Page 30 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Mon frère,” he drawls, “walking off the daily delivery of fast food?”
I roll my eyes but have to smile at the impromptu visit of a friend. This is the reason I moved back to Paris, to be surrounded by people and distraction. It feels good. “Comment tu vas, mon grand?This is a surprise.”
Clément purses his lips. “Is it? We had plans.”
“We did?” I rush to my phone, scrolling through to where the appointment glares up at me. “Mince.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I had a feeling you might forget. Let's be honest, you've been a bit off the grid lately.”
“Just, uh, focused.”
“Come on, I know that look. I've seen it before. You're like a guy who's lost his favorite guitar pick—can't seem to play a tune without it.”
I shake my head, though he’s not wrong. “Maybe I am. But that doesn't mean I can’t just stroll through the city whenever I please.”
“Tout à fait,” Clément counters, his tone light but insistent. “But no more strolling and let’s grab a drink before we meet the others for dinner. And you’ll tell me everything then.”
I want to argue, to tell him he's reading too much into things, but the truth is, I'm tired. Tired of keeping it all in.
As we walk towards the nearest café-bar, I realize this is probably exactly what I need to get my mind finally off Annie. Old friends, a cold drink, discussions on all things not-Annie.
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
He claps me on the back, his smile genuine. “What are friends for? Besides, you have to tell me why you’re acting like a lovesick poet over this country-styleAmericaine.”
My breath gets stuck somewhere in my throat, a fact that isn’t missed by Clément. So much for getting my mind off her.
We find a corner in the dimly lit bar, the kind of place where secrets seem to hang in the air, waiting to be told. Clément orders us a couple of beers and turns to me, his eyes sharp.
“Alright, spill it. What's going on with you and this Annie girl?”
I take a sip, the cool liquid not quite washing away the lump in my throat. “There's nothing to spill. We met, we had a blast, we went separate ways. That's all.” My voice is casual, but there's a tremor I can't quite control.
Clément snorts. “Mathieu, you forget who you're talking to. I saw the look on your face when I told you about her teaching gig at the Louvre. Like someone switched on a light inside you.” I open my mouth to protest, but Clément raises a hand. “And I know you've been spying on her. At the Louvre, through the glass.”
I almost spit my beer.
“Come on, Mathieu. You're not exactly subtle.”
My face heats up, and I'm grateful for the shadows. 'Aghast' doesn't even begin to cover it.
“I'm not spying,” I mutter, mostly to my pint.
“Then what would you call it? Intense people-watching?” Clément's voice isn’t teasing, despite his usual jab. There's an edge of seriousness about it.
I'm about to argue when he leans in, his voice dropping lower. “Ever since I told you I saw her, you've made it your personal mission to watch her from a distance.”
“But I was—I wasn’t—and just because…” I can’t get my tongue to finish a sentence. “Wait, you were following me?”
Clément tilts his head, a knowing look on his face. “Don't you find it strange to be the one accusing, all things considered?”
I've got no comeback. The irony's not lost on me.
“Why don't you just say hello to her?” Clément opens his arms like he’s asking the easiest question in the world. “That dinner we all had, it wasn't just the usual sparks flying. There was something there. More than lust, Mathieu. It wasconnection.” He sits back in his chair. “And it must be true, because this is coming fromme,of all people.”
His words settle over me, heavy and undeniable. I know he's right. I can feel it in every part of me that's been in shadow since that night. But fear's a powerful thing. It’s stopped me every time from taking the risk of reaching out and finding… what? Rejection?
Or maybe something like hope.
