“It's a physical sickness. Étienne. How much I love him. I love Étienne. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent.”

“I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent.”

“I trail my fingers across his cheek. He stays perfectly still for me. “Please stop apologizing, Étienne.”“Say my name again,” he whispers.I close my eyes and lean forward. “Étienne.”He takes my hands into his.Those perfect hands, that fit mine just so. “Anna?”Our foreheads touch. “Yes?”“Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.”And then we’re laughing. And then I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing, at first quickly—to make up for lost time—and then slowly, because we have allthe time in the world. And his lips are soft and honey sweet, and the careful, passionate way he moves them against my own says that he savors the way Itaste, too.And in between kisses, I tell him I love him.Again and again and again.”

“French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.”

“And that. Why don’t you call me Étienne anymore?”

“Where in the bloody hell did that come from?" asks the other person behind the counter. Or more precisely, on top of the counter, where her ridiculously attractive, English-accented boyfriend is perched.He's the other thing I like about Anna. Wherever she goes, he follows.He nods toward the baby wipe. "What else are you carrying in your pockets? Dust rags? Furniture polish?""Watch it," she says. "Or I'll scrub your arms, Étienne."He grins. "As long as you do it in private.”

“Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent.”