Page 17 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Your buddies are a hoot,” I tell Mathieu as we stroll into the night. “I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. They're like the Three Musketeers of French comedy.”
He grins at that, the soft glow from the street lamps catching the laughter in his eyes. “They are quite the trio, aren't they? I'm glad you enjoyed their company.”
I nod, still chuckling at the memory. “And you,” I continue, “you're something else, Mathieu. Even when they were ribbing you, you didn't snap back with any sharp-tongued comebacks. You just… laughed. You’re an earnest guy, huh?”
Mathieu shrugs modestly, a blush creeping up his neck. “I guess I just like to go with the flow, especially when it's all in good fun. And seeing you laugh at their jokes was all worth it.”
I look at him then, really look at him, and I see it—the sincerity that seems to be as much a part of him as his shadow.
In a world where everyone's quick to be the smartest person in the room, Mathieu is content just being there, in the moment, honest and real. This man is working his way into my heart with nothing but smiles and a kindness that's all too genuine.
Meandering along the sidewalk, a comfortable silence between us, Mathieu's fingers gently loop through my arm.
“Come on,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. And before I can ask anything, we're running, dashing past startled pedestrians.
“Where in the world are you taking me, Mathieu?” I manage between breaths, my feet barely keeping up with his longer strides.
He doesn't say a word, just shoots me a “look”, wiggling his eyebrows, and off we go. He takes my hand and leads me, my heart racing for more reasons than one.
The cobblestone feels like a path to somewhere secret, somewhere magic, and I could swear I hear something far off like… music?
“Hear that?” I tilt my head, trying to make it out, because the sounds are lively, welcoming. “Where's that music coming from?”
“You’re about to find out.”
Mathieu leads me down a side street, charming in its narrowness, lined with buildings that whisper stories of centuries past. It’s a far cry from the dimly lit street of my hostel nightmare.
He glances back at me with a look that makes me tingle. “What do you think of jazz, Annie?”
I wrinkle my nose, trying to recall any jazz I've heard. “Isn't that the saxophone stuff they play for old folks stuck in elevators?” I’m only half-joking.
Mathieu stops in his tracks, covers his eyes with a hand, and laughs—a rich, hearty sound. “Oh la la, Annie. You’re about to hear real jazz.”
He grins, but I'm chewing on my curiosity like a piece of tough jerky. “Okay, cowboy, so where are we going? 'Cause I hear the sounds, but all I see is a black door in front of us.”
He reaches for the door, pausing with a theatrical flair. “Then we should go in.”
“We can’t!” I grab his arm. “We don’t have tickets.”
“So?”
“We can’t just walk in—what if it’s a private party?”
“Ah, Annie. Welcome to the real Paris.” He pushes the door open.
I think we just fell down a rabbit hole.
Immediately I'm hit with a wave of music so pure, so alive, it's like nothing I've ever heard. It explodes as if the door was the only border between worlds and now we’ve been sucked into this other realm. The room beyond is dimly lit, intimate—a speakeasy vibe that's both exhilarating and a little intimidating.
“Wow,” I whisper under my breath. “Feels like I'm about to step into Wonderland.”
There's a buzz in the air, a mix of perfume and liquor and that warm, musty smell like in my grandpa’s study. The club is snug, with people lounging on velvet-covered chairs that seem to soak up the light, giving everything a sort of soft edge. Couples are nestled in dim corners, looking like they're sharing secrets with the shadows.
The bartenders are putting on a show, flipping bottles and shakers like they're born with them in their hands. The crowd's a jumble of fancy meets casual. Some look like they've stepped out of a glossy magazine, while others are just here to soak up the tunes in their comfy jeans.
And the stage—man, it's just a hop and a skip from where we're standing, but it's got this glow, like the spotlight's been waiting just for us. The band is in full tuxedos, oblivious to the fact that they are surrounded by some hundreds of eager folks.
With a “un, deux, un-deux-trois” they kick it off, and I can honestly say it's nothing like the jazz in elevators or on those scratchy records at the thrift store. This isalive. The saxophone sings, and I swear it's telling stories, ones that tug at your feet and make you want to dance, even if you don't know how.
