He scratches his cheek as though the translation didn’t work to his satisfaction. “How do you say the prefixnon?”
I laugh. “It’s the same in English and French.Non,” I answer, using the French pronunciation.
“Happynon-birthday,” he repeats.
“Merci,” I answer, getting that he means it like an anti-birthday. He’s recognizing my birthday and being sweet, even though I often get the birthday blues.
Connor presents the pastry box. “Figured it was too early for cake, so I got an assortment of pastries, croissants, and whatever this curly thing is.”
“It’s called apalmier,” I say with the perfect French pronunciation. “Some say it’s a pig’s ear. I prefer an elephant ear. But don’t worry, it’s just made of the usual ingredients. But this chocolateplié au chocolatis the best.” I pick up the pastry with its buttery folds of dough and custard and take a bite. My eyes flutter shut. “How did you know this is my favorite?”
“Lucky guess.” Connor smirks.
“I’ve never told anyone this, but I have a chocolate tooth. It’s like a sweet tooth, but just for chocolate. French chocolate.”
“I kind of gathered that, Choco-line.” He turns my hand over and kisses the inside of my wrist.
I giggle, then so enraptured by the pastry, I offhandedly reply, “You too.” Then I pause and repeat it with more enthusiasm when I recall that he and I share a birthday and that’s what he meant bymon. As in, it’s his birthday too. “I mean happymonbirthday ornonbirthday to you too, Connor.” I feed him a bite of theplié au chocolat.
“Oh, this is good.Très bien,” he says with his Appalachian accent.
I beam a smile, but it just as quickly falls. “I feel bad, I’d forgotten and didn’t get you anything or?—”
He brushes his hand down my arm and the softness in his copper eyes suggests that being here together is enough. “I’m more of a bah humbug birthday kind of guy.”
“Isn’t that a Christmas saying?”
“And Happy New Year.”
I laugh. “I like that we share a birthday. That kind of makes it better. From now on, we could call it our birthday, or in Franglais,notrebirthday.”
He smiles and tries saying it.
I tell him about how Giselle and I have our own language—Franglais.
“How about not birthday?”
“From now on, we’ll celebrate our not birthday.” We’ll be sure to celebrate with dinner tonight, whether Connor likes it or not. For now, I peek in the bag and sure enough, it’s filled with pretty paper, stickers, and little packages of sparkly and pearly supplies. “I cannot picture you in a craft store.”
“The ladies in there were all too pleased when I walked in. One dumped an entire container of seed beads on the floor.” Hepinches his fingers together to show how small they are. “And before you ask, yes, I helped clean it up.”
“Good man.”
He pats his shoulder. “What can I say? I am the best.”
The smile on my face cannot be helped. “I agree.”
He kisses the top of my head, then says, “For the record, I can’t imagine you in a craft store either.”
My lips twist with confusion. “My translation abilities from English to French don’t always include reading between the lines. What does that mean?”
Connor’s eyebrows lift. “You’re fancy. Like a princess, but not at all delicate. You’re strong. Feminine. Disciplined. Gorgeous. Smart. Speak two languages. I’ve wondered, do you think in French?”
“Sometimes. I have some choice words reserved for you.” I follow up with a smile, so he knows they’retrès bien, very good words.
“Do you dream in French?” Connor lowers onto the couch, wedging himself behind me and snuggling me in his arms. Here, I feel safe and peaceful. I’m glad this Boston Bruiser bared his butt and barged into my life.
Connor is passing the Blancbourg program with flying colors. He is friendly, polite, and helpful. In fact, the hotel staff adores him. He jokes that he’s giving the Boston Bruisers a bad name by going soft, but the softer side of him has always been there. Though perhaps he never allowed it to come out.
