Page 12 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
After all, not everyone can be the villain in my lost-passport drama.
“Here we are.” Mathieu puts his hand on the lower part of my back to guide me while he drags my suitcase behind him. Even my weariness can’t ignore the grandeur of the place. The facade shines, making it look like something out of a fairy tale, or maybe it’s that my eyes can barely see straight. I'm dragging my feet at this point, barely registering the delicate carvings on the stone archway that serves as an entrance.
Mathieu notices my struggle and puts his arm under mine, guiding me through the revolving doors with a reassuring hand at my elbow. The lobby is a blur of marble and velvet, but all I can focus on is the promise of sleep at last.
Hallways, an elevator, and people tipping their heads in greeting are all a blur.
Mathieu opens the room’s door and the moment we're inside, my legs make a beeline for the bed. It's a cloud, a soft, welcoming cloud, and I practically collapse onto it, my body surrendering to the exhaustion.
I'm vaguely aware of Mathieu saying something, the door closing, and then the soft click of the lock behind him. His voice is a soothing murmur, the French words wrapping around me like a lullaby.
“Dors bien,” he whispers, and I'm already halfway to dreaming before I can think to translate the words. “Sleep well, Annie.”
* * *
I jolt awake, feeling like I've been yanked back from another dimension. The room's all fancy and plush, and for a hot second, I can't tell if I'm still dreaming or if I've somehow teleported back to Sage. My brain’s foggy, like someone stuffed it full of cotton.
Blinking in the dim light, I glance around, trying to gather my bearings. The walls are not the familiar dusty rose of my room back home, and the ceiling's way too high. No way this is Texas. And shoot, my mouth tastes like I've been gnawing on the inside of a cowboy boot. Yep, definitely not in Sage anymore, Toto.
Then it hits me like a bucking bronco to the gut.
Where in the dog’s dinner are my bags?
And where's Mathieu? That smooth-talking, possibly thieving Parisian. Did he bolt with my stuff and leave me to foot the hotel bill?
That slick son of a pied piper.
I leap out of the bed, my heart thumping a wild rodeo rhythm. I scan the room, but my bags are as missing as a bunny at a rattlesnake picnic.
“For the love of brisket,” I mutter, spitting out Texan expletives as I prepare to give Mathieu Dupont a piece of my jet-lagged mind, if that is his real name.
Just as I'm winding up for a real good holler, the door creaks open and there he is, holding a tray that smells like heaven and coffee, which he puts on the bedside table.
“So I guess you're awake,” he says, standing tall with a grin that could charm the horns off a steer.
I grab the nearest pillow and chuck it at him full force. “Where's my stuff, cowboy?” I demand, not caring that the word doesn't quite fit a Parisian.
He ducks, but turns too fast and whacks his face right into the doorframe.
“Aïe!” He rubs his cheek. “Your things? They are safe and sound. Where they've been ever since we got here.”
I glare at him, flinging another pillow, though my aim is terrible. “You’re dodging the question, slick. Don’t make me turn Texas on you.”
“I’m not dodging the question, only the pillow!”
“Where are they?”
“Annie, I promise, your belongings are just in the sitting room.” His voice is steady, earnest even.
I pause, pillow mid-swing, the fight draining out of me as his sincerity cuts through my suspicion.
“Alright, cowboy,” I say, a lilt to my voice. “Lead the way to this sitting room of yours.”
Mathieu leads me through the plush corridors, his steps sure and swift. There, in the sitting room, all my stuff sits untouched, just like he said. I feel a rush of embarrassment, my face heating up like a skillet on a high flame.
“Oh gosh. I’m… I’m…”
He catches my look and waves off my unspoken apology, though he's gently touching the spot below his eye.
