Le Papillon is exactly what you’d expect from a resort restaurant trying very hard to be fancy. Warm wood. Soft lighting. White tablecloths. Fresh flowers on every table. The smell of butter and herbs, garlic and rosemary, wafts in the air, mingling with the classical music playing overhead.
We’re all seated at a long table—wedding party at one end, family at the other. It’s maybe twenty people total. Derek’s parents are at the head, speaking animatedly with my mom. My brother is right at home, talking hockey with the boys. And somehow, I got myself sandwiched in the middle of Maya’s bridesmaids, trying to look even remotely engaged in the conversation while my gaze keeps going back to the entrance.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Brody strolls into the restaurant wearing dark jeans, a blue polo, and a gray sports jacket that complements those gray-blue eyes I can’t seem to get enough of. His hair is slightly windswept,jaw dusted with stubble. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks.
His gaze finds mine immediately.
Something in his expression shifts. Softens.
He crosses the restaurant in long strides, weaving between tables. I stand without thinking about it, my chair scraping against the floor.
I’m only halfway to my feet when he pulls me into a hug.
His arms wrap around me, solid and warm. He smells like winter air and his woodsy cologne. His chin rests on top of my head for just a second.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Just for me.
“Hey.”
We pull apart. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, his gaze taking me in.
“You look beautiful.”
Heat instantly rises to my cheeks. “Thanks. You look”—I gesture vaguely at him—“surprisingly great. For someone who just drove three hours.”
He grins, and I just…melt. “High praise.”
Maya waves from down the table. “Brody! Come sit!”
There’s a newly empty chair next to me, and Brody takes it without hesitation. His knee bumps mine under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
A waiter appears with menus. Starts explaining the specials in accented English.
Brody listens, then responds in French.
Actual French.
This elicits a chorus of starstruck oohs and ahhs from around the table.
The waiter lights up, responding enthusiastically. They have a whole conversation—I catch maybe three words total—andthe waiter practically floats away, promising to bring the chef’s recommendation.
I know I’m staring, but seriously, who justknowsFrench?
“What?” he asks.
“You speak French?”
“You speak Spanish,” he counters.
“Not like that!”
Brody chuckles. “I took it in high school. Spent a summer in Quebec for hockey camp.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s rusty but functional.”
“That was not rusty. That was fluent.”
