Page 18 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Holy moly, this is the real deal.” For a second, I forget all about being a fish out of water, because here, in this little club, I'm just another part of the rhythm, just like anybody else seeking a getaway from the real world.
As the band dives into a lively number, I turn to Mathieu, probably looking like a kid at a candy store with my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open.
“I did not expect this,” I admit, almost breathless.
Mathieu's watching me with a smile that could light up this entire city. “You look like you've just discovered a new side of life, Annie.”
“Oh, I think I have,” I say, still taking it all in. “That music, it's got a heartbeat. Like country music, but from a different planet.”
He chuckles with something that I think is pride in his eyes. “I thought you might appreciate the soul of Paris, not just its pretty face.”
I watch as he signals the bartender with the sort of smooth gesture that probably runs in his blood, ordering us drinks without taking his eyes off me. “Let's find a table, shall we?” he suggests, offering his arm with old-school charm that feels so natural, so him.
I let him guide me through the maze of tables to a spot where the view's just right—the band up front, the room all around us, like we're at the center of the universe. “You're full of surprises, Mathieu. And I mean that in the best way,” I say, meaning every word.
He pulls out my chair, waiting until I'm settled before taking his own. “I'm glad,” he replies, his voice smooth as the velvet beneath us. “Now that you know I never intended to steal your bags.” He instinctively touches his cheek, where a nice little red mark has taken hold.
“Yeah, about that…”
“Forget about it. That was like six hours ago. It’s the past.” He raises his glass to toast. If this is what being a gentleman in Paris looks like, then Mathieu's got it down to an art.
The music’s already got me swaying in my seat, but then this woman steps onto the stage, and it’s like the whole place takes a breath. She’s got this look about her, all classic glamor with a dress that hugs her like I hug my granny, and when she sings, it’s honey and smoke all mixed together.
She pours every ounce of feeling into the notes, her voice climbing and falling like she’s lived every word of the song. I lean in close to Mathieu, my voice barely above a whisper. “What's she saying?”
His face is close, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath as he translates, “She’s singing about a heart that’s been through the wringer, about being broken. But now,” he pauses, his gaze locking with mine, “now she’s healing because she’s found a real, true love.”
Around us, couples drift towards the dance floor. They’re in their own little worlds, wrapped up in each other, moving to the rhythm of the singer’s heartbreak and hope. The dim lights catch the sequins and shine of their clothes, turning each couple into a little constellation.
I can feel the tension in the air, like it’s charged with the electricity of a hundred heartbeats. My shoulder brushes against Mathieu’s, and it’s like a spark jumps through the gap between us. My breath catches, and the whole world narrows down to the place where our two bodies touch.
The singer’s voice climbs higher, full of a sweet, aching kind of joy, and I lean into Mathieu without even thinking about it. Our shoulders aren't just brushing now; they're resting against each other, steady and warm. My pulse beats in my head, and I wonder if he can hear it over the music, if he’s noticing anything too.
The room's full of people, but in this moment, with the singer’s voice wrapping around us and Mathieu’s shoulder against mine, Texas feels very, very far.
And I’m okay with that.
* * *
As we stumble into the cool night, the wee hours sneaking up on us, the city lights shine at me like they're in on a joke.
“Whoa, that's some yummy bubbly,” I giggle, the champagne making my head lighter than a ten-gallon hat in a tornado, though I have all my wits about me.
A rogue curb suddenly jumps out under my heel, and I'm tipping forward.
“Ack!” I yelp, bracing for a tumble. But then Mathieu's there, his arms like steel bands catching me. I'm all wrapped up in him for a heart-skipping second, close enough to count the flecks in his eyes under the streetlight.
“Gotcha,” he says, his voice steady but his eyes dancing with laughter.
“You’re stronger than I thought,” I whisper.
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.” He chuckles low and genuine.
I'm caught in his gaze, the night spinning just a bit, and a voice that I quickly stuff way back down is thinking, 'Kiss me, you French fool.' Before I can even think about making that a reality, he's setting me right, his hands still on my arms.
“If you wanted me to sweep you off your feet, you just had to ask,” Mathieu teases, the twinkle in his eye softening the ribbing.
I let out a breathy laugh, hoping it sounds more sophisticated than I look right now. “In my defense, the sidewalk came outta nowhere,” I shoot back, finding my footing again.
