach.

“Wh-what?” I whisper. Excellent. Love how conversational I am now that my wish to be near him has come true.

If he’s frustrated by my unraveling, he doesn’t let on.

“How is your coffee ground?” And why do these words sound so seductive? Is he asking me out? Is this an innuendo?

“My coffee?” This time, my voice gives a squeak I don’t recognize.

One of his sculpted hands signals to the front of my apron, and I follow the motion, suddenly remembering that this is real life, and I am, in fact, still covered in coffee grounds. This isn’t TV, and I didn’t magically get a chance to get wardrobe and makeup done before the leading man entered the coffee shop. Drat.

“Right, um ...” I catch his gaze as my face flushes. “Well, the truth is ...” I trail.

He lifts a brow. A perfectly sculpted brow. I wonder if he gets his eyebrows done ...

“I do not, but thank you,” he says softly, and I wince.

“Well, okay,” I say quickly and steamroll ahead. “The truth is, I don’t know because I didn’t make the coffee this morning. I’m just wearing it, apparently. Because everything in my life seems to be imploding. Except the pastries! They’re fantastic. So, a good choice is a croissant. I didn’t make the coffee ...but I can make coffee! It’s just that sometimes this coffee machine feels like it came from a level of hell because it really doesn’t like me. If this were a movie, you just met my archnemesis.”

I’m unhinged. I stop enough to see his eyes widen and motion to the behemoth of a coffee maker on the counter behind me.

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