Chapter Four
Sparrow
“Okay, name one thing that isn’t perfect about Jacques?” Granted, I know he’s not perfect. I’m sure Lily knows that I know that, too, but she’s too kind to point out my tightly held nightly frozen-dinner habit. I’m pushing my luck with her by bringing him up again.
My friend makes a face and goes back to grinding coffee beans—rather aggressively, actually. I try to interject, but she grins and waits until the coffee beans are turned to dust. We couldn’t use them if we tried.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Lots.” She grimaces as she looks at the coffee dust. She sprinkles it on a batch of cookies, confirming that she is a genius.
I shake my head and motion for her to get back to the conversation.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she begins. “Let’s start with the fact that you don’t really know him. And he’s kind of ... cold, no?”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “He’s cute. Some people, who are drawn to model types, might even say he’s beautiful.”
Lily rolls her eyes. “Since when have you been into models?”
“Never,” I mutter.
“But what if I subconsciously was saying what I want on the train platform yesterday? Because if I did end up with someone French, then it’s like ...”
“What your parents had,” Lily finishes.
I nod as she closes the gap between us with one of her koala hugs. We can’t call them bear hugs because she’s too afraid of bears to allow it. She pulls away, and I start to organize the pastry case.
“What’s so wrong with choosing a different path?”
I look up to see Lily leaning against the case, watching me work.
She grins. “I’m just saying ... is this revelation about knowing what you want, or are you avoiding a real relationship?”
I bristle and work on grinding more coffee beans to replace Lily’s coffee dust but end up watching as the coffee maker tries to sputter to life. I hit it with my palm as some nearby beans fall to the floor. The poor things are having a day like mine. Coffee grounds have claimed me and mark my apron, my hands, and—I’m pretty sure—parts of my face. I could’ve made a cup of coffee this morning with how many are glued to me at this moment.
“I don’t pay you for therapy, you know. You’re really on a roll lately.”
“You’ve been grieving for two years. You’re trying to hold on at this point.”
I clench my jaw. “Let it go, Lily.” The warning is the closest we’ll get to fighting.
“So, you’re really saying now that you’re only going to go out with a man who’s from France? Or someone who speaks French? I mean, you don’t even really speak French! It’s gotta be about more than that ... and, truthfully, it better be ... because your parents would want more for you.”
“I am not being shallow. Lily, I go home to an apartment each night alone. I have no family, except for a great-aunt who’s never written me back. I love this town, but everyone has their life—even you! So, what’s so wrong with wanting to have something like my parents had? Why does it have to make sense? Life doesn’t always make sense!”
I rearrange some bags of chouquettes —a choux pastry topped with pearl sugar—and recall a moment when I was little when my father handed me a chouquette and said he had sprinkled it with love, just like my mother would. I focus on the bags to keep up my nerve for the declaration I’m about to make. The bell over the door rings, and I will myself not to cry.
“You know what?” I announce. “I stand by what I said. And I now officially declare that I refuse to date anyone who isn’t French. If they’re not French, I’m not interested.”
Lily drops a tray of macarons she is holding, and I watch them tumble to the floor.
“You sure about that?” she whispers.
I reach out to grab some of the ruined pastries and feel my forehead tap the edge of the counter. Great, a mark to encapsulate this moment. Lily still hasn’t moved. I sigh and take in her frozen glance. She’s a goner. I hold my head and grab a rag to try to brush myself off before turning to meet the new customer. If she’s going to abandon me by becoming a statue, so be it.
Pasting a smile on my face, I turn toward where she’s staring and freeze at the sight. It’s a man. No, not a man. A man would be too pedestrian for the type of human before me. This is a Beyond Man—one you only see when you swear off all other men. And I’m pretty sure it’s the same man from the train. Scratch that; it is the man from the train. I’d recognize the way the bottom of his hair flips anywhere.
“You.” I let out a breath.
I’m taller than average, and even I have to look up to take him all in. Cinnamon-brown hair with natural highlights casually frames a set of forest-green eyes. Yes, forest green. The type of green only seen on the tall trees of a northern forest. The kind I’ve only seen in pictures.
His cheekbones and jawline perfectly highlight his full lips and stubble. His hair glistens in the sunlight. He’s wearing a navy-blue t-shirt that hugs his shoulders and chest before meeting a pair of light-colored jeans.
He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring for God knows how long. Wait. How long have I been standing here?
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.
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.