Free Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit

protests as he bends down and scoops me up as though I weigh hardly anything. Does this guy lift weights or what?
    “You are light as a feather,” he says, grinning. In this position our faces are way too close. I glance away and my eyes dart around the room wondering where I should rest my gaze. I can only hope I don’t begin hyperventilating.
    “You’re going to break your back,” I tell him weakly.
    Jean-Paul kicks aside the crutches. “We can get those later.”
    “Do all French guys carry girls in distress down their stairs?” I say, trying to make a joke out of it.
    He frowns as though seriously pondering my question and I like how his forehead wrinkles in the middle. “I’ve never counted before, but I do believe you are the first girl to break her foot in our shop.”
    I laugh and then add under my breath, “And the last, I hope.”
    Of course he hears me and those Hershey syrup eyes fix on mine. He’s so close I feel dizzy. His dark hair falls over one eye, looking so soft and thick, I want to reach out and smooth it back.
    “I hope so, too,” he says as he maneuvers the stairs.
    Questions torture my mind. Did I feel like this when I first met Mathew? Were there jolts of electricity, a jump in my stomach, the sensation that I’d faint every time I looked in his eyes? I need to think about that. I also need to think about this somewhere quiet without Jean-Paul around. His presence confuses my brain.
    When he sets me down at a table in a corner of the kitchen, Madame Dupré runs over in her floury white apron. She looks shorter and smaller than I remember from my position on the floor that morning. Her cheeks are bright red like she’s been standing over the stove.
    Flying into French, Madame Dupré says several things I don’t understand except for one phrase. Beignets. That sounds fantastic, and I’m still hungry even though I ate soup for lunch awhile ago. “ S’il vous plait ,” I say.
    Immediately a basket of fresh chocolate beignets is placed on the table along with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. A plate filled with pats of butter and jam along with a knife and spoon comes next, as well as an assortment of thinly sliced ham.
    I pick up one of the gorgeous rolls, and it’s so warm and fresh I close my eyes in ecstasy as I take a bite. From this corner I can see the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. A huge electric mixer is kneading dough and there are pots on a big cast iron stove. The whole place smells heavenly. Yeasty and chocolaty.
    I’m dying to help, but I don’t know how to ask, and I probably can’t do any mixing or baking wearing this skirt and jacket. I need jeans and sneakers and a white smock. I want to be a pastry shop girl. Bad.
    Jean-Paul stops at my table with a tray on his way to the front counter. “Would you like anything else?”
    I’d like to taste you. The thought flies through my mind, and quickly I gulp the rest of my cocoa. Which burns my tongue. Tears sting my eyes as I blink past the scorching of my mouth and take a fast gulp from a water glass.
    “Hey, don’t drink so fast,” he tells me gently.
    I try to stand up, knowing that I really need to get out of the same room as Jean-Paul and stop my out-of-control mind. “I’m going to hobble down to the corner and get some money out of the ATM, okay? I’ll be right back.”
    “You should take the day off and rest your foot.”
    “I will, I will, it’s just that—I can’t wear this all day, can I?” I ask, pointing to my stained and crusty jacket and skirt.
    “Why not? I think it looks good on you.” He stops, and then adds in a rush. “I mean you look fine. I mean, the clothes are fine. Everything is fine.” He stammers on his last words, swiping the table with a damp cloth. Then he calls out a string of French words over his shoulder.
    It’s like Jean-Paul is having a fluster moment, which doesn’t seem possible. He turns back, his face composed again. “The last batch of croissants are about