Page 39 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Bonsoir, tout le monde,” he says, his eyes scanning the room until he finds mine. “There you are.”
I let out a laugh, a touch self-conscious but still riding the high of admitting feelings to my girls, feelings that had been eating away at me because they’d been stuck in my head.
Mathieu stands in the doorway like the hero in some kind of romance novel, except it's no fiction that's got my heart pounding this time. The girls all but press their noses to the air as he steps in, their eyes scanning him up and down like he's a piece they're trying to place in the jigsaw puzzle of my life.
As soon as Mathieu's soft and deep voice fills the room, a chorus of coos and teases follows from the peanut gallery by the couches.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” Charlotte bats her eyelashes in an over-the-top flutter. “You here to steal our little Annie away?”
Mathieu's chuckle is low and easy, a sound that's quickly becoming my favorite tune. “Just borrowing her for the evening, I promise,” he replies, shooting me a wink that sets off a fresh round of giggles from the group.
Emilia leans forward. “You take good care of our Texas rose, you hear?”
“I wouldn't dream of anything less.” There’s a sincerity in his gaze that makes me believe him down to my boots.
Charlotte wags a finger. “And don’t you forget?—”
“Alright, enough y'all.” I grab my bag and stand from the reluctant sofa, dramatically rolling my eyes at their antics. “He's not whisking me away to a castle on a cloud.” Though part of me is half-hoping for just that kind of magic.
Mathieu looks me up and down like I just emerged from an oyster shell. “Wow.Tu es magnifique.”
He extends his hand and I take it, my belly with butterflies in all the right ways.
“So these infamous home improvements are done?” I ask as we approach the neighborhood where I know Mathieu’s apartment is based.
“You’ll see,” he says, but the grin on his face is a tell. “We’re here.”
“Wait,here?”
“This is Haussmann style,” he says, sweeping his arm like he's Vanna White showing off a prize. “Built during the big transformation of Paris in the 19th century.”
I nod, pretending like I knew that already. “You live in a piece of history, huh?”
He grins, proud as a peacock. “I guess you could say that.”
Stepping into Mathieu's building feels like I've just waltzed into one of those fancy old movies. The lobby's huge, with a ceiling so high it could be its own sky, all fancy with swirls and patterns like icing on a wedding cake. The staircase winds up like it's out of a fairy tale, with shiny wooden railings that look like they've got stories to tell.
As we climb to his second-floor apartment, I catch myself holding my breath.
This place has got class spilling out of every nook and cranny. The tall windows let in a light that's pure magic, and the walls are lined with fancy moldings that scream old-world charm.It's cozy and fancy all at once, with these big, soft sofas that scream 'come and chill here'. The windows are ginormous, stretching up with curtains that look like they belong in a castle or something. The whole place feels special, like it's not just an apartment but a piece of Paris itself. I can't help but feel a little out of my league, like a country singer at a royal ball, but in a good way. It's all so classy and cool, and I'm just standing there, soaking it all in.
As we head into the kitchen, it's clear he knows what he’s doing. This kitchen is decked out to the nines. He opens a tall cupboard and flaps an apron with a flourish, which is all I need to open the giggle box.
“You planning on getting messy?”
He winks. “With you? Always.”
The kitchen's small but mighty, and we fall into this rhythm, chopping and stirring like we're two parts of the same machine. Every brush of his hand against mine sends up sparks, and when he reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I nearly forget about the onions sizzling in the pan and I’m all in on the recipe for something that's simmering between us. Something that can't be rushed, but is cooking up real nice.
Five weeks.
With the cake batter about ready to bake, the kitchen's warm with the heat of the oven. Or is it just me?
No, Mathieu feels it too, because he takes in a deep breath and looks me in the eye.
“There's something I've been wanting to say to you,” he says, his voice dropping to a tone that feels like velvet.
My mind races, galloping through a field of maybes and what-ifs. A hundred possibilities as I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with the homely aroma of baking.
