Page 1 of Enemies to French Kisses
CHAPTER1
Laura
Don’t sit beside me.Don’t sit beside me.I think it hard enough to smack him between the eyes.
My pencil skirt is suddenly too tight, and I just might sweat through my satin blouse. I dressed for success, not corporate warfare.
Don’t sit beside me. Just don’t.I need my target to get the message, and fast, as he’s strutting right—this—way.
Marc drops into the rolling office chair beside me, his cologne wafting promises of romance and soft kisses, but I know the truth.
Marc Lemaire is a jerk and a half.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Ugh.I may have a Masters of Business Administration, graduated the top of my class at Central Texas State University, and landed a much-coveted job as portfolio manager in Paris, but I’d still love to stick my tongue out at this self-righteous, drop-dead gorgeous French version Clark Kent and blow him a great big raspberry.
One side of his mouth curls in a half smile. “I see you are looking as cheerful as usual.”
“Take a long walk off a short pier.”
He laughs. “I adore your American expressions.”
“It’s not an expression when you conveniently presentmy ideafor a collaboration with a pharmaceutical company.”
“Aw.” His tone is condescending as he leans closer. Our colleagues fill out the chairs around the conference table. “You bring this up like you didn’t get credit in the end for such an excellent idea.”
“It wasmyidea to present,” I hiss, hoping no one else hears. The Europa file turned out to be a massive success for Innov’ Biotech, and our boss, Guillaume, knows I was behind it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t totally get my goat that Marc tried to pass it off as his. This is why my roommates call him MarcLemonstreand not Marc Lemaire—he’s way more monster than mayor in my books.
He cocks his head, a surefire sign he’s going to say something to rile me up. “You’re looking very—how do you say?—professionaltoday.”
‘How do you say,’ my backside. MarcLemonstrespeaks perfect English. My sleek pinstripe satin blouse and no nonsense pencil skirt more than fulfill the modern professional look. Even though I can’t help but look American—despite my best efforts—that’s not a problem here.
Innov’ Biotech is multi-lingual, multi-cultural, and has a curious mix of professionals. Scientists, project managers, and marketers have to find common ground as we work to transform health systems with revised workflows and fit-for-purpose, cutting-edge medical equipment. Right now we’re just in Europe, but hopefully one day, we’ll be around the world.
My pencil skirt should do the job just fine.
Then again, my female colleagues are dressed not just to kill, but tomassacreevery living, breathing thing. Lush fabrics, designs fresh off the runway, and tailored blazers that hug every curve. Luxury and social hierarchy ooze out of their pores.
I’m accustomed to battling my way through using brains, quick wit, and unending perseverance—that’s what being a woman in the biosciences is like—but as for looking the part…
“I particularly enjoy the sensible boots,” Marc adds, not even looking at my feet.
“My boots?”
What’s wrong with my boots?
“Marc!” a high-pitched voice interrupts. “Marc,viens ici. I have something important to tell you.” Fiorella from the Italian portfolio, the woman who puts the ‘ooh’in ‘ooh la la.’ She floats through the office without a care in the world and yet has improved sales year over year in Sicily. I would be jealous if I didn’t admire her so much.
Okay, I’m also jealous.
Fiorella taps the rolling office chair beside her, beckoning Marc with eyes that say more carry-me-away-to-Bermuda than I-have-something-important-to-tell-you. Is that what she does with the Sicilians?
Marc raises an eyebrow at her and then looks at me. “Should I stay or should I go?”
I escape the awkwardness of having to reply as Guillaume sweeps into the conference room, slamming the door behind him.
Innov’ Biotech—short for “Innovate” because the French love to take English words and mess around with them—may be a modern start up with a cutting edge advantage, but there’s something in the French appreciation for hierarchy that makes us all sit a little straighter when Guillaume enters the room.
