She looks at the display case. “I’ve got muffins left. Blueberry. Lemon glaze.”
Oh. That actually sounds good. But. “No croissants, though?”
“And I can make you a bagel. Cinnamon? Blueberry? Plain?”
“Is that a no on the croissants?”
Faye cocks her head with a pleased expression. “You really like my croissants, don’t you?”
Do I? “They’re so, um.” I clutch the strap of my fake-leather messenger bag. “Unique.”
“Well, unfortunately I just gave the last one to Erik over there.” Faye points to her left, toward the very end of the counter, but I barely glance at Erik-over-there—tall man, broad shoulders, wears suit, boring—too busy cursing my own timing. I should not have spent twenty minutes tickling the majestic beauty of Ozzy’s little guinea pig tush. I am now rightfully paying for my mistakes, and Faye is giving me an assessing stare. “I’ll toast you a bagel. You’re too skinny to skip breakfast. Eat more and you might grow a little taller, too.”
I doubt I’ll manage to finally push past five feet at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but who’s to say. “Just to recap,” I say, in one last pleading, whiny attempt at salvaging my professional future, “you’re not making more croissants today?”
Faye’s eyes narrow. “Honey, you might like my croissants a little too much—”
“Here.”
The voice—not Faye’s—is deep and pitched low, coming from somewhere above my head. But I barely pay it any attention because I’m too busy staring at the croissant that has miraculously appeared in front of my eyes. It’s still whole, set on top of a napkin, a few stray flakes of dough slowly crumbling off its top. I’ve had Faye’s croissants before, and I know that what they lack in taste they make up for in size. They are very, very large.
Even when delivered by a very, very large hand.
I blink at it for several seconds, wondering if this is a superstition-induced mirage. Then I slowly turn around to look at the man who deposited the croissant on the counter.
He’s already gone. Half out of the door, and all I get is a brief impression of broad shoulders and light hair.
“What—？” I blink at Faye, pointing at the man. “What . . . ?”
“I guess Erik decided you should have the last croissant.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Wouldn’t look a gift croissant in the mouth if I were you.”
Gift croissant.
I shrug myself out of my stupor, toss a five-dollar bill in the tip jar, and run out of the café. “Hey!” I call. The man is about twenty steps ahead of me. Well, twenty steps with my tiny legs. Might be less than five with his own. “Hey, could you wait a . . . ?”
He doesn’t stop, so I clutch my croissant and hurry after him. I channel my best Former Soccer Scholarship Kid self and dodge a lady walking her dog, then her dog, then two teenagers making out on the sidewalk. I catch up right around the corner, when I come to a halt in front of him.
“Hey.” I grin up. And up and up and up. He’s taller than I calculated. And I’m more winded than I’d like. I need to work out more. “Thank you so much! You really didn’t have to . . .” I fall silent. For no real reason other than because of how striking he looks. He is just so . . .
Scandinavian, maybe. Viking-like. Norse. Like his ancestors frolicked below the aurora borealis on their way to funding Ikea. He is as big as a yeti, with clear blue eyes and short, pale-blond hair, and I would bet my gift croissant that his name contains one of those cool Nordic letters. The a and the e smushed together; that weird o slashed through the middle; the big b that’s actually two s’s stacked on top of each other. Something that requires a lot of HTML knowledge to be typed.
It takes me by surprise, that’s all, and for a moment I’m not sure what to say and just stare up. The strong jaw. The deep-set eyes. The way the angular parts of his face come together into something very, very handsome.
Then I realize that he’s staring back, and instantly become self-conscious. I know exactly what he’s seeing: the blue button-down I tucked into my chinos; the bangs I really need to trim; the brown, shoulder-length hair I also need to trim; and then, of course, the croissant.
The croissant! “Thank you so much!” I smile. “I didn’t mean to steal your food.”
No reply.
“I could pay you back.”
Still no reply. Just that severe North Germanic stare.
“Or I could buy you a muffin. Or a bagel. I really didn’t mean to interfere with your breakfast.”
Number of replies: zero. Intensity of stare: many millions. Does he even understand what I’m— Oh.
Ooooh.
“Thank. You,” I say, very, very slowly, like when my mom’s side of the family, the one that never immigrated to the U.S., attempts to speak Italian with me. “For”—I lift the croissant in front of my face—“this. Thank”—I point at the Viking—“you. You are very”—I tilt my head and scrunch my nose happily—“nice.” He stares even longer, pensive. I don’t think he got it. “You don’t understand, do you?” I murmur to myself dejectedly. “Well, thank you again. You really did me a solid there.” I lift the croissant one last time, like I’m toasting him. Then I turn around and begin to walk away.
“You’re welcome. Although you’ll find that the croissant leaves much to be desired.”
I whirl back to him. Blondie the Viking is looking at me with an indecipherable expression. “D-did you just speak?”
“I did.”
“In English?”
“I believe so, yes.”
I feel my soul crawl outside my body to astral project itself into the burning flames of hell out of pure, sheer embarrassment. “You . . . you weren’t saying anything. Before.”
He shrugs. His eyes are calm and serious. The span of his shoulders could easily moonlight as a plateau in Eurasia. “You didn’t ask a question.” His grammar is better than mine and I am withering inside.
“I thought . . . It seemed . . . I . . .” I close my eyes, remembering the way I mimicked the word nice for him. I think I want to die. I want this to be over. Yes, my time has come. “I am very grateful.”
“You probably won’t be, once you try the croissant.”
“No, I . . .” I wince. “I know it’s not good.”
“You do?” He crosses his arms on his chest and gives me a curious look. He’s wearing a suit, like 99 percent of the men who work on this block. Except that he looks unlike any other man I’ve ever seen. He looks like a corporate version of Thor. Like Platinum Ragnarok. I wish he’d smile at me, instead of just observing me. I’d feel less intimidated. “Could have fooled me.”
“I— The thing is, I don’t really want to eat it. I just need it for a . . . for a thing.”
His eyebrow lifts. “A thing?”
“It’s a long story.” I scratch my nose. “Kind of embarrassing, actually.”
“I see.” He presses his lips together and nods thoughtfully. “More or less embarrassing than you assuming I don’t speak English?”