When I hand it to Pierre, his fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. I had forgotten what his touch feels like. It feels good. Real good. Too good.
I step backward, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Yes, it is. I’m super busy with the exhibition. Lots to do.”
“Too busy to go to the Star Wars convention on Saturday?”
“Tickets sold out months ago.” I shrug. “Even if I had the time to go, I couldn’t.”
“It just so happens that I have tickets.”
I lock eyes with him. “You do?”
“Uh-huh. So you’ll come?”
Every fiber in my being wants to shout, “Yes!” Not because I want to spend time with Pierre, but because this is the Star Wars convention we’re talking about. Who in their right mind passes up an opportunity to go to that?
Me, apparently. I hear myself coolly say, “Sorry, but I have to work on Saturday.” Amélie starts to contradict me, but I give her a warning look. “Yep, working all next weekend.”
“I’ll bet you twenty euros, which you still owe me by the way, that I can get you to change your mind,” Pierre says.
“Sounds like easy money to me.” I straighten my shoulders. This is going to be the easiest twenty euros I’ve ever made. I’m going to have no problem resisting Pierre.
Then he winks at me, and I suddenly realize this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
* * *
Pierre’s campaign is relentless. Every fifteen minutes, my phone buzzes with a Star Wars-related text from him, each ending with a link to the convention website. For the first few hours, I’m mildly amused, but by the time midnight rolls around, I’m over it. I’m wearing out the delete button on my phone, and I’ve run out of ways to say no.
I finally drift off to sleep, only to be woken at two in the morning with this text: Roses are red, violets are blue. If you love Star Wars, may the Force be with you.
I send back a GIF of Darth Vader that says, “Don’t make me destroy you.”
My phone goes silent after that.
I should be relieved. But I’m not.
I should be able to fall peacefully back to sleep. But I don’t.
I should be able to stop thinking about Pierre’s hazel eyes. But I can’t.
All I seem to be able to do is stare at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise, wishing I could get the heir to the Toussaint fortune out of my head.
* * *
The next morning, I walk into work, hiding my bleary eyes behind a large pair of sunglasses. Before I put my purse in the back room, I check my phone again. Nope, no more texts from Pierre. I guess my Darth Vader GIF did the trick.
I push my glasses up on my head and sniff the air. Something smells wonderful, and I’m not just talking about the begonia-scented body wash I used in the shower.
“You have an admirer.” Amélie sets a large gift basket on the counter.
My stomach growls when I pull back the red gingham fabric covering the contents. The basket is overflowing with croissants, small jars of raspberry and strawberry preserves, and a crock full of rich, creamy butter.
Amélie points at the card tied to the handle. “Who is it from?”
“It’s not signed,” I say as I hand it to her.
“Something to Chewbacca on,” she reads out loud, then turns to me. “What does this mean?”
“It’s a Star Wars reference.”
“I have never seen this movie. What is a Chewbacca?”
It’s way too early in the morning to explain what a Wookie is. I offer her a croissant instead. While Amélie breaks off a piece and delicately spreads butter and jam on it, she asks me why I’m not having one.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” I say, lying through my teeth. But I’ve accepted enough from Pierre. I’m not going to add more croissants to the list, no matter how delicious they look. I snap a picture of the gift basket and send it to Ginny and Isabelle.
Can you believe the nerve of this guy? Trying to win me over with croissants!
Isabelle responds right away. The nerve. LOL. Then she sends me a picture of what she’s having for breakfast. I bet you wouldn’t say no to this strudel.
Depends who gave it to me. If it was from Pierre, then I would have to refuse.
Ginny responds a few minutes later with a historical tidbit. Did you know that croissants aren’t originally French? An Austrian baker, August Zang, introduced the croissant in Paris in 1838. It’s an adaptation of an old Austrian pastry, the kipferl, which dates back to the 1300s.
I file that juicy little morsel away to taunt Pierre with later.
After spending the first part of the morning helping an American couple decide between a stone sculpture by a Zimbabwean artist and an oil painting by an up-and-coming artist from the Bronx—they ended up buying both—I finally break down and devour a croissant. As I’m wiping away telltale crumbs from my blouse, Pierre walks into the gallery. Because he doesn’t start his shift until the evening, he’s dressed in regular clothes—jeans, a button-down shirt, and sneakers. It’s a way better look for him than the organ grinder’s monkey costume.
“I see you got my present,” he says.
“Oh, was that from you?” I ask innocently. “The card wasn’t signed.”
“Do you get many pastry baskets from secret admirers?”
I shrug. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
He furrows his brow. “So I have competition?”
“Competition for what?” I ask with all the nonchalance I can muster.
“Not for what. For whom.”
Now, I go in for the kill with full-on sarcasm. “For whom . . . look at you all fancy with your perfect grammar.”
“What would you say?” he asks, his hazel eyes twinkling.
“I’d say for who. I’m sure that’s wrong, but I didn’t have all your advantages in life. How did you get that British accent, anyway? Boarding school?”
His eyes stop twinkling. “Boarding school isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I chew on my lip. There’s a story there. Another secret.
But before I can ask him about it, he changes the subject. “So, what time should I pick you up on Saturday?”
I shake my head. “I told you. I can’t go. I’m working all weekend.”
“That’s not what Amélie says.”
“Sounds like a misunderstanding. You know how she’s trying to improve her English.”
“Our conversation was in French.” He leans across the counter and plucks a croissant out of the basket. As he tears off a piece, he says, “So, that’s settled. You’re free to come with me this weekend.”
I fold my arms across my chest. This man is infuriating. Always assuming everyone is going to do what he wants, just because he’s rich. I refuse to respond. If I stand here long enough, not saying anything, eventually he’ll leave, right? Pouty resistance always wins in the end.
Geez, how long does it take to eat a croissant? I want to rip the pastry out of his hand and shove it into his mouth. I want to trace my finger on the side of his mouth and wipe that stray bit of strawberry preserves away. I want to touch his lips. I want to—
Stop it, Mia. Stop thinking about him.
“So, you realize that I’m going to keep sending you croissants until you say yes,” Pierre says.
I stamp my foot. “For the love of all that is flaky, no more croissants.”
“Fine. Challenge accepted.” He gives me a cocky grin, then walks out of the gallery.
I put my head in my hands and groan. How does he always manage to turn the tables on me? What in the world does he have in store for me next?
* * *
Turns out what he has in store for me is more pastries and more Star Wars texts. On Tuesday, I find a basket of palmiers. As I crunch my way through the delicious palm-leaf shaped treats made out of puff pastry, I laugh at one of Pierre’s riddles. What do you get when you cross an elephant with Darth Vader? An ele-Vader.<
br />
I text him back one of my own. Why did Luke Skywalker cross the road? To get to the Dark Side.
Good one, he texts back. Pick you up at 10:00 on Saturday?
I send back a GIF of Princess Leia haughtily saying, “no thanks,” then shove my phone into my purse for the rest of the day.
* * *
Wednesday’s basket is full of éclairs. All kinds of éclairs. Chocolate éclairs so decadent that you moan with pleasure as you eat them. Éclairs filled with a vanilla-flavored crème pâtissière and topped with a salted caramel icing and chopped hazelnuts (my personal favorite; I eat two). Others are crammed full of chestnut puree (definitely not my personal favorite; I only eat one bite), fruit-flavored fillings (the fruit makes them a healthier option, or at least that’s what I tell myself), and coffee-flavored whipped cream (the perfect way to get a caffeine buzz).
By the time I work my way through the basket, I have a tummy ache. I think this is Pierre’s plan. Wear me down with stomach pains, then offer to take me to the doctor’s office if I say yes to the Star Wars convention.
Hah. The joke is on him. My skirt has an elastic band and I’m wearing a loose top. A bloated stomach is not a problem for this girl.
* * *
I come into work late on Thursday. Indigestion can really interfere with one’s sleep. While the basket waiting for me on the counter is tempting—it’s full of macaroons—I resist.
Pierre sends plenty of texts throughout the day. I’m not sure how he does it. Since he works the night shift, he should be sleeping during the day. I ignore them all. Just like I ignore the macaroons.
The thing is, I don’t really like macaroons, which makes that easy. But when it comes to Pierre, he’s a little harder to resist. The Force is strong in this one.
* * *
When I come into work on Friday, I’m greeted by . . . nothing. No pastry basket. No Star Wars texts. Nada. Zilch. Zippo. Or rien, as the French would say.
Good. Pierre has finally gotten the message. I’m not interested in him or his pastries.
Amélie nudges me. “Mia, I think someone is here to see you.”
Han Solo is standing in the doorway. Well, it’s not Han Solo himself—he’s a fictitious character, after all. No, it’s Pierre dressed up as the captain of the Millennium Falcon. And, boy, does he look good. Ridiculously good. He sure can pull off the look of an interstellar smuggler—fitted black pants tucked into boots, a white shirt layered under a vest, and a holster slung around his hips.
Pierre winks at me, then spins around. “How do I look?”
“You know exactly how you look,” I mutter. “Hot.”
“What was that?” he asks.
“You’re missing your blaster.”
He looks down at his holster. “Oh, I must have left it back at my apartment. But don’t worry, I’ll have it with me tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Uh-huh. The Star Wars convention. Since you already have a Princess Leia costume, I thought I’d wear my Han Solo one.” He strokes my cheek with his finger and lowers his voice. “You haven’t forgotten our date tomorrow, have you, cherie?”
Now I know how Princess Leia felt when she was outcharmed by Han Solo. No wonder she let him kiss her on the Millennium Falcon.
“Our date,” I say slowly.
“Yes, our date,” he whispers in my ear.
Then he pulls back, gives me a cocky grin. “Ten o’clock. Don’t be late, your highness.”
7
The Best Lightsaber Ever
My phone buzzes, alerting me to the fact that Pierre will be here any minute now to pick me up. I smooth down my white gown and inspect myself in the full-length mirror. This is one of my favorite Princess Leia costumes. The flowing material, high collar, and bell sleeves flatter my figure, and the flat boots are comfortable.
Everything looks authentic, except for my hair. While I have it styled in the classic cinnamon bun style that Carrie Fisher wore in the original Star Wars movie, my hair is blonde instead of dark brown. I had considered dyeing it last night, but I ran out of time.
After adjusting my metallic belt, I pick up the lightsaber lying on the bed. Should I bring it with me or not? Princes Leia didn’t wear a lightsaber with this outfit. It wouldn’t be authentic. But, on the other hand, it’s a lightsaber. Everything looks better with a lightsaber.
I hear a knock on the door. When I open it, Pierre lets out a low whistle. He motions for me to twirl around, and I oblige. Not because he wants me to, but because I like how my dress swirls around my ankles.
“You look fantastic,” he says. “This is my favorite Princess Leia look.”
“Hmm. I thought most guys preferred the metal bikini she wore in Return of the Jedi.”
“Not me. I like it when something is left to the imagination.” He winks at me. “And I have a great imagination.”
I step back and examine his outfit. It’s the same Han Solo costume that he had on yesterday, but somehow it looks even better today. I twirl my finger in the air. “Fair’s fair. Turn around.” He spins around, and I realize what’s different. He’s had a haircut and his shirt doesn’t have a collar. The combination of those two things means that the very top of his tattoo is visible when he bends his neck at just the right angle. The black and gray ink is tantalizing. What does the rest of the tattoo look like? As I wonder what lies underneath Pierre’s shirt, I realize that I have a pretty great imagination too.
* * *
I don’t need a map to know when we’ve arrived at the convention center. The people standing in line look like they came directly from the set of a Star Wars movie. There are the usual costumes—multiple Princess Leias, Luke Skywalkers, and Han Solos—but there are also some fascinating alien creatures. Like the Quarren, who have four tentacles protruding from their jaws, menacing Tusken raiders, and amphibious Gungans.
“Wow, look at that,” I say.
“Those guys? Don’t you think they’re a little tall to pull off Ewok costumes?”
“No, that lightsaber.” I pull a napkin out of my backpack and wipe drool off the side of my mouth. Yes, I’m drooling. And, no, I’m not embarrassed because that’s how awesome this lightsaber is. Anyone would drool over it.
“You already have one.”
My eyes grow wide. “But not like that one. See the intricate carvings on the titanium hilt and the handcrafted blade? That is the ultimate in lightsabers.”
“Why don’t you buy one?”
“Why don’t you buy one?” I say in a mocking tone. “Just like a billionaire. You see something you like and you buy it. You don’t think twice about how much it costs. Whatever you want is yours for the taking.”
“Who said that I’m a billionaire?”
“It’s an educated guess.” I tick the evidence off on my fingers. “Boarding school in Britain, custom-made shoes, a polo horse—”
“Who told you I have a polo horse?”
“Amélie.”
“I think she might have meant a pool house. We have one at the place in Aruba.”
“I stand corrected,” I say dryly. “The pool house. Oh, yeah, and there’s one other tiny giveaway—you’re the heir to the Toussaint fortune.”
For once he doesn’t look cocky. He takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “You’re right. I do come from money. And sometimes I forget that not everyone is as fortunate as me. It’s something I’m working on. Forgive me?”
I feel his fingers wrap around mine. “You’re holding my hand.”
He glances down. “Oh, is that what that is? It felt rough and scaly. I thought it was some sort of tentacle.”
“My hand isn’t rough. I moisturize regularly.”
He caresses the back of my hand. “You might need to add an anti-scaling lotion to your beauty routine.”
I let out an indignant huff and try to pull my hand away, but he holds on firmly. “I’m just kidding. Your hands are smooth and silky. They feel almost humanlike. I don’t think any
one here would suspect that you’re really an alien in disguise.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’m glad to know that I have everyone fooled. But seriously, you shouldn’t be holding my hand.”
He furrows his brow. “Why?”
“Because we’re in public.”
“I’m only holding your hand.” He stares intently into my eyes. “It’s not like I’m kissing you . . . or worse.”
My body tingles as I imagine what he means by “worse.” Then I yank my hand away. “I don’t believe in public displays of affection.”
“Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it isn’t real. The Force is a prime example. Han Solo doesn’t believe in it, but we both know it’s real.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You know what I mean.”
“Fine. I’ll just hold your hand and kiss you in private.” He leaves the word “worse” unsaid.
* * *
“That panel was amazing,” I say as we walk out of the auditorium. “Can you believe Yoda was almost played by a monkey?”
“A monkey could never have pulled that performance off. I’m glad they went with a puppet instead,” Pierre says. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. Provided it’s not croissants. I think I’ve had my fill of them for a while.”
Pierre leads me to the VIP lounge. The attendant takes one look at his pass, then quickly removes the red velvet rope to let us in. As we enter the room, a waiter holds out a tray of crystal glasses.
“C’est quoi?” Pierre asks.
“And you call yourself a Star Wars fan,” I say. “It’s blue and green milk, like they drank in A New Hope.”
“Yes, miss,” the waiter says in halting English. “But it is, how do you say?”
Smitten with Croissants Page 7
