Page 6 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Now that I have a moment to take her in, her outfit catches me unawares. The cowboy hat is tilted just so, casting a shadow over her eyes, and her boots tell stories of open fields and long roads. Those are not fashion cowboy boots, they are working boots.
Her dress is red like the wine we favor, with frills that are playful yet elegant, draping her form in a manner that poets and painters dream about.
I'm so caught up in the sight that for a moment, I forget to be nervous. But then, I see it—a single tear trails down her cheek, a testament to some unseen sorrow. A cold splash of reality hits me. Beyond any dare, there's a real person in front of me, a woman with her own world of worries and pain.
Hovering on the precipice of her private moment, something shifts inside me—a gear I know well. It's the same part of me that my three sisters always teased about, the softness in my core that I often try to disguise with humor or a cavalier shrug. They would call me‘le doux géant,’the gentle giant, for the empathy that seemed as natural to me as breathing. But it often leaves me exposed, more sensitive to the world's sharp edges.
I’ve learned to guard it well.
Or so I thought.
As I look down at this beautiful stranger, her vulnerability pulls at those old threads of compassion. I can't turn away, not now. An instinct to soothe washes over me, a need to offer solace, to be an unexpected sanctuary in a world that often forgets to be kind.
I clear my throat gently, mustering my most comforting smile—the oneGrandmamansays can make even the rain stop for a brief moment.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” I begin, my voice soft, hoping not to startle her. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem a little far from home.”
She looks up at me, wide eyed, and either my accent is stronger than I thought or she’s stunned into silence.
What have I done?
CHAPTER3
Mathieu
The vulnerabilityof the moment hangs between us, a fragile thing I’m suddenly scared to break. My friends’ chant is a distant echo now, all my attention fixed on the woman before me, waiting for her to reply.
Her eyes are cautious, wet with the remnants of tears, as she clutches her handbag against her like a shield.
“I hope you're not here to offer to carry my bags, or to take me to dinner, and no stinking tour of Paris either.” Her southern twang slicing through the hum of the restaurant. “I've had enough of charming Frenchmen for one day.”
“I just wanted to say hello.”
“With the experience I’ve had, that’s not so believable.” She must see the puzzle on my face, for she sighs and continues. “A lovely Frenchman, much like yourself, stole my passport today.”
“That’s terrible!”
She purses her lips. “Why do you think I’m holding my handbag so tight?”
“You know,” I instinctively take half a step back to give her space, “we’re not all conmen and pickpockets.”
“Prove it.” She crosses her arms, her gaze demanding evidence.
I lean back, searching for anecdotes that might paint my compatriots in a more benevolent light, but her piercing look tells me she's unconvinced by tales of ordinary decency. So I shift gears, opting for honesty over charm.
“Every Sunday, I am with my three sisters and seven nieces and nephews. I’m better known as Uncle Jungle-Gym, which frankly sounds better in English. They mostly just call me ‘Tonton Obstacle’and then throw their bodies at me, and my job is to make sure no one breaks a leg even if they knee me in the eye.”
She narrows her eyes. “A perfect false story of sufficient adorableness to make me put my defenses down. What woman wouldn’t be completely enamored by a playful uncle? Nope, not buying it.”
My heart flinches. I really amTonton Obstacle, and I have weekly bruises and a few stitches in my eyebrow to prove it.
But fair enough.
“I see.” Proving that I am who I say I am is surprisingly difficult. “I know. There was an owl stuck in barbed wire on my roof. I climbed out onto the fire escape, which I discovered is not in safe condition, and managed to untangle it. He was hurt, so I took him first to the police station and then to an animal hospital.”
“You went to the police station with an owl?”
It wasn’t my finest moment. “I was scared for the little guy’s life. He had big—how do you say—gashes in his wings.”
