Jillian

Several months later

Jones’s mom doesn’t need any help in the kitchen, but I offer anyway. I always do, since I’m so often here in the off-season.

“Yes, if you could grab the salad from the fridge, that would be great,” she says.

“I can do that,” I say, snagging the bowl and setting it on the dinner table.

It’s Sunday supper, and Jones, his siblings, his dad, and his mom are here. Oh, someone else is here, too. My dad. He doesn’t live far away, and he’s not terribly busy, so I picked him up on the way, and I love that he’s become part of these get-togethers.

He and Jones’s parents get along well. They talk about politics, sports, and the state of the world. Sometimes they do that thing the older generation does—they chat about how much harder it was when they were growing up. Those of us in the younger generation laugh and roll our eyes.

As I sit at the table with some of my favorite people, I mostly listen. I listen to my dad ask thoughtful questions about local town issues, I listen to Trevor share details of his beer show, and I listen to Jones’s dad as he compliments his wife on the dinner, and on how pretty she looks.

In moments like these, I see where the gentleman in Jones came from—from his family. From these people he loves to the ends of the earth and back. As I raise a glass of iced tea and take a sip, I remember the night in wine country when I wished that someday I would be able to come here and bring wine and flowers. Now I have, and now I do, and it fills my heart with so much joy that I know my mom would say all the choices I made that brought me here were the right ones.

They were. They absolutely were.

As the meal ends, Jones clears his throat. “There’s something I wanted to bring up.”

“Yes, my dear?” his mother asks.

“And since everyone is here, this seems as good a time as any.”

My dad looks deliberately away from me, as if he’s avoiding eye contact. I’m not sure why, but he doesn’t look at Jones, either. Not as Jones rises, not as he walks to me, and not as he takes my hand.

“What is it?”

“Jillian, I love you madly, and I have loved nothing more than taking you out on dates, showing you off, making you happy, and making sure the world knows you’re spoken for.”

“You’ve done a pretty good job of that,” I say, wondering why he needed to get up from his chair to say it. Then, a possibility flashes before my eyes. Fireworks light up inside me, bursting with a daring, crazy hope.

The hope is answered as he drops down to one knee. I gasp and bring a hand to my mouth as he takes a blue velvet box from his pocket. “The only thing I want more is for you to be spoken for always. For the rest of our lives. Because I want you to be the rest of my life. I love you so much, baby. Will you marry me?”

The fireworks crackle. They spark. They fill the night sky with a brilliant display of all the colors, all the brightness, and all the wonder as I say yes. “You’re my good luck,” I whisper, and he whispers back, “You’re mine.”

He slides a huge diamond solitaire onto my ring finger and kisses me in front of his family and in front of mine, and this is more than I could ever have hoped for long ago, and now it’s all I want.

Him with me, always.

That night, as we head to a local hotel, I can’t stop staring at my ring. “You are absolutely getting lucky tonight.”

He pumps a fist. “Then I’d say I’ve scored.”

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Griffin

“Bonjour.” The greeting comes from the woman behind me.

I turn in the direction of the voice. The American voice. The confident, strong American voice.

“Je voudrais un croissant chocolat.”

But she’s all wrong, so I jump in. “It’s pain au chocolat.”

She furrows her brow. “What did you say?”

I repeat myself. I can’t help it. In my line of work, it’s a natural reaction to offer up the more appropriate translations for Americans. I ought to tune out conversations.

But this American? I don’t want to tune her out.

She’s so very . . . red.

Rich auburn hair spills down her shoulders, landing in the kind of big, soft curls that look like they take hours to achieve, with loads of potions and lotions and many fights with heated devices that do all sorts of things to hair. But she hardly seems the high-maintenance type, since she wears a red-checkered bandana like a headband. Jeans hug her legs, a pretty maroon blouse accentuates her lovely assets, and boots make her even taller. Cowboy boots.

She’s statuesque.

Good thing I like tall birds.

Good thing I’m even taller.

Wait. Am I really thinking of picking up a woman in the bakery?

Of course I fucking am. I love American accents. I love the boldness. I love the confidence. I love the way American women own who they are.

Like this one. She’s stunning, especially with those pouty red lips.

“That’s what we call a chocolate croissant,” I add.

“We?” she echoes. “That’s what we call a croissant?” She arches a brow, but not in a haughty way. More like a “you don’t say” way. She points at me playfully. “You don’t really sound like you’re part of that we. But I’ll still give you a big old merci beaucoup for helping me.”

When she smiles, it’s like a sunbeam. A full-wattage grin.

“You’re correct. They call it that. I simply partake of its deliciousness.”

“You should partake of chocolate croissants. I hear the ones at this boulangerie are to die for.” Then she winks at me and turns to Marie, who’s watching our exchange with avid interest. The American woman orders properly this time, and Marie fetches the pastry for her.

I head out, but I dawdle. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m on pace to set a record for sheer sluggishness. Just a few more seconds, and she should be exiting.

She strolls out the door, bringing the scent of chocolate with her, and for a fleeting moment I imagine she tastes like chocolate.

She stops in front of me. She takes a bite of the croissant wrapped in a waxy paper and chews. She hums her praise for the food. “This is a delicious chocolate croissant.” Then she brings her fingers to her lips. “Oops. I meant pain au chocolat.”

“Very good. And I apologize if it seemed out of line to correct you. I didn’t want to see you commit a faux pas.”

“We didn’t mind,” she teases.

“We are so glad to hear,” I add.

She takes another bite and rolls her eyes, presumably in pleasure. When she finishes, she says, “So you’re a Prince Charming rescuing damsels in distress from language faux pas?”

“Something like that.”

“So gallant.”

“I aspire to gallantry every day. Though sometimes it expresses itself in odd ways.”

“Funnily enough, if you can ensure I’m getting access to one of the best chocolate croissants in all the city, then I’m good with those odd ways.”

“Do you like . . .?” I pause, and her green eyes follow my gaze to the treat in her hands.

“I do. Very much.” She points at me with the end of the croissant. Her eyes are inquisitive, studying me. “You’re not French.”

“You’re not, either.”

“But that’s obvious.”

“And it’s obvious I’m not as well.”

She smirks. “You’re British.”

I feign surprise. “What gave it away?”

“The accent might have been a tip-off.”

“Damn.” I snap my fingers, as if she’s caught me. That makes her smirk a little more. “You’re American,” I toss back at her.

Her eyes widen, and she appears positively astonished, playing along. “However could you tell?”

She waits, tapping her toe, evidently expecting me to say her voice since that’s what we’ve been chatting about.

“You want to know the giveaway?”

“I do.”

I lean a touch closer to her. “Your smile.”

That only makes her grin grow wider. She tries to contain it. She tries valiantly, it seems. But she has no luck. “They don’t smile in France?”

“Not like that. Not like you do.”

Yeah, I could flirt all day with her. That accent. Those eyes. Her hair. She’s a welcome distraction. I almost don’t mind my plans being massively derailed since it’s given me this unexpected encounter, and I don’t want this encounter with her to end. “What’s your name?” But before she can answer, I shake my head, and hold up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess.”

“Oh, by all means. Guess my name, Daniel.”

I laugh. “Daniel?”

“Seems like a good English name. Was I wrong? Is it Harry? William? Clive? Oliver? Henry? Rupert? Alistair? Archibald?”

Laughing, I blurt out, “You can’t possibly think I’m an Archibald?”

She waves dismissively. “Right, of course. My bad. You must be Archie.”

“If I’m Archie, then how about you? Are you a Jennifer?”

She shakes her head.

“Amy?”

Another shake.

“Stacy, then?”

“Nope.”

“You must be Katie?”

She rolls her eyes. “Try harder, Archibald.”

“Taylor? Hannah? Madison? Chloe? Avery?” Every name yields a no. “I’ve got it.” Her eyes widen. “Judy? You must be Judy.”

She laughs loudly. “Judy? You think I’m a Judy? While it’s quite a pretty name, let’s be honest—when was the last time you met an American Judy who was under fifty?”

“When have you met an Archibald who wasn’t bald and over seventy?”

She gives my dark hair a once-over. “True, you’re not bald. But why would you think only an American would have those names? Jennifer. Amy. Stacy,” she says, imitating me.

“Perhaps the same reason you picked Harry and William.”

“I picked them because I like princes.”

“Well, perhaps I like American-sounding names,” I counter, and her green eyes sparkle as she laughs.

“They do seem quintessentially American, don’t they?”

“They do.”

“Does that mean you think I’m quintessentially American?” She brings her hand to her chest, and my eyes follow. Because . . . breasts.

I allow myself a second to admire the potential of hers, then I refocus. “Quintessentially American is a fine thing to be.”

I’m about to throw in the towel and ask her real name, when her phone brays. It’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

“So sorry, this is my . . .” But she trails off as she answers the phone. “Bonjour, Marisol.”

Her brow furrows, and she listens intently to her call for ten seconds, twenty seconds.

And I’ve crossed the line.

I can’t stand here and wait any longer. That would be rude. Her phone call is my cue to go.

I give her a tip of the hat. “Good-bye, Judy,” I whisper.

For a moment, her brow furrows, almost as if she’s surprised I’m taking off.

Then, she smiles brightly, waves her fingers at me, and mouths good-bye, Archie.

She turns the other way, her croissant in one hand, her phone to her ear in the other.

I let myself enjoy a few seconds of the view of her walking away.

Then reality swoops back in. I’m no longer flirting with a sexy American woman as if I don’t have a care in the world. Instead, I’m left here holding a baguette and my helmet, wondering what I’ll do next to earn the money to take the trip my brother wanted to take.

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