Page 3 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“My backpack!” I declare with a whoop that’s half relief, half embarrassment. “Silly goose that I am, of course I put it in my backpack to be separate from my wallet.” I scoop up the scattered contents of my handbag, forgetting how bone-tired I am, what with all this hullabaloo.
Seems even in Paris, embarrassing moments are keen to follow me, as loyal as the hound dog back home.
I rummage through my backpack with a frantic energy that’s usually reserved for a Black Friday sale. My fingers search through rolled-up socks, a tangle of charging cables, and the jumbo-sized bottle of hand sanitizer I packed because Mama swore up and down I'd catch the plague if I wasn't careful.
But my passport—the little blue book that's supposed to be my golden ticket around the world—is playing an awful good game of hide-and-seek. My heartbeat picks up the pace, a drum of worry thudding in my chest.
“Come on, Annie, think,” I mutter to myself, double-checking the secret pocket I sewed inside just last week.
Then, like a bucket of ice water on a hot Texas afternoon, the realization dawns on me.
That kiss.
The charming fella who was all smiles and helpful hands, offering to carry my bags like a knight in shining armor. He even put them into the cab for me.
“Enjoy Paris, Annie.”
I never told that thieving Adonis my name.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I whisper, the panic turning my insides to jelly. “If that ain’t the cow that got tipped!” I blurt out, attracting an unamused glance from the receptionist. “That doggone fella pilfered my passport!” Is the floor swallowing me up? Feels like it. “He stole mypassport.” With each exclamation, my cheeks flush hotter than a hen laying an egg in August.
Meanwhile, the receptionist flicks a glance over her glasses that's cooler than a cucumber.
“No passport, no room,” she says, like she's telling me the sky's blue or the grass is green.
“But ma'am,” I plead, mustering the last of my energy, “I've been up longer than a cat on a hot tin roof. I have other ID, please. I'm exhausted.”
She shrugs, unimpressed. “C'est la règle,” she continues, and I reckon'la règle'doesn't give two hoots about my sleep deprivation or my missing passport.
And that’s how I ended up back on the dingy street with a growl in my stomach to match the rumble of the city. Annie Clayton, fresh from Sage, Texas, wearied in the City of Lights with no place to lay my head.
Even the black cat on top of the dumpster is shaking her head at me.
I march away, feeling the sting of betrayal mixed with the ache of fatigue gnawing at my bones. The nerve of that slick-haired Casanova, swiping my passport with a smile as sweet as pecan pie. I wipe my lips hard with the back of my arm as if that could undo the damage, and I spit on the street, not caring two hoots if that makes me look like a country girl. My heart's hammering like I've just finished the fifty-yard dash, but somehow I’ve got to solve this problem all by myself.
“A fine 'how do ya do',” I spit out, the words tasting like vinegar on my tongue. My fists are clenched so tight I could turn coal to diamonds, and a part of me—the fiery Texan part that doesn't take kindly to being hoodwinked—wants to track him down and give him a piece of my mind, maybe introduce his shins to the pointy end of my cowboy boots.
“Hungry, tired, and passport-less,” I mutter to myself, tapping into that well of Texan grit that's gotten me through more scrapes than I can count. “Isn’t this just a frosted cupcake?”
A sneaky voice in the back of my mind rises up.
You left Texas and look at the predicament you’re in already. What were you thinking?
“Off to the embassy we go,” I say to the voice, because it doesn’t matter what I was thinking, here I am.
I saunter off, my boots clicking against the cobblestone like a metronome, keeping time with my new resolve. Anything to keep that voice quiet.
The Eiffel Tower shrinks behind me, a metal giant waving goodbye with indifferent grace as I trudge away. Dragging my suitcase behind me like the world's saddest parade for thirty minutes of urban trekking, the streets of Paris are a mosaic of life. Vendors peddling flowers that smell like spring, cafes spilling over with laughter, and couples strolling arm in arm, lost in a love that seems as foreign to me as the language. I groan out loud at the cute couple rubbing noses at a café.
Handsome French men arenotin my good books right now.
With every block, my suitcase feels heavier, like it's packed with bricks instead of blouses. My shoulders scream, my feet are a duo of despair in my worn-out boots, and my back's about to wave a white flag. Once I’ve got that precious little book in my hands, that hostel bed will be mine-all-mine.
Finally, the American Embassy comes into view, standing grand and official, a slice of home on foreign soil. I feel a burst of relief so fierce it almost chokes me. But as I get closer, my heart sinks faster than a hot knife through butter. The gates are closed with a padlock and there isn’t a soul in sight.
I march up to the sign posted on the gate, squinting at the neatly printed words that might as well be a punchline of a terrible joke. Closed from noon until two.
Atwo-hourlunch break? Even cattle don't take two hours to chew their cud.
