Page 4 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
I lean against the cool metal, the frustration and fatigue settling like a buzzard on a fence post, when my stomach pipes up with a rumble loud enough to scare it off. Well, if I can't feed my hopes, at least I can feed my belly.
“Guess it's time to find out what Parisians do with all this time for lunch,” I mutter to myself, pushing off the gate.
I set off down the street, my hunger leading the way, ready to trade a piece of my dwindling stash of euros for something fried, or baked, or… well, I'd settle for anything that doesn't come with a side of misfortune.
A typical French brasserie sparkles like a jewel box, all cozy warmth against the creeping Parisian May breeze. As I hustle toward what I hope is a bellyful of comfort food, a shoulder suddenly appears in front of my face, blocking my way.
“Excusez-moi,” the shoulder says, turning around.
I'm suddenly toe-to-toe with a walking advertisement for French allure—tall, hunky, and eyes like the summer sky at twilight.
“Great,” I scoff. “Another drop-dead handsome Frenchman. Do you wanna steal my passport too?”
He cocks his head, confusion playing across his features like he's trying to translate my Texas twang. Then, as smooth as Sunday, he steps aside and swings the door wide open.
“Après vous,” he says, and something about his politeness almost sands the edges off my ruffled feathers.
I stomp past him, not trusting myself to keep the sarcasm from my voice or the mist from my eyes. Sliding into a booth, I plop down with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. I press my palms to my eyes, fighting back tears because Annie Clayton does not cry in public, especially not in a charming Parisian eatery. But hot dog, if the burn behind my eyelids isn't as persistent as a burr in a saddle blanket.
Nothing is happening the way it was supposed to.
CHAPTER2
Mathieu
I step in,the chime of the door still ringing as my gaze lingers on the American woman who barged past me. She’s a tempest coiled in female form, her frustration almost palpable. In the quaint calm of the brasserie, she’s dressed for the rodeo and stomps like a bull to the other side of the restaurant.
I can honestly say I have never been so curious about a woman in my life.
“Mathieu! Mathieu!” a chorus of male voices beckons me over with a boisterous energy that can’t be ignored. The comforting chaos of lifelong camaraderie wraps around me, and any questions I had about the intriguing stranger will have to wait.
Arms reach out, a maze of friendship in handshakes and backslaps, drawing me into the fold. There’s nothing like old friends. Ever since I left Paris for the suburbs two years ago, I have missed this. Our lives may look very different since we were university chums running up and down these streets, but some things never change.
And I’m glad for it.
For a brief second, the American woman's fierce spirit flickers in my thoughts, but it fades, overshadowed by back slaps and toasting, since I’m the last one to arrive. As usual.
After two years apart and far from the friends who are my rock, it feels good to be back.
And this is only day one.
My apartment isn’t even ready yet, but I couldn’t wait another day. A night in a hotel is well worth the opportunity to restart my life, since everything took a turn. Sincesheleft,shewhose name shall never be said in polite company again.
“To Mathieu, the prodigal son is returned to Paris at last!” Clément announces with a grin wide enough to split his face.
The laughs are hearty, the kind that resonate in your chest and remind you of shared histories and inside jokes that won’t die. As I slide into the booth, Étienne shoves a beer towards me, the foam threatening to breach the rim.
I chuckle, raising the glass. “To friends who age better than they mature.”
The conversation ebbs and flows, skirting easily from old school tales, to city politics, to the World Cup. Then, as the laughter dies to a contented lull, Gilles leans in with a smirk that's seen too many of my secrets.
“So,mon ami, out with it now.”
“Out with what?”
The guys look at each other as though it’s obvious.
“Any… updates? Another month has passed?—”
