I am standing in the romance section of a bookshop when a man beside me says, “Would you marry the devil?” Naturally, I drop the book I am holding. Not because the question frightens me, but because his voice sounds like warm honey poured over a very bad idea.
“Have you heard?” he continues, picking up my book. “They say he is a mighty sexy fellow.” He hands it back with a smile that suggests he has never once struggled to get a second date. Dark curls, brown eyes, an unfairly beautiful mouth. I glance toward the open mic stage in the romance center at the back of the store. I had just stepped away from it after reading my poem aloud. “You’re quoting me,” I say. “And taking liberties with the punctuation.”
“I prefer to think of it as an audition.” He nods toward the small stage. “That was yours?” When I nod, he places a hand over his heart. “Then I owe you an introduction. I’m Luc.” I wait. He waits. Somewhere behind us, the espresso machine hisses. “Of course you are,” I say. “Do you also own a suspiciously successful nightclub?” “No. I restore old houses.” “That sounds almost respectable.” “Please keep your voice down.”
The owner calls from behind the counter, “Luc, your grandmother says you’re supposed to bring home cinnamon rolls.” His eyes close briefly. I smile. “Does the devil live with his grandmother?” “Only while her kitchen is being renovated.” “By you?” “Unfortunately, she has opinions about every tile in existence.” He looks down at the book in my hands. “Are you buying that, or have I interrupted a very serious relationship?” “We’re still getting to know each other.”
He offers to buy me coffee, and I say yes before I can consult my intuition, my horoscope, or the three friends who have strong opinions about my dating life. We settle at a small table by the window. He notices the moonstone ring on my finger and asks about it without making the face some men make when I mention crystals. “It reminds me to trust myself,” I tell him. “Useful,” he says. “I usually need my grandmother to remind me.”
“What do you believe in?” I ask. He stirs his coffee, considering the question. “Keeping promises. Leaving a place better than I found it. Calling people when I say I will.” “Very practical.” “I also believe this bookshop is enchanted. I came in for a cookbook and found a woman publicly considering marriage to the devil.” I laugh so suddenly that coffee almost escapes my nose. He slides a napkin toward me without comment, which is possibly the most romantic thing that has happened to me all year.
“I believe in soul connections,” I admit once I recover. “Maybe twin flames. Though I’m still figuring out what that means for me.” His expression stays curious. “What would you want it to feel like?” I turn my cup between my palms. “Like being recognized. Like I don’t have to make myself smaller.” He nods. “That sounds worth waiting for.” There is no teasing in his voice now, and I find myself looking at him a little longer than necessary.
Outside, rain begins tapping against the window. The forecast promised sunshine, but apparently the weather enjoys a plot twist. Luc glances at the sky. “I have an umbrella.” “Black?” “Naturally.” “With a concealed sword?” “Only a broken spoke. I could menace someone gently.” When our coffee is finished, he asks whether I would like to walk to the bakery with him. I tell myself I am merely helping an elderly woman obtain cinnamon rolls. It is a noble errand.
Beneath his umbrella, our shoulders brush. He moves the handle toward me until one side of his coat darkens with rain. “You’re getting wet,” I say. “Occupational hazard of being gallant.” I take the handle and shift it back between us. “We can both fit if you stop behaving like the tragic hero on a paperback cover.” “I was hoping you’d notice my range.” He steps closer, and this time neither of us moves away.
At the bakery, he buys the cinnamon rolls, then asks which pastry I want. “The raspberry one,” I say. “Excellent. I was prepared to judge you if you chose the sad bran muffin.” We sit beneath the awning with our paper bags, listening to the rain. A little girl passing with her mother points at his umbrella and announces, “That man looks like a vampire.” Luc looks wounded. “I work very hard on my appearance, and nobody agrees on the theme.”
I laugh until my cheeks hurt. Then Luc glances toward the bookshop across the street, where the open mic is still going. “I liked your poem,” he says. “Especially the part where you keep setting a second cup on the breakfast table.” I look at him, surprised that he remembered the lines so clearly. “I like that one too,” I say. “It is about setting a second cup on a breakfast table, though I have lived alone for years.”
“My friends would probably call this a sign,” I tell him. “Meeting you here. The rain. You finding my poem.” “Would you?” I watch a raindrop travel down the edge of the awning. “Maybe. But I’d also like to know whether you’re nice to waiters and capable of making dinner.” “Yes to the first. A cautious yes to the second.” He takes out his phone. “Would you let me prove it? Dinner somewhere public, where a professional can protect you from my cooking.”
We exchange numbers, and he immediately sends me a message: Luc. House restorer. Occasional devil. References available from grandmother. I am still smiling when the rain stops. At my car, he pauses a comfortable step away. “May I kiss you?” he asks. All my clever answers vanish. “Yes,” I say, and his kiss is gentle, warm, and just long enough to make me forget that I am holding a raspberry pastry.
When he draws back, I keep my hand on his coat for another moment. “For the record, I haven’t agreed to marry you.” “Understood. I’ll cancel the dramatic organ music.” “Dinner first.” “Thursday?” “Thursday.” He waits until I am inside my car, then lifts the bakery bag in farewell and heads down the sidewalk. Before I start the engine, my phone lights up again. Grandmother requests clarification. Was I buying cinnamon rolls or meeting someone? I type back, Tell her both. And save her the biggest one.
