Page 20 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“You start.”
“Fine.”
She launches into tales of a childhood right out of a western—climbing trees, scraping knees, and the boundless energy that drove her mother to the brink of madness. A tomboy, and then later an admirer of all things French, she struggled to find her place.
“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the people of Sage. They are fine people.” She looks a little sad as she says it, her smile not reaching the corners of her eyes. “But I never fit in either.” She yawns, wide and loud and not trying to hide it in the least. “I’m not so sure I could ever fit in here either, now that I’m here. But I’ll sure give it a try.”
“There’s a place for everyone in Paris.”
Her lips pull into a sweet smile, like I just told her what she’d always hoped to hear.
“Your turn, cowboy.”
While my childhood was as typical as can be, I tell her about the people who left their imprint on me, the small traumas that chiseled away at my innocence, shaping the man I've become.
She listens, her eyes bright with interest, as I recount summers spent with my grandparents in the Alps, the crisp air and the smell of pine that seemed to infuse every memory.
I notice her eyelids beginning to flutter, the burden of the day pressing down on her.
“But I never thought I’d come back to Paris before?—”
She's drifted off to sleep. Her breaths are deep and even, a strand of hair falling across her cheek in a gentle curve. I reach out, almost without thinking, and smooth the hair back from her face, my touch as light as a feather.
Quietly, I move to slip out of the bed doing everything in my power not to wake her, off to find my seated sleeping spot in the sitting room.
But before I can go, her hand shoots out, quick as a flash, her fingers finding mine.
Her grip is firm, even in sleep. With her hand in mine, warm and trusting, a wave of protectiveness washes over me and all I can think of is making sure she gets the deep sleep she deserves. I settle back against the pillows, resigned to a night of wakefulness, without a single regret.
As Annie's breaths deepen in sleep, my mind wanders, unbidden.
Toher.
To the one I thought I would be with forever. I don’t miss her anymore, but I miss the life I’d hoped to have. I’d always thought she loved the man I was, until her parting words cut me like a knife.
“I don't need you, Mathieu, and you can only bear to be loved if you're needed.”
My eyelids are heavy as the memories rush in like a tide, each one a reminder of the pain that lingers long after any sense of love for her has left. A familiar heaviness settling in my chest. No, I'm not still in love with her, that much is certain. But the fresh feelings stirring inside me for Annie are like old scars being pressed.
What starts as something beautiful can turn bitter and twisted.
I've always been an open book—my heart on my sleeve, my intentions clear as day. But it's never been enough. The women in my past, they've wanted me to be more, to transform into the man of their dreams, and I've always fallen short. Because I'm not a dream. I'm just a man, flesh and blood, with a heart that's a little too soft and a hope that's a little too eager.
I glance at Annie, her hand still holding mine, and a wave of fear washes over me. This beautiful thing blooming between us, it’s based on air. It has no substance.
She’s been on French soil for one day, and there I swooped in, trying to be something special to her. But in the harsh light of day, she’ll see it too.
I'm just Mathieu—not a hero, not a savior. Just a man who can’t be something he's not.
CHAPTER9
Annie
A stubborn rayof sunlight has the nerve to land right on my cheek, pulling me from the kind of deep sleep you only get when you're bone-tired. If only I could find something to shield my eyes, but despite my flailing hand, I find nothing. Sleep is still sitting on me like a heavy blanket, and that pesky jet lag is a pair of ankle weights. The glare is brighter than a peacock’s behind and it takes a full minute for my brain to click into gear, for me to remember where on God’s great earth I am.
Paris. Right. In a hotel room that's way too fancy, and the last thing I remember is…
Mathieu.
