Je t'aime, tu sais?

The man swore in French.

Jamie looked up from her book on the second floor of the Coop, interested in the accent that sounded so familiar. The man was close by, the color lightly rushing to his face as he attempted to make the mess better, but only succeeded in making it worse.
She wondered what he was doing with an open cup of coffee so close to shelves of books when just below them there was a cafe with seating and less property to stain. He patted his now brown stained v-neck with vigor but to no avail. The aroma of coffee filled the quiet third floor of the bookstore.
The two made eye contact for the second of a heartbeat before he sighed and picked up his cardboard cup, cautious of the remaining coffee still inside it, and she went back to her book.
A few moments later, the man returned with a wad of napkins and crouched, delicately pressing them into the carpet and shaking his head. Jamie, normally not one to throw a second glance, couldn't help but notice the thin, white cotton that clung so tightly to the man's back and shoulders. His dark jeans matched his hat, worn straight forward and appropriately, not off to one side or on the back of the head. He leaned down on a knee and shot another glance at her. Mortified, she crossed her legs and turned her attention back to her book.

The man couldn't believe how uncouth he had been. Why? he repeated over and over in his head as he pressed the wad of napkins over and over into the carpet. How could you be so stupid, Patrice?
He had been first noticed her a while ago; he had seen her a couple times in the past two weeks, and he had thought about her at least twice as often since. He speculated that she was a student, yet wondered how she could have so much time to sit in the Harvard Coop and read.
Two weeks ago Marco, his nutritionist, had sent him to the bookstore for some literature on dietary supplements; that was when he first saw her. Then, he had just entered out of the harsh Boston winter and stamped his boots on the entrance mat. She was laughing and shaking her head, as a tall, lanky, bespectacled man in a polo tried to convince her to read a bestseller. Her pink scarf was wrapped in many layers around her neck overtop of her black peacoat with gold buttons. She had maroon corduroys on and little black snow boots. Her hair was in a messy bun with white flakes of snow melting in it, making it look like a dark reddish brown. He was hooked.
Now, he was kneeling three book shelves in front of her mopping up coffee. He had dreamt up three different ways to engage her in conversation this afternoon, none of which seemed relevant or worth bothering with with his new coffee stain and red, blush cheeks. Nice one, he thought.
He sighed and stood again, retreating to the garbage can a few paces away.
"Excuse me!"
He could feel his eyes widen and the hair on his arms and neck raise. He looked her way, much like someone who was startled to hear their name.
"You forgot your coffee," she said quietly, in French.