Page 25 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
And if they do, I'll be ready.
CHAPTER11
Mathieu
“I sawyour American girl teaching English by the Louvre. She's a natural.”
Those words changed everything.
Annie? She’s not lost to the four winds of obscurity after all?
I was sure that was it, I’d never see her again. How could it be possible in a city of millions, a city known for those who lose themselves within its walls? Anyone can get lost in Paris, but not everyone can be found.
And Annie has been found.
All I can think about is that morning at the hotel—the way the first light of dawn painted the room in shades of goodbye. I couldn’t bear to stay another moment, even though so many parts of my being were aching to stay.
I'd left her sleeping, her face peaceful. My feelings made no sense, and I was afraid it was all too soon. That I was still haunted by the ghost of that past love. I’d thought distance would make it easier, that the memory of her would fade with time and space.
But it didn't.
Clément's words, casually dropped during a coffee break, had been a spark to dry tinder.
“I saw your American girl,” he said two weeks ago, “teaching English by the Louvre. She's a natural.”
And just like that, the embers I'd been trying to smother flared back to life.
Since then, I haven’t been able to stay away from that café by the Louvre, watching her through the glass pyramid with a mixture of regret and yearning. She looks so at home here, in this city that's become her stage, her laughter as much a part of the Parisian air as the scent of spring flowers melded with fresh baked bread.
It's hard, so hard, to keep my distance, to deny myself her presence. But how can I possibly approach her now?
My imagination works up every possible scenario—that she looks at me with disappointment, or worse, that she might not want to look at me at all.
So, I watch and I wonder, and I let the bittersweet reality of her being just out of reach wrap around me like the Seine around Ile de la Cité.
Through the transparent panes of the Louvre’s glass pyramid, I see her on the terrace of the café. She's animated, her hands gesturing with a passion that can make even the driest grammar lesson seem like an adventure.
Her laughter, though I can't hear it, is evident in the way her eyes crinkle up and her head tilts back just slightly. The students in suits are drawn in, captivated by her energy. It's a contagious thing, even from this distance.
I'm just a silhouette to her, a part of the city's backdrop, nothing more. And as I watch her, surrounded by the grandeur of history and art, I feel both connected to her joy and utterly separated by an invisible chasm almost epic in its size.
My phone pings.
“What time will you be here? Léa’s asking.”
I leave her again, mid-gesture to the portable white board, as there’s a train I have to catch, and it is not the least bit interested in whether or not I’m falling for a girl from a distance.
* * *
The train takes me away from the heart of Paris, out to the picturesque suburbs of Versailles. It’s not just the famed palace that paints this place with strokes of serenity, but the very air itself, tinged with the scent of blooming flowers from meticulously tended gardens.
As I stroll from the train station, the sounds of suburban life wash over me. The air is alive with the laughter of children playing tag between the trimmed hedges, and the rich aroma of roasting chicken seasoned with herbs de Provence reaches me. My stomach responds with an appreciative rumble. From the open windows, the familiar clatter of pots and the melodic cadence of my sisters' voices float out.
There’s nothing like coming home.
Here, in the suburbs, the city’s relentless pace is but a distant memory, replaced by the comforting rhythms of family life. I take a deep breath, the air a sweet balm as I ready myself to join the laughter that always seems to overflow from the home I grew up in.
The garden gate groans softly as I push it open, revealing the quintessential family gathering unfolding. My sisters have laid out a feast on a long wooden table that's seen decades of similar celebrations, its surface dappled with the shadows of the apple trees overhead. The white linen tablecloth flutters in the gentle breeze, dancing around bowls of vibrant greens and golden-crusted baguettes.
