Page 29 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Hey,” I point at him, “you know the word incomprehensible, so that’s already really good, Damien. The expressions are a simple matter of memorization.”
He groans and sits back hard in the chair.
“Why didn’t I learn Italian instead?”
“Because you want those contracts in America.” The woman who runs one of France’s big banks, the one with the green logo, purses her lips and looks over the rim of her glasses at him, and then back to me. “Please continue, Annie.”
The morning light spills through the Louvre’s glass pyramid, turning the café into a kaleidoscope of colors. It's like a coffee-scented rainbow exploded in here. In our usual spot at Café Marley, surrounded by skeptical faces hanging onto every slang expression of English I'm throwing their way.
“Well,” I wiggle my eyebrows at the small crowd of executives, “time for a pop-quiz!”
Even CEOs still groan at the sound of a pop-quiz. I don’t blame them. One of them muttered French expletives, which I let him get away with, because I will not tolerate swearing in English in my class.
As they work away, the sounds of the soft scrape of china and the low chatter of voices around the café terrace are paired with the rich, bold scent of freshly brewed coffee that seems to rise with the steam itself. It’s a perfect May day, everything I ever could have asked for, and the sunlight gleaming off the glass pyramids is…
Wait. Not again.
The figure outside moves with an easy gait, a tilt of the head so familiar it's like a punch to the gut.
“Get it together, Annie,” I whisper to myself. But my pulse has already picked up the beat, racing with the possibility that it's Mathieu out there, beyond the reach of my voice.
“I know that look.” That’s Marguerite Arbancourt. Also known as one of the richest women in France, and all thanks to a perfume empire that covers the whole world round. “It’s the look of passion.”
I wave the idea aside, but keep my eyes set on that pyramid. “Nah, just someone I’m pretty sure I know.”
“You can’t make me a fool. Go find him.”
“The expression is ‘You don’t fool me’ and you know what… I think I will.”
My boots tap an erratic rhythm as I desperately try to keep my eyes on the man while I weave through tables. Just down a few steps behind a column and I’ll finally?—
“Stars and garters! I’m goin’ down!”
The world upends itself as the heel of my boot catches on the step. Momentum's a fickle friend, and it sends me flying right into a flock of Italian tourists.
“Madonna mia!” one of them cries as I crash into their midst.
I'm on the ground, a tangle of limbs and apologies, as several Italian grandmothers descend on me with a tide of tsk-tsks and clucking tongues.
One spirited lady, with hair as silver as the moon, chides me with a playful wag of her finger. “Bella, these boots? Not made for walking,capisce?”
“I’m sorry.Grazie, grazie mille.” Oh look, I know some Italian.
They help me up, clucking over me like I'm a chick that's fallen from the nest. But when I look back to where I saw Mathieu, there's nothing. No sign of him. Just the crowd, the tourists, and the Italian grandmothers shaking their heads at my foolish footwear.
Next thing I know, this obsession with seeing Mathieu everywhere is going to land me a broken neck.
I havegotto get over that guy.
CHAPTER13
Mathieu
My thoughts are a carousel,spinning round and round with images of Annie. Walking the city after finishing my workday has become one of the few ways I can work her out of my mind. The distraction of the day job is great, but when I close my laptop, being home alone with the thoughts of her are nearly unbearable.
The early June evening is warmer than usual and the sound of children playing in a parkette overtakes the sound of cars and buses rushing along. Everyone is trying to get somewhere but me.
The last thing I expect to see as I turn the corner to head home is Clément, leaning against my building with a smirk on his face, like he just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.
