Page 40 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“What's that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
But then he reaches for the bowl of batter and, before I can react, he swipes a dollop onto the tip of my nose.
“You did not—” For a split second, I'm stunned—then it gives way to a new game. “Oh, it's on now, mister!”
I grab half a handful of flour and let it fly, dusting his hair with a snowy sprinkle. He retaliates with a spoonful of batter that lands with a plop on my shoulder. Next thing I know, it’s a battle for superiority, dodging and darting around the kitchen, our food fight a dance of joy and silliness.
The ringing phone cuts through our culinary disaster, and Mathieu fumbles for it, his batter-smeared hand leaving a mark on the screen as it opens into a video call.
“Oui, allô?” he answers, trying to catch his breath.
The screen lights up to reveal a woman’s amused face. “Mathieu? Mais qu’est-ce qui ce passe?”
“Rien de spécial,” he looks back at me, “just a little baking, American-style.”
“American-style,” the woman laughs, “is that what this is?” Her accent in English is excellent, and my curiosity is running wild at who this lady is.
“Anne-Laure,” Mathieu says, turning the camera to me, “let me introduce you to Annie. Annie, this is my old sister, Anne-Laure.”
“Old sister? You mean older sister,” the phone protests.
“No, I don’t.” Mathieu chuckles.
I'm a mess of flour and batter, a sight far from the put-together image I might wish to present to his family, but such is life.
“Bonjour,” I wave, “enchantée.”
“Enchantée,” she replies. “Mathieu, I was about to invite you to come be a kid again at Léa’s birthday, but it looks like you're halfway there already. You turned your kitchen into a patisserie battleground?”
Mathieu's cheeks redden, but he's smiling. “Something like that,” he admits. “It's a new recipe we're trying out. It's called'chaos de chocolat et farine'.”
“Well, it looks like you're winning,” Anne-Laure teases. “Or losing spectacularly. Hard to tell. But if this is what modern French romance looks like, I have to say, I’m all in favor.”
A sheepish grin spreads across his face as he glances at the mess we've made.
“And,” Anne-Laure continues, “this means you’re in charge of the cake for Léa’s birthday. Are you in?”
He turns to me. “Annie, do you think you can handle baking a cake for a few dozen hungry rug rats?”
I don’t hesitate. “One hundred percent.”
“Léa will be delighted. And Mathieu?”
“Oui?”
“Sois sage.” She winks and then the screen goes black.
We stand in the quiet of the kitchen, gentle nerves keeping me from speaking, both of us smiling like goofs.
“Sois sage?” I finally ask. “That means…”
“Behave yourself.”
“Oh! HA!” Suddenly, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
Mathieu's hand finds mine, both of our sticky fingers swinging in the middle of the kitchen.
“You sure you want to come?” he asks, the hope in his voice as clear as the Parisian sky. “It’s just a kid’s birthday party.”
