“What?” I ask.
She finally pulls in a breath. “Zoom in on the left-hand side window.”
My eyebrows meet in the middle as my mud-splattered fingers drag apart on the screen.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Throwing my head back toward the cloudless blue sky.
“Is that who I think it is?” It’s grainy, but in the back of the shop by the counter is a tall broad man whose side profile looks distinctly like Oliver Kavanagh.
I groan. “He hasn’t seen me yet. I could just—”
“Go over there right now, missy,” Cecily interjects before I have time to protest. “Don’t let a man, no matter how pretty he is, stop you from getting baked goods.”
As if on cue, my stomach violently rumbles again. “But I look disgusting.”
“If you’re not interested in him, why do you care?” she questions in a taunting tone.
“Because I wouldn’t wantanyoneseeing me looking like I’ve shit myself,” I say, twisting my neck to try and see the spray of drying mud up the back of my leggings.
“You’re gorgeous, sweaty or shitty. Stop making excuses and get in there.”
“Okay, fine, I’m going.” I will deny the thrill running through my veins in a court of law.
“Au revoir, mon amie!”The line goes dead before I have time for a retort.
The bell announces my hesitant entrance, several patrons turning to glance at me before returning to their coffee and newspapers. Oliver’s back remains side-on to me while waiting in line and his attention remains fixed on his phone.
So I decide to do the weirdest thing possible and stand behind him in silence, building up the courage to say something.The last time I spoke to this man we were arguing about being friends and falling out of an airplane bathroom, so I resolve to go with a friendly, neutral “Hey.”
He looks over his shoulder and parrots an ineffectual quick “Hey” back. But then quickly does a double take and smiles, the look in his eyes shifting away from disinterest. “Hey.”
He twists around to face me, studying my dirt-covered outfit and ignoring the continuous string of metallic beeps blasting from his phone. “Did you crawl here?”
“No, I’ve actually gotten into mud wrestling since I last saw you. How the hell didyouget here?” I take the opportunity to check him for mud, my eyes running up from his perfectly spotless light brown brogues to his charcoal-gray trousers and crisp white shirt and thick gray wool coat hung over one arm.
His eyes glint, flicking from my leggings to my lips to my eyes. “I used the hotel’s car service... like a sane person.”
I nod. “Ah, so you didn’t take the scenic route through the swamp?”
One side of his mouth turns upward. “I’m saving it as aa special treat for the weekend.”
“Oui?” a bald man with a thick beard asks from behind the counter.
Oliver clears his throat—“Bonjour, je prends un café noisette, deux cafés américains, et un thé au citron, s’il vous plaît”—before turning back to me.
“French too?” I ask.
“Croissant, foie gras, coq au vin...” He checks off the words on his fingers. “Do you need a ride back?”
Before I can reply, his phone starts dinging again. He rolls his eyes and starts to furiously type.
“Sure,” I answer. “Thanks.”
While I make my order in an accent that would make my year nine French teacher roll in hertombe, Oliver’s focus is set on his phone, his brow set in a deep furrow.
I tilt my head, looking up at him. “Everything okay?”
“Huh?” he says monotonically.
