Page 5 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Ah.Thatsubject.
“I don’t want to get into it.”
“That means there’s no one.” Étienne sits back, shaking his head. “Mon grand, this melancholy is dragging on too long.”
“It’s not melancholy.”
“What is it then?” Clément leans his head toward me. Our friendship is as old as we are, since our mothers were neighbors in the maternity ward, but even he can’t warm me up to this.
I feel the familiar scratch at the back of my neck, the telltale sign that I’m about to get tongue-tied.
The fact is, I think I’ve grown to become one of those men destined never to find a soulmate. Living alone is a habit that has grown on me. And the future is nothing but a black curtain. I used to think I had it all figured out.
Thensheleft me behind.
But explaining that to these guys is harder than teaching a cat to swim.
“Ah, Clément, right now my only passion in life is my mother's cooking.” I deflect it with a smile, but my gaze unintentionally drifts back to the American woman, her agitation now quieted as she peruses a menu.
Étienne chuckles, sipping his beer. “Come on, it’s been more than a year since—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. “We've all been snagged by attraction’s hook at some point.” He slaps my shoulder. “There must be a woman. Or many. Don’t tell me you've not been fishing without bait this whole time!”
The table erupts in a fresh round of laughter, and I join in, my heart lightening.
“Let's just say I'm enjoying the peace of a quiet pond. No need to stir the waters with any fishing business.”
There's a silent beat then. They know me, the unspoken parts of me, and with a collective shrug, the topic is shelved, tucked away like a book too delicate to leaf through the pages.
Except for Clément.
Clément’s the guy who won’t let a bone go once he’s got a bite. He leans back, one arm stretched out along the back of the booth, eyes crinkled, yet there's a seriousness to him that wasn't there a moment ago.
“Mathieu,” he starts, his voice taking on the cadence of a seasoned philosopher, “la vie est trop courte, mon vieux. You're sitting here, a heart ready to be stolen, and yet you hoard it like the last piece of camembert.”
A snort escapes me, but Clément’s not done, his eyes now alight with challenge.
“Don't think we didn't notice the way you looked at themademoisellewith thechapeau de cowboy. It’s like fate,non?”
I roll my eyes, but there's a smile tugging at my lips. We all know that look, the Clément 'I dare you' expression.
He throws his head back, the stubble on his chin catching the dim light, and proclaims with theatrical flair. “Je te lance un défi, Mathieu! Just like the old days. Remember how we used to dare each other to jump into the fountain in front of theOrangeriein spring?” I remember all right; the sting of cold water, the rush of adrenaline, and the ridiculousness that followed. “You can't refuse adéfi, my friend. It's against our code. The gauntlet is thrown. I declare that you must go speak to her.”
The table quiets, a sense of anticipation hanging over us like the smoke in the air. They’re all looking at me now, eyes wide, waiting.
The thing is, they’re right. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself feel the rush of something new, though a big part of me couldn’t bear the idea.
But a challenge is a challenge.
Truth is, I don’t mind having an excuse to talk to her. And if it goes poorly, I can blame Clément.
With a resigned sigh and a dramatic roll of my eyes for effect, I stand up. My heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. “Fine. But when she throws her drink at me, I'm sending you the dry cleaning bill.” I hope my voice doesn’t betray the sudden nervousness I feel.
And as I take the first step toward the woman who looks like she's carrying the weight of the world, the stirrings of something I haven’t felt in years rumble in my gut.
The whisper of my name,“Ma-thieu, Ma-thieu, Ma-thieu,”follows me like a gust of wind pushing a sailboat forward, my mates' voices a soft murmur. And then my stomach does a traitorous flip-flop, and I wonder if this isn’t a terrible idea.
It’s ridiculous, really. I am a grown man, well-versed in the art of charm—it should be second nature, like riding a bicycle through these winding streets.
Yet, approaching this lone woman, I feel like a boy again, uncertain and all thumbs.
