Page 9 of I Love You in French

He blinks.

“The coffee maker. Not me. To be clear,” I add and inhale deeply.

He looks toward the pastry case and furrows his brow. “Is that ... a maple croissant?”

I smile wide before thinking. “You are in New England.”

He rests an elbow on the counter and leans beautifully toward me, like he has ever since he walked into my bakery, as if what I have to say is the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

“Okay, well, it’s a croissant, of course,” I begin. He nods encouragingly. “And I made a filling for it that’s like the inside of a cinnamon roll, except maple. And then I dust it with maple sugar.”

He stands to his full height, his eyes lit with interest (I tell myself it must be the pastry, not me).

“A maple croissant, please,” he quickly replies. And then, a tentative look crosses his face. “Or sill vew plate?”

I cringe. S'il vous plait. His attempt to say “if you please” in French was terrible. He cringes too, but I catch the way his eyes dance at his effort.

“Yes, the maple croissants are good. Bon.” I sort of wink, but I’ve never winked in my life because I actually can’t wink. Lord only knows how my face just contorted. I just know it would look like one of those memes that show you Pinterest versus reality.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a debit card. Right. I need to ring him up now.

Lily is already bagging the biggest croissant we have and is placing it gingerly on the counter between us as if any sudden movement will redirect the other dimension we’ve clearly entered.

“So . . .” he continues as if I haven’t lost all my dignity. Self-respect? Time of death: 10:01 a.m. “I feel like it’s my job—my duty, really—to tell you that I’m a self-proclaimed coffee expert. I’m pretty sure that my body needs it more than water. I may even defy science.”

He signals to his body in a non-suggestive way, and still, my jaw goes slack.

“Look, Mommy! The lady looks like a fish!” This beautiful observation comes from the chocolate-milk tornado from earlier.

I close my mouth and shake my head. “You like coffee?”

“Yes,” he laughs lightly. “And I just moved into town, so I’m sure we’ll see each other.”

“You moved here?” I whisper. I know everyone in this town, and I could’ve sworn he would only be visiting. This news of his permanence has just officially shifted my world.

“Well, then! Welcome, neighbor!” Lily says a little too happily.

Somehow, he keeps his eyes focused on me.

“You can call me Rafe, neighbor.” A dimple plays in the corner of his perfect, full mouth.

“You’re not Seb?” I manage.

“Excuse me?” He smirks. He has the audacity to smirk, and even that is a revelation.

“The—the guitar case. From yesterday.”

He nods slowly. Gah, handsome men and their perfectly perfect names. Rafe. It’s broody and suits him. Of course it does.

“Mm-hmm.” Looking out the window, I again catch the way the morning light slowly shimmers across his stubble.

“What do you think?” he begins, and I freeze as he slowly leans forward, a smile starting to spread across his face. “Is it another day of sun?”

I feel my shoulders sink, and my mouth falls open once more. Fish or no fish, this man just quoted La La Land, and I can never be the same.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You spoke that out loud too. Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to sing with me.” He looks to the ceiling as if he’s remembering something that stings. “Also, I understand the choice, but I still always hope they’ll end up together, don’t you?”

And then he winks—a proper wink—and just like that, I don’t care if I never see another Frenchman again.

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