Page 8 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
The mention of lunch hours tickles a smile out of me. “Ah, but in Paris, two hours is barely enough to savor the delights of midday.”
“Not funny.” She crosses her arms. “They’d better open. They’d better.”
As I observe Annie, there's a deliberate steeliness to her posture, a façade of resilience that she wields like armor. Yet, her eyes betray the bravado—I catch the flicker of vulnerability, a distress she's too proud to voice. Her bravado is commendable, given the circumstances, yet I see the weariness that sits on her.
The sounds of “Pssst” reaches me from across the restaurant.
A sidelong glance at my friends and their enthusiastic gestures—thumbs up, pumped fists—tells me they're more invested in this encounter than the stock market. I inhale deeply, steadying the flutter in my chest.
“Say, Annie, would you mind terribly if I escorted you to the embassy? If only to prove to these ruffians that I've done their bidding.”
Her gaze drifts past me, and my friends freeze like kids caught mid-mischief, their antics shifting to an innocence so feigned it's comical.
Her eyes meet mine again, a flicker of amusement there, and she nods.
“I reckon that'd be alright, Mathieu Dupont.”
CHAPTER4
Annie
“You’ve gotto be kidding me!” my voice cracks as I stand before the firmly shut gates of the American embassy. “Stillclosed for lunch?”
“For lunch?” Mathieu grimaces, and I don’t like what I think it means. “No, it’s closed the whole day.”
“What? Butwhy?” I hear that whine in my voice, and if my mama was here she’d be saying ‘Do you want some cheese with that whine?’ The thought is almost funny now that I’m actually in the place where they make that cheese and wine, but this situation is not funny. Definitely. Not. Funny.
For Mathieu’s part, he just cocks his head and looks at me like I just tried to order steak at a vegan café. “Why? Because it’s May first.”
“And yesterday was April thirtieth and tomorrow is May second. It’s still a Monday and you are making no sense,monsieur.”
Mathieu’s eyes crinkle. “May first is Labor Day in France, Annie. Everything closes down, even the American embassy, apparently.”
I gape at him, then at the gate, as if my stare could magically open it. “Labor Day? In May? Who does that?” My mind races.
“Everywhere in the world but North America?” Mathieu tries to explain, his accent turning the words into something that almost sounds like an apology.
“Great, just great,” I mutter, pacing in front of the gate. “Stuck in Paris without a passport on French Labor Day.”
His eyes soften. “And you need your passport to head home soon?”
“Head home? Gosh no, I just got here! I have three months, but nowhere to sleep.”
“Ah!” He throws his arms in the air. “Then you’re fine! You can do almost everything without a passport.”
“I can’t check into a hotel.”
He drops his arms. “That’s true.”
“See!” I spin with my fists threatening the blue skies overhead. “How is this even possible?” My shouts alert the birds in a giant tree, who fly off in one big huff. My fists are still squarely pointed at the sky, along with my eyes tracking the birds when…
No.
This can’t be happening.
My forehead is wet, and that’s not rain.
I fall against the trunk of the tree and slide down, desperately wiping the dollop of bird dung off my face. Finally, the hot tears flow and sobs that sound like they’re coming from someone else bubble up from a deep place.
