“And my name’s Cody.”
Luc throws me a frown, and I expect him to say he didn’t ask formyname either, but instead he says, “What thirty-six-year-old man is named Cody? That’s ridiculous.”
Adorable, really, the way he says the word ridiculous. And the waymyname sounds in his accent makes me want to take him home even more.
“Well, I’m glad you think so, because then maybe you’ll remember it. I certainly hope you will.”
Look at me, flirting already.
“You hope I’ll remember you? A strange American man with a silly name who can’t speak French and pays with a coupon?”
I shrug, grinning at the comment. This guy plays hardball. “I’ll take what I can get. And I already told you, I’m not American.”
“You look American and sound American, so you must be American.”
“I’m really not.” I look him up and down, dying to know more. “And you? Are you French or Belgian?”
“I’m French. I moved here.”
“Why?” I ask, attempting to make conversation. “Didn’t you like it where you lived?”
“I did but...” He forces himself to be silent, and after a brief pause, he sighs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just get out of here if you’re not going to buy anything.”
I nod, trying to hide my disappointment that my attempt to initiate a conversation failed. Okay, I’ll do what he asks and leave the bakery, but not before one last attempt to ensure he’ll remember me.
Smiling slightly, I give him another slow, much-less-subtle look over, and this time, he does see it—mostly because I don’t give him a chance to miss it. First, he looks at me in confusion, but then I see it clicking on his face when he realizes what’shappening. He huffs softly before shifting his gaze, pretending to be busy with... something. Probably to get me out of the door.
Well, this time it works, and I leave. I already know one thing, though: no matter how much I dislike sweets, and no matter how out of place this bakery feels to me, nothing will stop me from coming back here again and again to get more cake. Whatever it takes to see Luc again.
Chapter 2: Cody
It’s five in the afternoon when I return home from the cake shop. I have a work meeting tomorrow that I’m supposed to prepare for, but my encounter with Luc takes up all my headspace, and I can’t focus on my computer screen.
When I’d arrived at the shop, it was empty except for me and Luc, standing on opposite sides of the counter. I can’t stop thinking about what happened, can’t stop wondering why my brain turned to mush as soon as I saw him. He intrigues me beyond belief, and I want nothing more than to go back. His typical French, cold demeanor is challenging, and honestly, kind of a turn-on.
As the evening progresses, I fail to get anything done, and as a result, the following day at work is a struggle. The meeting I failed to prepare for is a minor fiasco I’ll have to make up for later, all because of yesterday’s encounter. I hated the pie Luc gave me; I thought it was disgusting, though maybe that’s just my dislike for sweets. Ultimately, that doesn’t even matter because I know one thing: an unsavory cake won’t keep me from returning to the shop.
When the day is finally over, I don’t bother going home. I learned from the internet that the cake shop will close in only an hour, so I quickly head over there before I miss my chance. Once I arrive and the soft bell rings over my head, I’m surprised to see the place is empty. I’m the only customer, and there’s no sign of Luc or any other staff, but the shuffling sounds coming from the back indicate that at least someone’s here. I wait, taking a moment to inspect the interior I was too distracted to see yesterday.
This place is posh; everything inside the shop looks as clean and polished as the exterior. The shop’s name is proudlydisplayed in golden letters on the wall above the counter, and behind the glass are decorated cakes that look almost too good to eat. The surprisingly large space makes me wonder why it’s not crowded in here; perhaps that’s because it’s late. Maybe that’s a good thing, at least for me, because it’ll make it easier to talk to Luc with no one around.
A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts, one with a heavy French accent. “Oh, it’s you again.”
I can’t help but smile. As I’d hoped, Luc has appeared. He’s now standing in the same spot behind the counter, wearing the same cold expression as yesterday with the same apron tied around his waist. Almost everything is the same, except he’s exchanged his white shirt for a blue one.
He tries to sound disappointed upon seeing me, but doesn’t entirely succeed in making it believable, and I cling to the possibilities. It’s already starting to look like there’s more to him than he shows.
“I would think you’d be nicer to me,” I reply. “Given that I’m your only customer. Why aren’t you?”
Luc does this thing with his eyebrow—one perfect arch that makes my pulse trip over itself.
“You’re a foreigner. Is this not how you expected the French to be when you came here?”
I have to admit that’s true; the French have a reputation that precedes them. “It is.”
“Well then.” Luc shrugs and starts cleaning some things on the counter, ignoring me. I can’t decide if I like the mystery or if it drives me crazy.
“Is that all there is to it?” I ask after several seconds of silence. “It’s just a French thing?”
