“Do you have a boy here?” she asked. I stilled. “No, Grand-Mère.” “Menteuse,” she retorted, calling me a liar in French. “Qui c’est?” “Who’s who?” She jerked her chin behind me, and I whipped around to see Will standing in the doorway. Dammit. I told him to leave. But he just walked in, smiling gently. “Allô,” he said. “Je m’appelle Guillaume.” I gaped at him, hearing French spew out of his mouth like it was nothing. Guillaume was the French variant of William. Seriously? Frankly, I’d been surprised he even spoke English. Figured him for someone who communicated solely in emojis.
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