Chapter Seven
Rafe
Sparrow is looking at me. Her eyes are wild and a bit cautious. Jacques just asked if she is single, and I thought I would have to endure the frustration of seeing her jump around and squeal with Lily at how the world must be perfect because she is finally about to be asked out by this other man from France. I’ve never wanted to play the I’m - French card more in my life. If you ask me, I think the man is enjoying being someone with an accent women swoon over—but no one’s asking me.
Instead, I’m caught in a moment where the clock doesn’t move, and it’s just me and the terrible decision I’m about to make for my heart as I focus on Sparrow. I see something I can’t name flash across her face. Without breaking eye contact, I hear myself say, “Sorry, Jacques. She’s with me.”
Whatever she thought I was going to say, I can promise that was definitely not it. Sparrow’s mouth is hanging open, and the same child from yesterday pipes up from the corner. “Look, Mama! That lady looks like a fish again!”
I cringe, my eyes darting between Lily, who looks like she wants to (happily) punch me in the arm; Jacques, who looks like he’d try to punch me in the face; and Sparrow, who I suddenly can’t read at all. Did I miss some sort of cue here? When she said she wanted someone French, did she mean this French guy? I thought I had channeled Schmidt at Cece’s arranged wedding. I swear Sparrow was talking to me with her eyes and asking me for a way out, but maybe I really have been watching too much TV lately.
“ Je suis désolé ,” Jacques says. Yeah, I bet you’re sorry, pal. “I didn’t know.”
Now I want to laugh because ... I also didn’t know. But here we are. And there’s no way I can think to rectify this situation, unless singing could solve something ... and that seems inappropriate.
Lily quickly turns to the customer who left money on the counter and bolted when I made my announcement. Suddenly, the bakery feels empty. It’s like an old Western where everyone clears out when they sense a brawl. Even the child with an affinity for fish has left with his mother.
Jacques is looking between Sparrow and me, and when he takes a break from me, I motion to her that her mouth is still open.
She snaps it shut and turns toward Jacques. I am curious to see how this plays out. My fingers are itching to write down lyrics because a song will be written from this, no doubt.
“Jacques, will you wait one moment?” Sparrow holds up a finger to Jacques to signal for him to wait.
She’s next to me before I can even blink. How she traveled that quickly without making noise is a mystery. Before I can fully grasp what’s happening, she’s pulling me toward the back kitchen. I’m thrown through the door by her suddenly superhuman strength and turn to face her. It smells like butter and sugar in here, and I’m distracted by all the equipment before I can focus on a very unnerved Sparrow in front of me. Parts of my body feel like they’ve been electrocuted where they’ve made contact with her, and I really hope I can still play guitar if I ever get to touch her again—not that I expect to.
“What are you doing?” she wildly whispers (which is apparently a thing).
Through the door’s small window, I can see Jacques standing by the counter with his brow furrowed.
I smile. “He’s looking,” I say through my teeth.
She pulls me away from the window as I give him a small wave.
“Of course he’s looking. Why did you do that? What did you think —? ” She shakes her head.
I wish I could go back to a few minutes ago, when I was happily trusting and channeling Schmidt from New Girl . But I can’t. And so, it’s time to attempt to fix this fiasco.
“Look, you’re into him, right?” I ask. I hope she says no, but I don’t think that’s what I’m going to get here. She shakes her head both up and to the side, which is confusing.
“I mean, yes, of course—did you see him?” she says softly.
I make a face and shrug. “Well, of course I did, but honestly, I don’t get the appeal.”
A frustrated noise escapes from her throat. I gently reach for her hand in an attempt to comfort her, but when she looks at my hand like it could burn her, I drop it immediately.
“But you like him,” I say the next part quickly, “and I thought you needed me to help you.”
She tilts her chin up and takes a step closer. I try not to notice the way the air is crackling between us. “Why would you think I needed you to help me?”
“Because you gave me these eyes that were, like, ‘Help me!’ or something.” I slide my hand through my hair and feel my eyes narrow as I brace for impact. Instead, she blinks. “I mean, I don’t know you well enough yet. So maybe that’s not what you meant?”
“Of course not ,” she huffs. And I hate how adorable she is to me right now. “I’m a lone croissant—and I was going to tell him!”
She rises on her toes so we’re closer to eye level. She’s still shorter than me, even though she’s tall, and I think that if we don’t turn this around soon, I’m going to kiss her.
“Sparrow,” I begin. I hold up my hands in surrender, and she lowers onto her heels again. “You’re upset with me for saying something that prevented him from asking you out?”
She nods quickly. We’re inches apart, and I’ve never wanted to scoop someone up in my arms more than this woman in front of me. “You were really going to say yes to him?”
She hesitates, then nods once. It’s slight, but I caught it.
“Then I just have one question.” She exhales and puts her hands on her hips. “Why did you look at me ?”
Her neck tilts as her eyes scan the front of my chest frantically. It’s like she’s searching for the answers or a superhero symbol right in front of her and can’t seem to find either. She drops her shoulders and sighs. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. When her eyes finally lift back to mine, I see the corners glistening with tears. “I don’t know,” she says again.
Something scratches at the back of my throat. I can’t tell whether I’m irritated or grateful that I now know she smells like caramelized sugar and dreams.
“Okay, well, we can work with this,” I say softly. Partly because I can’t handle seeing her cry right now, and partly because I’m apparently eager to get my heart run over.
Sparrow quirks her head to the side. “How?”
“Do you want me to tell him it was all a misunderstanding?”
“That’s even more embarrassing.”
“Well, Jacques is still standing out there. Kind of a bad look on his part, but there he stands.” I cringe and motion to the front of the store. “Which tells me that he’s jealous.”
She scoffs like the idea is unbelievable. “Jealous? Of whom? An orphan who owns a bakery and can’t seem to keep coffee grounds off her clothing?”
It’s clear she didn’t mean for me to hear the honesty she just threw down between us. I reach out and touch the side of her arms, pushing through the delicious sear of pain the touch brings. I look at Jacques through the window. It’s infuriating. He doesn’t deserve her. Sparrow catches my look of scorn and narrows her eyes. Now I’m glaring at him like I have superhero powers I could activate and eliminate him all at once (for the record, I wouldn’t hurt him ... just move him to a different planet).
“So, let’s date. You and me.”
She blinks again. And again. I expect her to refute it, and so I use the opportunity to dig myself in even deeper.
“Fake date, of course,” I add, only to break the silence. My new roommate and friend, aka Hallmark Hot G, is going to have so many words for me. If anyone knows about contracts and messy agreements, it’s him. But here I am, second day in town, making a mess and betting on being able to convince him that I have a good feeling about this and that it’s worth the risk.
Sparrow searches my face with an intensity I’ve never seen before. Her eyes catch on a piece of my hair that’s hanging near my eyes. Her hand lifts toward it while tension in the air hums. She shifts her gaze toward her hand as if she doesn’t know how it got there, and then it falls in a smooth move around her back while her other hand rests across her middle. She’s all wrapped up in her own embrace. Whether for comfort or protection, I’ve yet to discover.
“Oh, um—and why would we do that?”
Interest seems like a good sign, so I start to pick up steam with this idea. “Well, you saw how he reacted just from thinking that we’re together.”
I must be making sense because she nods.
“Imagine how much more it will get to him if he sees us together. Holding hands. Out around town. We fake date,” I mumble nonchalantly. “In a few weeks, we’ll pretend to break up, and then your Frenchman out there can swoop in.” But I’m dying a bit inside. Because from the moment I met her, I knew she was worth my time. I pride myself on not needing anyone anymore, but I think we may need each other. I already don’t like Jacques, but I also know I’ll do my best to put a smile on her face—even better if I can do it more than once.
“Won’t he just meet someone else if I’m taken?”
“Possibly. But has he been around here for a while?”
She nods.
“Well, then ... if he didn’t ask you out the second he met you, I question his life choices.”
Her eyes laser in on mine. “You didn’t ask me out.”
My lungs deflate. “No, I didn’t.” I want to tell her why. I want to tell her it was a mistake. I can’t seem to do either. “Sparrow, I ... I know we just met. And you have no reason to believe in me yet. I am sorry I messed up your plans, but I’ll do my best to help you fix it.”
I cringe at the words that just came out of my mouth. I’m wrestling with them because it all would’ve been so much easier if, yesterday morning, when I saw her on the train, I had thought of leaving a note in her book with my number that read something like: You’re adorable. Call me.
Instead, I’m in the back of her bakery with what I hope is butter on the back of my pants after being pushed into the counter while proposing that I fake date the woman I genuinely want to date so that I can help her get a man that I want to fly back to France immediately. I’d even drive him to the airport. All while not telling her what I should have said the moment that she announced her dating resolution—both times. But I can’t even think about that part right now.
She peeks out the little window to the front, and I see when she spots Jacques. She gives him a slight wave, although the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. But when she turns toward me, I see a spark. I swallow as she lifts her chin.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?” My stomach both sinks and lifts at the possibility.
“Yes. We fake date. And then we’ll both get what we want.” She pauses and looks up at me again, a brow raised. “Wait—what do you want? You know I want to go out with Jacques, but what do you get out of this?”
I suck in a breath and stare into the chocolate eyes that will stick with me in my dreams tonight. Discovering that there are gold specks in her irises nearly has me on my knees. “Uh ... just to help you after I misread the situation. I’ll make good on my word.”
Her brow furrows. “That doesn’t seem fair. You don’t even know me. I can’ t— ”
“You can.” I smile, the one I know will show my dimple. Hopefully, it shows her I mean it. This wasn’t the plan, and I don’t know how I’ll ever recover from this, but I really do want to help her. “Plus, I’m scared of Lily.”
At this, she laughs. “Aren’t we all.” She smiles but then it drops. “Wait. No. I ... ” she begins.
My heart actually twists.
“If we do this, we have to do our best not to get our hearts involved.”
I feel my jaw go slightly slack. I don’t know how I could possibly not get my heart involved when I stare at her sweetheart of a face. “I can’t promise that.”
Her eyes widen as she steps back. “Then we can’t do this.”
Sparrow turns toward the front of the store, and I lightly grab her elbow. A zing shoots through my arm. I might be already addicted to what it feels like to be near her. How am I supposed to pretend we’re dating if I can’t touch her without giving myself away? It feels like she’s a charger for the low battery of my heart, and I don’t know if I’m losing percentage or gaining at this point.
She studies my face, and I’m too stuck on the current still pulsing through my arm to say anything. Her shoulders bend forward a bit. “What is it?”
“My heart will be involved, Sparrow. Because I do everything with my heart. And honestly, I don’t have much to give you. But we’d be in this together.”
“And it ends when you leave?”
I nod. “It ends when I leave.” Those words spark something visceral.
“I don’t tend to trust people,” she admits. “Except Lily. I’m stuck with her until the end.” A small, sad smile plays on the edge of her mouth.
Her eyes turn back to me, and I see the path her gaze follows ... from my neck, they snag on my mouth before flitting up to my eyes. I swallow. I’m willing myself to say more but can’t seem to do it.
When I don’t respond, I hear her mutter, “It’s okay. I knew this was too good to be true ... ”
Her hand is already on the door when I come to my senses. “No!”
She turns. “No?” The swinging door stays in place with the tip of her foot.
“I mean, yes, I want to do this. I just . . . I . . . ”
“Yes?”
“I don’t tend to trust people either.” Sharing this part of myself has me grasping for anything in a room full of kitchen equipment and baking ingredients. The truth is, something is stirring in me again that I thought was long gone. I think of what it would mean to really feel again. The discomfort. The want. The happiness. If I’m ever going to become the lyricist I want to be or remember what it was like to find joy in creating music, I need to be able to feel. And I’ve been a shell of myself for too long.
I think of what I would do, of what I would say, if my heart was light and the boy who dreamed he could be fully loved was still a part of me. He would believe that someone out of his league might want him too.
I settle into the moment and try to remember what it’s like to follow my instincts and ... play . Just for the fun of it. “If we’re dating, you probably need a nickname,” I say.
If her nose scrunching wasn’t so adorable, I’d be laughing at how light I feel right now. I’ve been anchored in pain for far too long. She crosses her arms, lightly clasping her elbows.
“What do you mean a nickname ?”
My heart is beating strongly, and I’m beginning to remember what it means to want someone again. “When you’re dating, don’t people tend to have nicknames for each other? It happens in France too, I would imagine,” I encourage. We totally have nicknames for each other there.
Sparrow narrows her eyes and makes a noncommittal sound. She starts smearing the semi-dried coffee grounds on her apron in an attempt to get them off. I have to remind myself, again, not to smile. And not to notice her curves.
I clear my throat. “I can’t call you Sparrow , and I can’t call you Rory .”
“Why? That is literally my nickname,” she mutters. Her hands go out in front of her like she’s stuck pulling two baking trays from the oven.
I grin. “Because everyone calls you that.”
She holds her breath and slightly shifts the bottom of her lip. It’s distracting. I feel the heat creeping up my neck and avert my gaze. Through the kitchen window, I spot the trays of macarons in the front of the store that she was attempting to pick up from the floor when we first met. Next to them are bags of chouquettes , their bright-white pearls of sugar a contrast to the caramel-colored choux pastry underneath.
An idea hits. It’s bold, but I have a feeling I have to go all in for this woman. I remember the American movies I tried to watch as a kid. Some of them Westerns. Some of them rom-coms. I remember how I used to pretend to be smooth. I need a bit of that version of me now.
“Okay, it’s Sugar. I’m gonna be the one to call you Sugar.”
Her eyes widen, but I see a hint of light flash through them, and the dimple on her right cheek makes an appearance. “You will not.” She doesn’t hate it.
“Actually, I will.”
We’re in a stare-off, and it’s the most exciting thing I’ve been a part of in ages. A bobby pin shoots to the floor. She lets out a frustrated sound. She leans down to pick it up, and a crescent moon of skin peeks through the line between her shirt and pants. My mouth goes dry. She stands to her full height, her face a bit flushed, and pulls up the rogue piece of hair with the pin she’s reclaimed. I let my emotions leak onto my face and stare at her like she’s my next lyrics to the song I haven’t figured out how to write yet.
“Sugar.”
“Yes?” I grin.
“What are you, Southern?” she counters.
I shake my head slowly. Southern France doesn’t count here. Besides, most of my childhood was spent in Paris. “No, just a man who has a sweet tooth.” This time, I laugh at the way her mouth parts and her eyes simmer. I can admit how ridiculous I sound, but I stand by it.
Sparrow surprises me by grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her into the front of the store before letting go. Jacques is still waiting (a patient man, I’ll give him that). She nods at him, and I don’t miss the moment she rubs the hand I was holding with her other one.
“Listen, Jacques,” I start. I don’t dare touch Sparrow again, so I lean in a bit closer toward her and hope it’s convincing enough. “Why don’t you come to my show tomorrow night?”
“I’m already going to a show tomorrow night. And I was going to ask ... ” He looks at me and then toward the poster now hanging on the bulletin board. I don’t know who posted it, but from the grin on Lily’s face, I’m guessing I know the answer. Where she got it from is a mystery.
Jacques looks between me and the poster. “Wait—is that you? You’re Rafe?”
I put on my meet-and-greet face and smile. It’s not fake, but it’s not the full me. I shrug my shoulders. “Guilty.”
“You’re the one on the poster? That poster?” He’s pointing at it like it’s vermin.
I want to laugh, but I refrain. It should also be noted that I’ve only wanted to laugh this much since I’ve met Sparrow. It’s like she’s released something in me that feels like joy. I didn’t know that would be possible for me again.
“I am—although, not my best look, if I’m honest. But there will be some singing. Guitar. That kind of thing.”
He looks between Sparrow and me, the expression on her face still choosing how to emote itself.
“You write your own songs,” she says, looking toward me. It’s part question, part statement.
“Ah—I do, yes. And some covers. But only if it’s a song that means something to me, of course.”
Jacques shuffles his feet. “Well, I have tickets. I probably can’t return them, so . .. sounds good.”
Does it, Jacques? He starts to move toward the door.
I feel Sparrow’s hand wrap lightly around my arm, and I’m not sure if it’s to keep herself steady or to further sell the fake-dating thing, but I’m here for it.
“ A bient?t! See you tomorrow!” Jacques calls. The door shuts, and I look down to see Sparrow’s hand still wrapped around my arm. She peeks up at me, her eyes once again catching on a piece of my hair that must be out of place (it’s always out of place), and I notice the blush creeping up her neck as she pulls her hand from me. To break some of the tension, I hurry behind the counter (even though I’m certain I’m not allowed back here) and reach for a muffin from a nearby tray as I do. Because I’m now a thief and a musician.
I walk back around the counter in a sort of spin move, allowing myself to fully smile when I’m turned from her view. I take a bite of the muffin in my hand. It’s delicious. It shouldn’t even be legal for her to sell these things. When I turn to face her, I feel the crumbs on my face and hear myself let out an appreciative moan. It’s cinnamon and sugar, but it’s light and buttery. I peek over my shoulder to see her eyes light up.
“You like it?”
I nod and really sell how much I’m enjoying it. “So much so that I’ll leave a ticket for you at will call. Do you want one for Lily too?”
“I have a thing!” Lily yells from the back. Yes, I definitely should be scared of that one.
We laugh, and I lean a little closer to avoid Lily’s listening ears. “So, see you tomorrow night, Sugar?” I whisper conspiratorially.
And just like that, I’m using a nickname for the woman I first met on a train and never expected to see again. I freeze as a soft smile plays on her lips.
“See you tomorrow tonight,” she whispers back. She turns from where we are standing, grabs an empty canister of what was probably cookies from near the register, and moves toward the kitchen, but not without throwing me another smile as she moves through the swinging door.