Page 18 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Our collective misery brings you delight.” He tilts his head to the side and looks out the window. “Odd. Do you enjoy a variety of aperitifs served by waiters on trays?”
“The waiters are on trays?”
The air just turned awkward in the room. Just as I realized what he meant to say—which was a strangely timed question—Vincent jumps in.
“The drawings…” Vincent waves them in both his hands like air traffic control.
“Of course.” Marc reaches out to take a copy.
I shake my head to get the weird waiters and apéritif question out of my head. “Drawings, yes. Drawings.”
“Here.” Marc passes me his set and our hands graze. I would have expected his skin to be cold like the snake he is, but warmth radiates from him.
He looks at me wide-eyed, and for a moment, I wonder if I made him freeze like Medusa, turning people into statues.
But the moment passes before it begins and I’m the one left wondering if he’s put a spell on me.
“Shall we begin?” Vincent looks a combination of perplexed and hyper-anxious. “I really need your review of these illustrations in order to know if they continue to fall within the regulations set out for us, because if they don’t, then I’m going back to the drawing board.”
“Literally,” I add.
“As opposed to?” I’ve broken Vincent’s train of thought, but Marc chuckles.
“Nothing, sorry. Continue.”
Our session flies by in a whirlwind of sketches on the whiteboard, researching past proposals and revising specs on Vincent’s drawings.
Vincent flops into a rolly chair that bumps into the wall behind him. “Break time. I’m spent.” He removes his thick glasses, huffs on them, and rubs them with the edge of his perfectly tailored button-up shirt. Funny, seeing him like that brings out a whole other side of Vincent, like there really is something to that Clark Kent glasses thing. Vincent is way too much of a brother type for me to ever see anything different in him, but could there be more to this innocent bioscientist than meets the eye?
“Back in ten,” Vincent says and swaggers out of the room as I gawk.
“Do you have the feeling our Vincent isn’t what he seems?” Marc leans back in his chair, arms crossed and with that look on his face that drives me mad, like he’s assessing the value of the people around him. But this time, he’s not wrong.
“Maybe. Just maybe.”
I dare to turn my phone over and see another text from Brian.
“Can you call?”
Figures. Brian is not the type to just fade away when I say I’m busy, bless his soul. I move to the far corner of the conference room for a semblance of privacy. It’s just that discussions with my brother usually involve some kind of profound perspective on life and that’s going to be hard to come by on a day when I’m dealing with Marc Lemonstre.
Brian picks up on the first ring.
“Sis. How’s it going?”
“Really? You want me to call you in the middle of the Texas night to tell you how it’s going?”
“You’re not free any other time.” I hear the hurt in his voice though he’s trying to hide it.
Deep breath. This is my little bro, and just because Marc is over there watching me with a raised eyebrow is no reason to take my feelings out on Brian.
“I’m sorry. It’s been intense. I’ve got a great opportunity with work, and I’m trying not to mess it up.”
“Remember what we talked about? Loosening up, enjoying your time in France? Don’t squander this time, sis. You won’t get it back.”
“Thank you for the lecture, little bro, but I’ll have you know that the other night I went out to a traditional dance night in front of Sacre Coeur.”
“You don’t say.”
