Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
CASSIDY
“What? No. I won’t marry you!” Cassidy exclaimed in French as she pushed off Jean-Paul’s chest, her voice sharp and echoing across the town square.
She couldn’t believe he’d just shown up like this—out of nowhere—and dropped to one knee as if the last year hadn’t happened. “In what world does that make sense?”
But it was too late.
The whole town was staring. Looking at her like she was some wicked Christmas Jezebel who’d just stomped on their hometown hero’s heart. Mr. Alders glared from his bench. Mrs. C. was tugging off her Team Cassidy sweater.
“Stop, I’m not marrying him!” she shouted in English now, looking around, trying to get everyone to believe her. “I don’t even like him!” she added, hoping that would help.
Jean-Paul looked incredulous, as though he genuinely couldn’t believe she was rejecting him.
“What is the matter with you?” He gripped her by the arm, reverting back to French. “You didn’t even look at the ring.” He held open the box, hoping to charm her by the massive diamond twinkling up at her.
She hated it at first sight.
“I don’t care about the ring! God, what is the matter with you?”
Jean-Paul dropped his voice. “You are making a scene. Let’s get out of here. I booked us a room. We can talk this through.”
“You booked a room at the Cinnamon Spice Inn?” she asked, baffled.
“What? God, no. I booked a five-star hotel about fifty miles from here. That’s how far I had to go to find a decent hotel, if you can believe it. And what’s with the sweater? Were you forced to wear that as part of your uniform?”
“Uniform?” she repeated, stunned. “No. I happen to love this sweater. And for the record, no one tells me what to do. I own my own chocolate shop.”
Jean-Paul laughed. A hollow, condescending sound.
“That isn’t a chocolate shop. That is selling basic sweets to a bunch of unsophisticated Americans. What we have together in Paris—that’s a chocolate shop.”
His French was rapid now, sharp, cutting insults that the crowd couldn’t follow—but Cassidy could. And even if they couldn’t understand the words, the tone was unmistakable. The anger in his voice made people shift uncomfortably, even without knowing the language.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Cassidy said firmly back in French, her voice clear and rising above the noise. “In fact, I never want to see you again. You won’t believe it, but I’m happy—really, truly happy. I love my life. And it doesn’t have you in it. I never want it to again.”
Before Jean-Paul could respond, Zach stepped in, coming up beside her like a silent shield.
“I’m pretty sure the woman just told you to leave,” he said flatly.
Cassidy glanced at Zach, grateful. The translation wasn’t exact, but it was close enough.
Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes and took a step back, sizing Zach up.
They stared each other down.
Cassidy held her breath, watching. Jean-Paul had always preyed on anyone he could control—people who felt small, uncertain, unsure. But he knew he couldn’t control Zach, and he couldn’t control her anymore. She saw it in his eyes. He knew it.
But she also knew what he was capable of.
He fought dirty, always had. She’d seen him coax others into throwing the first punch so that he could cry victim and press charges.
He was smarter than he looked—and slippery.
But here, in this town, it was clear to everyone: He didn’t belong. And no one was buying his act.
“You’re going to regret this, you stupid bitch,” Jean-Paul spat out in French, and by the gasps, she could tell enough people had heard and understood.
Before Zach could even move, Madison appeared—her fist flying.
She punched Jean-Paul square in the jaw. He dropped like a wet towel. A wet towel in an expensive suit.
“That’s for insulting my friend,” Madison said coldly. “And for disrespecting our town.”
She turned to Cassidy. “I took French in high school. The swears are about all I remember.” She cracked her knuckles. “You alright?”
Cassidy nodded, still trying to process everything. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good,” Zach said. “But Liam’s not. He saw the whole thing.”
“Well… not the whole thing,” Madison corrected, glancing at Zach. “He saw the part where Jean-Paul got down on one knee, everyone clapped and cheered… and then he bolted.”
Cassidy swore under her breath. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers flying across the screen, dialing Liam’s number. She pressed the phone to her ear as the ringtone droned on, over and over again.
No answer.
She pulled the phone away, her fingers trembling as she typed:
Liam, I can explain. It’s not what you think. Please call me.
She hit send, staring at the screen, willing the three dots of a reply to appear. Nothing. No text. No call.
Nothing.
She looked up, her reflection in the café window catching her off guard—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, panic etched across her features beneath the twinkle of holiday lights.
“I have to find him,” she said, almost apologetic, to Madison and Zach.
She didn’t wait for them to reply as she half walked, half jogged down Oak Way, scanning for his truck.
She reached his shop, breathless, heart hammering, and tried the door.
Locked.
She cupped her hands around her face, peering into the darkened interior, hoping—praying—to see him moving inside.
Nothing. No lights, no movement. Just her reflection, pale and frantic, staring back.
Cassidy’s breath fogged the glass as she leaned her forehead against the door, her eyes closing.
She had no idea where he was.