Griffin

I’d have kicked a rubbish bin in frustration if I were that type of guy. Instead, I gave myself fifteen minutes of drown-my-sorrows time. For the first seven, I leaned against the barricade at the river, sighed heavily, and stared glumly into the water. Then for three minutes, I opened my wallet, unfolded the piece of paper I keep in it, and reread the words imprinted on my memory.

3. Visit Indonesia. Run a marathon there. Travel across the country, then everywhere.

So, yeah. That’s been tabled. It wasn’t even my dream, but I annexed it when I had to. Adopted it, if you will, when the dream’s owner died.

Then, for the final five minutes, I wandered. Contemplating.

Travel everywhere. Love the idea, but I haven’t saved quite enough yet to pull it off. I need to scrape together a little more, and with the bonus gone, I need more work.

Only I don’t have more work yet.

But here’s the thing. Bread can solve nearly every crummy situation. Nearly. That’s why I’m here at the bakery. Marie is behind the counter, wearing an orange apron that’s covered in flour. Her thick black hair is held in a hairnet.

I say hello to her in English, and she answers me back the same. It’s a running joke. The first time I came here, I was talking on the phone with a friend from home, and she greeted me in English, assuming I didn’t know her language.

She was surprised when I switched to her native tongue, which I do again right now. I order a baguette, and we chat briefly. Am I having a good day? she asks. I don’t need to unload on her, so I tell her my day is fine.

“Did you find the rugelach in Le Marais that I told you about?” she asks as she bends to the case to grab the bread.

“It was amazing. And if I keep eating that I will balloon up,” I say, patting my belly and puffing my cheeks.

She laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t even go there, young man. You’re too skinny. You haven’t an ounce of fat on you.”

That might not be precisely true, but she’s correct that I’m trim. Running and biking has that effect on the physique.

“And you are too good to me,” I tell her, then hand her two euros for the bread.

I grab the bread and say good-bye as well.

“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.