VERA

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PARIS IN THE MORNING, IS TRULY A PRETTY THING.

It's like that feeling of waking up in a hotel. You forget where you are at first, but then that feeling of 'yeahhhh, I like this' hits you like a truck and you wake with a smile. The best part is pushing open the giant mahogany doors of your apartment building, hearing the cars honking, the people chattering, the smell of what seemed to be mocha as you passed round the block, and the occasional puff of cigarette smoke floating out of an alley.

Chicago had the same things, but Paris had spice.

It's the seasoning on a bland piece of chicken, or the cinnamon on whipped cream. Or should I say, 'the crème de la crème'?

As I crossed the street blindly, half-aware of my surroundings and half-tired, I let my mind run over yesterday night's conversation. I felt self-proclaimed on my promise to start learning French as quickly as I could, but a cram session seemed unlikely to get me any further than I was today.

Toni distracted me with her tales of photoshoots and lunch dates instead, but ended up begging for a crumb of my day towards the end of it. I ended up giving her a whole bread loaf.

Specifically about counting coins, and meeting a stranger in the afternoon. A confusing boy named Timothée, to be specific—which made Toni prod me with phrases like 'describe him! Spill!'—and I spent five minutes trying to do him the slightest bit of justice. It wasn't that I cared for him in that way, it just felt strange to call him such simple words for such a...

...well, he wasn't a very simple person it seemed.

Besides his confusing personality and concise words, his physical being was far more picturesque for simple traits like 'cute' or 'handsome'. There was just something so indescribable. Something only I could know, because only I had felt it at that moment.

Or maybe I did know the words, I just gated them off from the rest of the world, because I wanted the feeling to be mine alone. Selfishness, hidden in my very mind undetected.

But I settled for the word pretty.

The rest of the night was a blur, a mixture of sandwiches and colas, and I found myself walking into Plaisirs De Bella's with a smile on my face the very next day.

Bella noticed when I walked in, a smile growing on her face as she exclaimed a loud greeting. Just like yesterday, she had her yellow apron donned, but this time her hair was kneaded back into two tight dutch braids. She beamed. "Bonjour, Vera!"

"Bonjour, Bella," I greeted in return, "comment est le temps?"

That meant 'how is the weather'? I picked it up in my travel book last night as I was cramming to learn new things. I'll admit, my accent needed work, but I let myself bask in momentary pride—I actually said a sentence in French that wasn't 'hello'.

But Bella crushed my pride with a laugh.

"Très bien, I see you're improving," she noted, motioning for me to follow her behind the counter, "although I believe the question is unnecessary, considering you have just come in from outside."

I faltered a grin, shuffling behind the counter of the bakery with haste. It was too early for any reasonable customers to walk in, those who didn't have their own troubles keeping them wide awake, so Bella set to work, telling me things I needed to do. Place bread in a basket, put this basket in the display window, set out trays to put fresh pastries on, and help get the shop up and running. There would be a morning rush that was about to come streaming through the door, according to her.

And then the clockwork began.

For my second day, I can't entirely say that I've got everything melded into my mind like it's been there for centuries, but I can say that I picked it up quickly enough. I only wish I could do that with everything else in my life. Specifically writing, because that's a problem that my whole career is riding on, not to mention my bills and will to survive in this world.

A few hours passed, and I began to notice that everything was incredibly packed on Mondays, nearly double the amount of customers from yesterday. To be fair, Paris was just as busy a city as Chicago, but....no. Stop, Vera. I kept glancing through the stream of people packing into the tiny bakery, wondering if I could catch a glimpse of familiar green eyes and chestnut hair.

There were spaces in time where I distracted myself, but my thoughts always led me back down that path. I mean, who could blame me? The boy had a certain charm that left you reeling for another conversation, another handshake, and even just another look at him. I'd like to describe him as an aftertaste—hits the hardest when it's gone, and isn't always a bitter ending—but that's not entirely appropriate to say. A lot of people might assume something dirty out of it, and that's not what I mean by it at all.

"Vera, did you hear me?"

I spun around at the sound of Bella's voice, nearly dropping the pan of croissants in my hand. Whoops.

"Oh, no, sorry," I said sheepishly, setting the tray onto the marble counter, "can you repeat that?"

Bella didn't seem too bothered by it (thankfully) and instead gave me a soft smile. She jutted her chin out towards the door behind me, waving at it.

"Butter," she said.

"Butter," I repeated.

And butter it was.

Turning towards the storage door, I swung it open with a slightly dazed gleam in my eyes. I didn't realize I had been zoning out. I do it far too often, and I might accidentally wander into a busy street, walk off a cliff, or accidentally trespass into a top-security area and go to prison one day.

Okay, those are clear exaggerations, but you get my point.

Going into the basement to restock supplies was surprisingly pleasant, because a refreshing breeze of cold air surrounded the metal staircase, winding all the way down to the very bottom of the pit. Bella had shown it to me on the first tour of the place and I found it incredibly interesting.

If I remembered correctly, all dairy items were tucked into a large, white fridge towards the left of the space, so I kept my destination in mind as I listened to the sound of my steps echoing off the stone walls.

It was simple. Go to the basement, get the food, and go back upstairs. Maybe swipe a chocolate bar while I'm at it, but who knows?

But as I turned the corner to the cellar, I came face to face with something incredibly strange and alarming.

The slim figure of a boy had graced his presence before me, and he seemed to be stuck through the cellar's window in an attempt to sneak in. His legs were already inside, his feet just grazing the concrete floor, but the other half of him was still pushing his way through from outside.

He definitely didn't work here.

And in the logistical sense of it, it would be justified to grab a nearby baguette and start beating the unwanted intruder back out the window, but I didn't think to at the moment. In fact, I could barely think at all, because in that split second, I caught a glimpse of strikingly green eyes—and it's not like the color was rare to surround someone's pupils, it was just that I had been thinking about those eyes since yesterday. Those individual eyes — not just green, but blue and gold mixed in with a shimmering glint. I don't know why I ever found myself too attached to a pair of eyes, but here I was...

...looking at Timothée.

The boy from yesterday, who managed to secure a place in my mind with his unexplainable aura. He was like one of those people you see on the street, who give you the smallest crumb of attention, but then you find yourself wistfully dreaming about them for the rest of the day. Not just because he was the prettiest boy I had ever seen, but because of that very same unexplainable reason.

By the time I started reaching for a bread loaf to defend myself, he had managed to worm his way completely through the window, his curly hair tousled from his journey, and his clothes folded over as they scraped against the stone wall. He let out a satisfied smirk once the soles of his sneakers hit the floor, and turned to reach for an apple sitting on the top of a bucket beside him.

Until he saw me.

"Fils de pute."

Seeing as I wasn't fluent in French, I could only assume that was a derogatory term of shock. Timothée nearly stumbled backwards, letting out a yelp as his knee whacked against the apple bin and sent a flood of fruit rolling all over the concrete ground. I could sense the pure terror coursing through his veins, and I was almost certain he could sense the pure confusion coursing through mine.

He was a thief.

I had been professing my admiration over him to Toni the entirety of last night, and yet here I was now, watching him steal apples and cause a mess when he realized he had been caught. God, I have horrible taste in men.

"The American," Timothée stammered quickly, nearly tripping over his own tongue, "I can promise you this isn't what it looks like."

Now there's two things wrong with that phrase:

One, it's commonly used in cases of cheating, where the sick-excuse-of-a-human gets caught red-handed by their partner. This wasn't the case for this situation, but besides that, it leads to the second thing.

Two, it's almost always what it looks like.

"Drop the apple," I said harshly, snatching up a baguette from the rack next to me, "I'm not afraid to hit you with this if you don't."

Timothée's eyes widened, and he let the red fruit fall from his fingers, watching it roll into the scattered mess of already spilled ingredients on the floor. I wasn't sure if I was to be angry, horrified, confused, spiteful, disappointed, or everything at once—I mean, seriously—a thief?

But he was a strange thief. Under the strands of dark-brown hair strewn messily over his eyes, I noticed his apprehensive stature wash away as quickly as it had come, his noticeable smirk regaining superiority over his face. It was like watching a chameleon change colors, but this time he wanted to stand out as much as possible.

And he was surprisingly calm about this whole thing too. About being caught in the act of stealing fruit. I threatened to assault him with a baguette not even a minute ago, and he didn't even flinch. He just complied.

"Are you going to ask for an explanation, or are you going to keep staring at me like that?" Timothée muttered, the sound of his voice trickling into the basement like cold water.

I felt my face flush. "If I asked for an explanation, would you give me one?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Then why would you offer?" I frowned, my fingers digging into the loaf in my hand.

Timothée shrugged, bringing his hand up to his lips as he tapped on it in thought. A speck of sunlight streaming in through the window he had just climbed in from glinted against his finger, and I noticed the same glass ring he was wearing yesterday.

I wonder if he stole that too.

"Put the baguette down, Chérie," he chuckled, holding up his hands, "I'm not here to hurt you."

I winced at the term of endearment he used so carelessly. It didn't seem like the right moment for him to use it, but it rolled off his tongue so easily, I almost fooled myself into swooning—which I didn't, because he was still a rotten thief.

"You're here to steal, though," I frowned, "and no, I'm not putting down the baguette."

Timothée made a face. "Baguette."

"Excuse me?"

"You said 'bag-wet'," he noted, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, "it's pronounced 'bah-get'."

I debated retracing my words to pronounce it correctly, but I decided to pretend like it didn't smack me in the face and call out my horrible French pronunciation (note to self, it's bah-get, not bag-wet).

"Thank you," I said bluntly, narrowing my eyes, "but care to explain why I caught you trying to steal an apple?"

Timothée shrugged, "I forgot to account for you."

"Account for me?"

"Bella works alone," he explained, leaning against the fridge behind him, "while having met you yesterday, I still forgot to consider you were just as capable of walking in as she is."

"Why are you stealing, though?" I professed, making sure to sound extra-disappointed in him. Hopefully he'd feel guilty and tell me the truth this time, not just distract me with grammar-checking and conversation changes.

I was given a completely different answer instead.

"I'm not stealing," he said plainly, crossing his arms against his chest, "I told you it wasn't what it looked like."

I nearly scoffed. "Then why were you climbing through the window?"

"It's Monday, it's crowded, and I wouldn't be able to get through that door without someone trying to accuse me of cutting a line," Timothée stated factually, "so I used the other entrance, which happened to be this basement window."

I hated that his excuse actually sounded reasonable. "And the apple?"

"I was hungry, and I would pay for it later."

"Sure."

I gave him a skeptical look.

"Don't give me that look," he frowned, pushing himself off of the fridge and back onto his feet, "I know Bella personally. It wouldn't make sense for me to steal from her."

"So I'm supposed to let you get away with all this?"

"Oui," he said, before stopping himself. He stretched his lips into an awkward position, as he imitated an annoyingly accurate accent. "Or as you Americans say, yeah!"

I shot him a distasteful glare, setting down the breadstick on top of the tray it once sat on. I'd have to throw it out later and explain to Bella why I wasted it so irrationally.

But as I turned back to face him, I realized he had somehow managed to slip across the room and come to a stop right in front of me without my knowledge. He was like a snake; agile, and cunning, and possibly venomous if you pushed boundaries.

He blinked, the green of his eyes disappearing for a split moment, before leaning over to hover over me. It was clear intimidation, and it was working.

"I'll be going now," he said hotly, his breath tickling my nose, "salut."

And then he waltzed up the stairs, leaving me with a floor full of spilled apples to clean up, and a swarm of butterflies attacking my stomach like knives. And even though his charming aura was still present, a part of me hated to admit that this boy—this stranger I barely knew—wasn't as perfect as I thought he was.

Not that I expected him to be.