Page 46 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
“Annie, um, something is unusual here.” I follow his gaze down and…
Sweet mercy, my pants are on backward.
“NOT READY!”
I two-step back into the hall as fast as my little paws will take me.
“Annie?” Mathieu calls.
“WAIT THERE!” I shout and then mutter to myself, “Oh, honey, no,” because I’ve got these yoga pants on backwards. I’m not adding any more fodder to their giggles today. Even I can have my moments of modesty.
Back in the hallway, wrestling with stretchy fabric and my dignity, I hear an “Oh!” behind me. I freeze, pants mid-twist, and there's my backside in my prettiest undies, on full display.
“Sorry, sorry,” a man’s voice with a Spanish accent says, and then I hear feet scuttling away.
“So much for modesty,” I grumble, cheeks burning, as I right my pants and take a deep breath.
Okay, take two. And as I step back into the common room, I try to channel every Western movie heroine who ever faced down a shootout with nothing but grit and a good lipstick. Mathieu's got an eyebrow raised, and my friends peek around him, their grins as wide as the Rio Grande.
I square my shoulders, meet his gaze, and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Fashion crisis. Averted.”
And if the laughter that follows is any sign, I might just have nailed it.
Mathieu stands, offering his arm with a grin. “Shall we?” he asks, and the teasing from the group softens into a chorus of 'awws.'
We step out into the Paris evening, the air carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and a hum that’s become as familiar as the purr of tractors. We walk close, our shoulders brushing with every step.
And still not having the conversation we need most to have.
“So, where are you taking me?” I ask as we navigate the maze of streets, each one a fairytale waiting to be told.
“It's a little slice of Paris that Parisians keep for themselves,” he replies, “and it’s right over here.”
The bistro is like something out of a dream, nestled in a garden lush with greenery and dotted with candles that flicker like fireflies. The table is tiny, but we don’t mind. Sharing a menu between us feels cozy on a warm summer evening.
“Hey, your French is improving!” he says as the waiter leaves.
“I pronouncedcassouletcorrectly, did you hear?”
“I sure did.” He squeezes my chin with his thumb and forefinger, and for the life of me I can’t say why that simple move makes me want to melt into his arms.
You’ve got to ask him.
That stinking voice. It comes at the worst possible times. Doesn’t it see I’m busy having a divine evening with my man? I try to distract myself by tracing my fingertip over the back of his hand.
You won’t rest until you ask.
Now it’s just getting silly.
Do it, or else?—
Okay, fine!
“Mathieu…”
“I knew something was on your mind.” He takes in a deep breath. Like super deep. Like I don’t know if he’s ever going to let it out or if he’s just going to keep inhaling until the end of time.
And then he sighs almost as long. “And it’s probably the same thing I’ve been thinking about, too.”
