Far From Home (Hearts in France #1)

Chapter 1 Cody

I don’t really know why I left the house this Wednesday night; a French cake shop isn’t exactly my scene. I’m thirty-six, my birthday was months ago, and I don’t even like sweets. Maybe it’s the coupon I have, maybe boredom, curiosity, or perhaps just a little loneliness.

My navigation app leads the way to the shop, though I hardly need it.

I’ve walked these streets before, and it’s not a long walk—only fifteen minutes from my apartment—but the app gives me a sense of security.

This is still strange territory for me, considering I’m walking in a city I’ve only called home for less than a year.

I’m far from my place of birth, navigating another continent in a country where I barely speak the language.

I’m learning, though, and my pronunciation of the street names is progressing, but the navigation app makes me feel slightly less like an alien.

I’ve never noticed this cake shop before.

I don’t know why. It sits at the fork of two roads, with its front angled toward me.

The position makes it stand out, but its beauty does too.

The shop has smooth wooden panels framing the facade, golden letters spelling its name.

It’s charming, and fitting for this city, this country.

Much more than I am. I’m mostly business, money, practicality.

I suppose I have my charms too, but not like the people in Brussels. Not the way French speakers do.

When I step inside, the bell over the door rings, but I barely notice.

I’m too busy fishing the crumpled coupon from my pocket.

After smoothing it as best I can, I finally glance up .

. . and nearly drop the piece of paper I’ve just retrieved, almost drowning in the eyes of the stranger behind the counter.

Holy stars. A second ago, I thought the shop was beautiful; now I’m thinking the same thing about a person.

He’s young, definitely younger than me, and with a gaze that feels like it could wipe away everything I carried in here with me—the boredom, curiosity, loneliness, and maybe even my distaste for sweets, even though that’s not really a problem.

His hair is dark brown and wavy, thick and perfect for running my hands through. It’s in stark contrast to his bright blue eyes that seem to stare straight into my soul. Part of me is faintly aware they can’t actually do that, but I’m lost in his stare all the same.

“Bonjour, comment puis-je vous aider?”

Huh? I’m sure I saw the clerk’s mouth move, but what did he ask me? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t English. Given where we are, that makes perfect sense, but it takes me a long time to register that, and I have no chance of understanding what he said.

“Excuse me?”

He frowns at me, showing he’s averse to my English, and points upwards, referring to the sign behind him. “This is a French cake shop,” he says with a heavy French accent. “As you could have guessed from the name, Populie Gateau. Now, what do you want?”

My throat goes dry. Yes, the handsome store clerk is talking English now, my native language, but I still struggle to catch on. The attractive accent isn’t helping me recompose myself.

“I-I have a coupon,” I barely manage to reply.

My French is lacking, even after living in Brussels for almost a year, but in my defense, this was always going to be a temporary work situation.

And at the international bank I work for, most people speak—or at least understand—English.

But all those excuses no longer seem to matter now that I see him.

I do love it here. The old city center of Brussels is one beautiful historic building after another, and the first time I saw it, my surroundings had me gawking with every corner I turned.

There’s always something happening here as well.

With its kind, lively people, and festivities throughout the year—many revolving around luxurious beers—the city breathes atmosphere.

And I don’t know . . . maybe I’ll stay here in Brussels until I return home, or perhaps after some time I’ll start discovering other cities in Europe.

I definitely won’t mind, especially if I fall in love.

I haven’t been looking for it until now, but this cute clerk standing before me unknowingly forces me to think about it.

“Quel coupon?”

I believe he just asked me, “What coupon?” So, with a slightly trembling hand, I step closer and give him the piece of paper that should give me a free slice of cake.

It was given to me by my friend Joyce because I live closer to this shop than she does.

I didn’t care initially, but well . . . this Belgian—or French—guy makes all the difference.

I almost threw the coupon away, thinking it would be wasted on me. Now I’m beyond glad that I didn’t.

My eyes travel down to the name tag on the clerk’s chest: Luc, it says.

“Pretty name,” I mutter softly, unsure if he heard it. Pretty person too, I think to myself.

For a few seconds, he stares at me, his expression blank. Then he takes the coupon, examines it, rolls his eyes, and steps toward the counter to get me a piece of cake.

I look at him, can’t take my eyes off him, and I already feel the first flutters in my chest. Those butterflies shouldn’t be there, but they are.

Luc doesn’t know this, but he’s exactly my type: an attractive, snappy younger guy whose heavy French accent does indescribable things to my brain.

God, I hope he’s into men—or into me at least—and that he’s a bottom. A bratty bottom is just what I want.

He’s wearing a black apron over a white shirt and jeans, and I don’t know what’s come over me, thinking like this.

I just want to whisk him away and take him home, where I can toss him onto my bed and slowly take that apron and everything else off.

I want to make this French-speaking man scream nothing but “oui, oui,” and my name until he has no voice left .

. . Goodness, I don’t even know him. What’s wrong with me?

Okay, so it’s been a while since I got laid, but not long enough to justify these sudden fantasies.

“D’accord,” he says indifferently, unaware of the images in my mind. “Here you go. Now leave before you scare off other customers, American.”

“I’m not American, I’m Canadian.”

He looks unimpressed and just holds out his arm. Much too late, I register that he’s trying to hand me a paper box, which hovers in midair for several long seconds. He then makes an annoyed motion, raising his eyebrows and stretching his arm further.

“Well? Do you want it or not?”

I do want it, but honestly, not as much as I want him. He probably thinks his rude behavior is off-putting, but it has the opposite effect on me. It only makes me wonder what it would be like to be bossed around by him in bed.

I take the box from him, briefly breaking eye contact. If I’m right, he must be somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. “How old are you, Luc?”

“What are you now, the police? I’m twenty-one.”

Twenty-one . . .That’s no less than fifteen years younger than I am. It turns out my best friend Joyce was right: I have a thing for younger guys. This French-talking twink seems to check all my boxes. “I’m thirty-six.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And my name’s Cody.”

Luc throws me a frown, and I expect him to say he didn’t ask for my name either, but instead he says, “What thirty-six-year-old man is named Cody? That’s ridiculous.”

Adorable, really, the way he says the word ridiculous. And the way my name sounds in his accent makes me want to take him home even more.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, because then maybe you’ll remember it. I certainly hope you will.”

Look at me, flirting already.

“You hope I’ll remember you? A strange American man with a silly name who can’t speak French and pays with a coupon?”

I shrug, grinning at the comment. This guy plays hardball. “I’ll take what I can get. And I already told you, I’m not American.”

“You look American and sound American, so you must be American.”

“I’m really not.” I look him up and down, dying to know more. “And you? Are you French or Belgian?”

“I’m French. I moved here.”

“Why?” I ask, attempting to make conversation. “Didn’t you like it where you lived?”

“I did but . . .” He forces himself to be silent, and after a brief pause, he sighs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just get out of here if you’re not going to buy anything.”

I nod, trying to hide my disappointment that my attempt to initiate a conversation failed. Okay, I’ll do what he asks and leave the bakery, but not before one last attempt to ensure he’ll remember me.

Smiling slightly, I give him another slow, much-less-subtle look over, and this time, he does see it—mostly because I don’t give him a chance to miss it.

First, he looks at me in confusion, but then I see it clicking on his face when he realizes what’s happening.

He huffs softly before shifting his gaze, pretending to be busy with .

. . something. Probably to get me out of the door.

Well, this time it works, and I leave. I already know one thing, though: no matter how much I dislike sweets, and no matter how out of place this bakery feels to me, nothing will stop me from coming back here again and again to get more cake. Whatever it takes to see Luc again.