Page 52 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
The night air's warm and the bistro's lights are sprinkling their own kind of fairylike enchantment.
“Tonight,” Charlotte whispers, “we order every strange thing on the menu.”
There's escargots, blood sausage, and a bunch of other dishes I can't quite pronounce.
Charlotte pops open a bottle of wine, pouring it with a flourish. “To Annie, and her unforgettable Parisian escapades!” she toasts, raising her glass.
We all clink glasses, the sound mingling with the music and chatter around us. “And to friends who turn a city into a home,” I add, feeling a warmth that isn’t just the wine.
Charlotte leans forward, her eyes twinkling. “Remember that time we tried to have a picnic by the Seine?” she starts, chuckling. “Annie here decides to show us how to make a Texas-style sandwich. Next thing we know, there's barbecue on that passing poodle!”
“Hey, that poodle looked like it appreciated a taste of Texas!” I retort, playfully rolling my eyes.
Emilia jumps in, her voice filled with glee. “And what about our 'haunted' night walk in Montmartre?” she says, using air quotes. “Annie here was so convinced we were being followed by the ghost of some old painter, she nearly punched that street mime!”
I laugh, feeling a bit sheepish. “In my defense, that mime was creepily realistic. And those cobbled streets at night? Spooky as bats!”
As Charlotte continues to recount my various misadventures, I get this niggling feeling in the back of my neck, like someone's watching us.
Mathieu?
My eyes dart around, half-expecting to see Mathieu leaning against a lamppost. I guess old habits die hard, especially when they involve a fine-looking French gentleman who used to spy on you from behind a giant glass pyramid.
But nope, he's not there. Just a bunch of happy Parisians and tourists enjoying the night. My heart does this funny little dip, a mix of disappointment and something sweeter - like missing him is a reminder of all the good stuff we had.
“Pull yourself together,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?” Emilia turns to me.
“Nothing, nothing.” I plaster a smile on my face.
I force myself back to the here and now, to the friends and stories and night music under the stars as the Seine drifts by.
But in my mind, there’s already a sad country song.
“I’ll be right back.” I slip away, craving a quiet moment. The river's gently flowing with thebateaux mouchesgliding like swans in the current.
Leaning over the concrete half-wall, I let my thoughts drift with the river. This place is the stuff of dreams. So many souls have come through here, all across history, and I'm caught in the bittersweet realization that my own Paris story is drawing to a close.
“Beautiful night, isn't it, Annie?”
Clément appears beside me like a character out of a French noir film.
A flicker of disappointment flashes through me. I almost believed it was Mathieu.
“Bonsoir,Clément. Yeah, it's gorgeous,” I reply, masking my surprise with a smile. “Didn't expect to see you here, though.”
Clément leans on the barrier, his gaze following mine over the water. “You were expecting someone else?”
I chuckle, nerves getting the better of me. “Not really expecting, just…” My words trail off, the name of you-know-who hanging in the air between us.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a napkin, worn and folded. “There's something I want you to see,” he says, handing it to me. “It doesn’t look like much at first, but he wrote this after that first day.”
My hands tremble as I unfold the napkin, Mathieu's handwriting revealing itself in a series of heartfelt sentences. “He wrotethis…” The words are raw, unguarded. “Only after that first day?”
“That’s right. He’s known all along, like the rest of us knew all along. And Annie?”
I tear my eyes away from the napkin to look at him.
