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“Ah,” Edmond said, his gaze going between us, his dark eyes narrowing. “Parfois, le cœur se cache derrière l’esprit.” He clapped his hands together. “But what do I know? I am but a silly old baker. I leave you to your coffee. Philippe! Don’t forget to mop the back room. We will get rats and then what will the customers think of us?”
“I won’t,” Phil muttered, eyes rolling again.
Edmond shot Weston and me a wink and swept out of the bakery, a bellowed aria in his wake.
Weston
“Edmond,” Autumn said with a stunning smile, “is why I love working here.” Her delicate brows furrowed. “But I wonder what he said. Something about the heart? You don’t happen to speak French, do you?”
“Afraid not,” I said, lying. Between Sinclair Prep and the Academy, I slogged through six years of French. Tonight, was the first time I was glad for it.
Parfois, le cœur se cache derrière l’esprit.
Sometimes the heart hides itself behind the mind.
Story of my life, Edmond, I thought.
“Too bad,” Autumn said. “It sounded pretty. Poetic.” She smiled behind a sip of coffee.
Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.
Connor and I had hardly spoken in a week. I pretended I was too busy with classwork. I didn’t have a choice. The more I showed I was angry at him for using my poem to get Autumn into his bed, the more he’d wonder why I was angry at all.
“Connor’s going to the Delta party tonight,” I said. “You’re not going with him?”
She shook her head. “I have too much studying to do. Ruby’s going to go, but I’m too busy.”
“Did he at least ask you to go with him?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” I met her raised eyebrows with a shrug. “He can get careless about important things.”
She smiled but it faded quickly. “We haven’t spoken much since Sunday, actually.”
I clenched my teeth.
Connor, you asshole.
“Oh, yeah?”
“No, but we’re both busy.” Her expression brightened. “Did you know Connor wrote poetry?”
“You don’t say.”
“I’ve only read one. About me.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Did you read it?”
“Suffocating days?” I said. “Sweaty sheets?”
“Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands, then peeked at me between her fingers. “Yes, that’s the one.”
I laughed a little. Her embarrassment was fucking cute as hell. “It wasn’t a very good poem.”
Her face bloomed into surprised amusement. She tossed a napkin at me, laughing. “Yes, it was! I suppose you’re giving him a ton of shit about it.”
“Only because he can do better,” I said.
“You think?” Her laughter m
