Page 45 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
But then there's the way he treats me, oh, and his laugh that could make the Mona Lisa grin, and the way he holds me like I'm something precious. The way he listens to my every word, like there’s no one else in the world.
Emilia's eyebrows do a little dance. “Come on, Annie, spill it. You're head over cowboy boots for him, aren't you?”
“More like somersaulting over spurs.”
The girls all nod, their faces full of both delight and sympathy.
“But it's complicated.” I stare at my tea. “My heart's planting roots here, and my mind's back in Texas, packing its bags to get back to the ranch.”
“Heart versus mind—classic showdown.” Charlotte clucks her tongue. “Girl, you need to have a serious conversation with yourself.”
They all laugh, but it’s not the same laugh as before. It’s that knowing laugh where it’s all gone real.
I just need time to think before Mathieu picks me up in an hour. If I can get my head around it, then maybe there’s a non-matrimonial solution waiting to be found. Because if this girl is getting married, it will be with lace and frou-frous in a church and with a giant cake. None of that ‘did it for the papers’ business. Not when it comes to love.
I just need a little more?—
“Bonsoir.”
“Gah!”
I'm mid-gulp of my tea when the universe throws me a curveball in the form of Mathieu walking through that hostel door. So I do what any self-respecting girl does when caught in her jammies—I let out a squeal that could rival a banshee and leap behind the nearest sofa, which, let me tell you, offers about as much cover as a tumbleweed in a dust storm.
Charlotte is doubled over, laughing so hard I'm half-convinced she'll need medical attention, and Emilia's got her phone out, probably capturing this glorious moment for posterity.
“He's early!” I hiss from my hideout, peeking over the top of the couch.
Mathieu, bless his heart, looks like someone just handed him a puzzle where all the pieces are the same color of blue. “Annie, what in the world—” he starts, but I cut him off with a frantic wave of my hand.
“You weren't supposed to see me yet! I'm still in my jammies,” I protest in a pitch only dogs should hear.
His eyes crinkle with laughter, and even from my crouched position, I can see the amusement dancing in his gaze.
“I like the lasso motif on them,” he says with a grin that tells me he's enjoying this way too much.
“It’s good form to be on time, not an hour early,monsieur,” Charlotte chides, and I’m thankful that she’s on my side this time.
“I finished work early. Couldn't wait to see her,” he adds, and my stomach does a somersault that would score a ten from any Olympic judge.
“Aw,” Charlotte coos, “in that case, Miss Annie, get your lasso-jammied self out here and give the man a kiss!”
The girls are cooing and ahhing, and it's like I'm the main act in some romantic comedy that I never auditioned for.
I’m the one who’s lassoed. The way he talks to me, and about me, it’s so far from the grunts I’d get from the guys back home. Yep, I've been lassoed and hogtied by Cupid himself.
“Okay, cowboy,” I say, gathering my scattered wits. “You gotta cover those eyes, 'cause this lady's gotta make a wardrobe change, and quick.”
Charlotte, now promoted to Mathieu-watchdog, stands guard, making sure his hands stay firmly over his eyes.
“Three-two-one…”
I make a dash for my room, my heart wild against my ribs. My hands are shaking like leaves in a twister as I pull on my yoga pants and a too-adorable tee that's never seen a moment quite like this.
“Paris, je t'aime,” the shirt reads, and right now, I'm not sure if it's a statement or a plea for the city to give me a break. But ready or not, it's showtime.
I make my grand entrance back into the common room. “Ok, I’m ready—” but I catch my reflection and… hold up. Something’s not right here.
I barely take two steps out before I see Mathieu, all cozied up with my friends, and by the sound of it, he's already been adopted into our ragtag family. He's got that easy-going charm dialed up to full blast, and they're eating it up like it's the last piece of pie at Thanksgiving.
