Page 37 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Oh, but he did,” Charlotte insists, waving her hands for emphasis. “Every five minutes, he's checking hiscoiffure, making kissy faces at himself, I swear! I'm sipping my wine, trying to catch the waiter's eye like, 'Can I get a side order of attention, please?'”
The sound of our laughter bounces off the hostel's peeling-paint walls, and I’m sure with Charlotte’s cackle that she’s responsible for more than one of those cracks.
Emilia shakes her head, her chuckles mingling with ours. “Only in Paris,” she sighs, punctuating the words with a clink of her wineglass against mine.
“And get this,” Charlotte continues, leaning in conspiratorially, “at the end of the date, he has the nerve to ask if I want to go back to his place. I tell him, 'Honey, I think you've got all the company you need,' and point at the mirror.”
“No way!”
Ah, the joys of dating abroad. Who knew it could get so complicated? Suddenly this girl is awful thankful that my newbeauseems to be the most uncomplicated guy around.
“You're better off, Charlotte,” I say, raising my glass in a salute. “To finding someone who can tear their eyes away from their own reflection long enough to appreciate that laugh.”
Charlotte raises her glass in response. “To that, and to men who don't carry pocket mirrors!”
Emilia leans in, her eyes dancing with the prelude to her tale. “Okay, so after Charlotte’s story, I have to share mine. Picture this: me, on the back of a moped, clinging to this French guy I met at a café who promised a 'unique city tour.'”
I snort. “Sounds like the start of a rom-com.”
“A rom-com gone all wrong,” Emilia rolls her eyes. “So there we are, zipping through the streets, and he's yelling over his shoulder about the 'soul of Paris.' I'm trying not to lose my breakfast when suddenly, he pulls over and says it’s time we declared our love.”
I almost spit my wine. “You just met the guy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you have to declare your love?” Charlotte shakes her head. “Sounds like either he’s watched too many movies ormonsieurtook a left turn at creepy-land.”
Emilia nods sagely. “That he sure did. Because he didn’t mean declare our love for each other…”
Charlotte and I both cock our head in the same direction at the same time, too caught up in the story to laugh at it.
“Right in front of Notre-Dame, he stands up on the moped seat, strikes a pose,” Emilia demonstrates with her arms wide, Titanic-style, “and declares his love forParis.At the top of his lungs, and at the top of that scooter.”
“Ahhhh,” Charlotte shakes her head. “One ofthoseFrenchmen.”
“It gets better. He then tells me it's my turn.”
“Uh-oh,” I cringe. “What did you say?”
“With half of Paris watching? No way!” Emilia exclaims. “I told him I was more the 'admire-from-solid-ground' type. That's when he sighs, like I've wounded his artist soul, hops back on the moped, and speeds off!”
“Without you?” I ask, incredulous.
“Left me standing there like I'd lost my map,” Emilia shrugs. “So much for my 'unique tour.'”
We're all laughing now, except Emilia, who’s re-enacting the moment she was standing alone in front of Notre Dame in moped-abandonment. Kitty’s had enough of our madness and makes her disdain known by digging her nails into my lap as she stretches and then jumps to the floor.
“To solo adventures—may they always end with our feet firmly on the ground!” I toast, and our glasses chime in agreement.
It's cozy here, like a family of misfits. Then the girls turn to me, their eyes full of gossip-mongering.
“Your turn, Annie. Spill the beans,” Emilia nudges, her grin as wide as the Seine.
“I ain’t got no beans to spill, honey,” I drawl in my thickest accent, hoping that changes the subject.
Because otherwise I just might turn into a gushing, blushing puddle of a lovesick puppy.
“Come on.” Charlotte looks with eyes that see right through me, and this does not feel like a fair battle. “Other than telling us with a smile as wide as the Seine river that you’re going out with him most nights, you actually don’t tell us anything about him at all.”
