Page 14 of Enemies to French Kisses
I glance at my bestie-since-forever, because I love and hate when she’s right.
“Okay, I’ll do it.” The room erupts in cheers. “What’s the big deal?”
“I lose,” Annelise says, holding a twenty euro bill in the air. “So apéro is on me tonight. Now shoo, off my bed.” She swats at us with her magazine, but she’s only half serious. Half. Annelise can only joke so far.
Our favorite haunt, just down the street, is owned by one of Paris’ most colorful women—Veronique. The bar is a respite from the chaos of the city, a place where we can unwind without feeling like we have to act French. Veronique loves foreigners. The atmosphere is relaxed and unpretentious with a diverse mix of people from all walks of life. The walls are adorned with old posters of French films and advertisements for liquor. A small jukebox plays Edith Piaf and other French classics in the background, adding to the warm ambiance. The chatter of the patrons mixes with the music, a pleasant din but not so loud that we can’t gossip to our hearts’ delight.
“Et voila!”Veronique lines up “kirs” for us within moments of our arrival. Kir, a taste of the divine, is a splash of blackcurrant liqueur in white wine. Yummy like I never knew possible.
“To Laura,” Jessica lifts her glass. “For conquering Paris, the Netherlands, and Chrissy’s boss!”
“Ooh la la,” Veronique says behind the bar. “I think there is a story to be told, and you know how much I love an American love story.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” I lean over the bar as the other girls seek out a table on the terrace. “Chrissy is setting me up so that I can get over my colleague.”
“A workplace romance gone awry, oh my.” Veronique raises an eyebrow.
I almost spit up my kir. “No, not a romance. Trying to get over his maddeningness.”
“Maddeningness is an English word?”
“It sure isn’t. You see, Veronique? That man drives me so far up the wall, I can’t speakanylanguage. Whenever he’s around, my heart races and I never know what he’s going to do next. He says the most inane things, and then the next second will save me from a major misstep. It’sinfuriating.”
Veronique looks at me sideways. “Sounds like a workplace romance to me.”
“Ugh, Veronique. You haven’t seen the guy.”
“Ah,” she smiles. “So he’s ugly.”
“It’s not that.”
“So he’s handsome.”
“In that ‘I know I’m gorgeous and I’m going to flaunt it’ way.”
“My dear,” she leans over, conspiratorial, “that is the way of the French man.”
“You don’t know this one.”
“Oh, my dear American. Believe me, I do.”
She winks and struts to the other side of the bar, leaving me with my kir and a very odd feeling in the bottom of my stomach.
Marc and me? Impossible. Absolutely never ever in the history of time will I ever date an incorrigible, exasperating, and downright excuse for a man like Marc Lemaire.
Never.
CHAPTER6
Marc
I tried.The words got stuck in my mouth.
“Would you join me for my friend’s engagement party?”It sounds easy. A few simple English words compared to the contracts I negotiate in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and German.
“Will you be my date?”
I tried that one, too. But nothing came out.
