Page 19 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
We resume our walk, the Parisian night wrapping around us.
We're tiptoeing through the hotel hallway like a pair of outlaws sneaking past the sheriff's office, our laughter hushed and conspiratorial. Every picture we pass on the walls seems to watch us, and I swear the chandelier's shining with a knowing light.
Mathieu's got the key card, and he's trying to slide it into the slot, but it's a battle between him and the lock that's got us both snickering.
“You sure you're not a touch tipsy, cowboy?” I whisper, nudging him with my shoulder.
He gives me a look, one part amused and two parts defiant. “This key card is just stubborn,” he murmurs back, finally getting the green light.
The door swings open and the room spills out before us, all soft shadows and fresh linen, and that’s when it glows before my eyes—a beacon of plush pillows that I know will take me to la-la land.
Except that now there’s two of us.
And there’s still only one bed.
CHAPTER8
Mathieu
I dropthe key card onto the dresser.
“I'm going to sleep in the sitting room.” Despite the twinge in my back at the thought of those stiff-looking chairs, I mean it.
Annie pops her head around the corner, eyeing the sitting room with a skeptic’s squint.
“Those chairs look about as cozy as a saddle on a bull.”
I shrug, though her Texan expressions get me every time.
“I'm just glad I could offer you a roof at all. Besides, I've slept in worse places,” I say, remembering more nights less comfortable than I care to count.
“Now that sounds like a story,” she says as she leaps onto the bed, settling cross-legged like a kid at story time.
You have to marvel at this woman. There she sits on the bed, this enigmatic lady who's been 'one of the guys' with my friends, a vision of grace in the candlelit jazz club, and now, somehow, as down-to-earth as an old friend sharing secrets at a sleepover.
And I only just met her.
“You're something else, Annie.” The words tumble out of me as I give in to a rare impulsive urge and vault onto the bed across from her.
Annie's eyes go wide as saucers, a startled laugh escaping her just as gravity reminds us of its rules. The bed gives a sudden, treacherous bounce, betraying us both and in one smooth, comedic motion, Annie's launched sideways. Her arms pinwheel for balance that's just out of reach and her hair fans out around her like a halo gone rogue, strands of it catching the lamplight as she tips over the edge. Her legs, those endless legs, flail into the air, a sight so unexpected that I’m frozen from my spot on the bed.
She lands with a thud and a bounce on the plush hotel carpet, her chortles ringing out clear and bright. It's the sound of total amusement, and it's contagious. I'm clutching at my stomach, laughter shaking me as I witness her there on the floor, a tangle of limbs and joy.
“This bed's got more kick than a bucking bronco!” she exclaims through her laughter, trying to push herself up, but it's no use. She’s lost to the laughter, a fit of giggles so powerful that tears stream down the sides of her face.
“I’m coming!” I lean over the side, offering a hand while trying to find my breath. “I'm so sorry, Annie,” I manage to get out, though I'm not sure I've ever been less sorry about anything.
We settle into the bed, any tension from the earlier tumble melting away into the comfort of the plush pillows propped against the headboard. The only light comes from a single lamp. We're lounging now, side by side, our earlier laughter having subsided into an easy silence on top of the covers.
Annie turns her head to look at me, her expression curious.
“Mathieu, what were you like as a kid?” she asks, her voice gentle in the quiet of the room.
I chuckle, a little embarrassed.
“Pretty normal.”
“Comeon,” she says, her eyes boring into me like she already knows the truth.
