Page 9 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Mathieu pulls out a handkerchief with a swift motion that tells of a man accustomed to minor emergencies. He kneels beside me, his touch tentative but sure as he dabs at my cheeks. “There, there,” he murmurs, and the city noise fades into the background with the calmness of his voice.
He tackles my hair next, gentle fingers combing through the strands, wiping away the unfortunate gift from above. My sobs subside to hiccups, his presence a surprising comfort. With one last look of disgust, Mathieu flings the handkerchief, now a casualty of urban wildlife, into the garbage can.
“You’re going to be okay, Annie,” he says softly, running the back of his finger down my cheek. The simple touch is oddly comforting, and I lean into it.
He pulls back slightly to look at me, searching my face. “Say, Annie, do you have a copy of your passport?”
I nod, sniffling. “In my email.”
“And your driver’s license?” The gears are visibly turning in his head.
“Yes, in my wallet.” My voice is steadier now, because the man is kindling some hope in me.
“That should be enough for the hostel, at least for one night,” Mathieu says, a smile trying to break through the concern in his eyes. “The embassy will be open tomorrow, and then you can sort this all out.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling a weight lift off me. He stands and reaches out his hand to help me up, and for a moment, in the middle of Paris, with my crisis momentarily averted, I allow myself to feel a bit of peace.
The receptionist at the hostel dashes that peace in a single word.
“Full.”
My jaw tightens, and I feel the calm Mathieu offered start to slide right on through my fingers. “But I had areservation.” My voice has that edge to it, like a knife too dull to cut, but you hack at the meat anyhow.
The receptionist, a brunette with a piercing in one eyebrow, shrugs. “I had to give it away an hour ago. No show, no call, no room.”
“But I was here! You saw me!”
“No passport, no room.”
I breathe in slowly, trying to remember that yoga video I watched once about channeling inner zen.
“I was robbed,” I say, clinging to civility by a thread. “My passport was in my bag until it wasn’t. But I have a copy and my driver’s license.” I shove them in her face in case she can’t see what they are.
“I see them, but,s’il vous plaît, lots of people are looking for rooms and I didn’t think you were coming back.”
Mathieu steps up, his hand resting lightly on my back. “Don’t worry, Annie. We’ll find you another room somewhere.”
The receptionist chews her lip, looking between us. “Good luck finding something, you know it’s?—”
My temper flares up like a brush fire in July.
“May first,” I grind out between clenched teeth. “Yeah. I know.”
Once outside, the brisk Parisian air does nothing to lift my spirits. The exhaustion I've been holding at bay cascades over me, and my voice cracks, betraying the fatigue I feel deep in my bones.
“I'm just so tired, Mathieu.” My eyes sting with the threat yet again of tears. “Maybe I'll just find a bench and make it my bed for the night because I can't… I just can't do this anymore.”
Mathieu clears his throat, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. His cheeks tinge with pink as he speaks.
“Annie, uh, you could, you know, crash in my hotel room if you want. I mean, just for a little while. If you want.” His eyes dart away, unable to meet mine.
He’s not pulling off the casual vibe he’s going for, not with the way he keeps glancing off to the side like he’s searching for an escape route. Then he rubs the back of his neck like he's suddenly developed an itch he can't reach.
I take a second to really look at him. Mathieu’s a tall, somewhat lanky guy who somehow seems strong in more ways than one. He's got a sweetness to him that’s pretty endearing. His offer isn’t just a spot on the bed—it feels like a lifesaver in a city that's been a whirlwind since I landed.
