Page 29 of Enemies to French Kisses
“You look great.”Natalie appears behind me in the reflection.
I fluff my hair again in the mirror, but it flops back as it was, straight and unchanging despite my efforts and twenty euros of hair product.
“It’s like even my hair is disappointed that I have to meet monster Marc before my first attempt at romance in France.” Not that it matters, since it’ll be squished under my helmet for the length of the ride across town.
She rubs my back, but her eyes are smiling. “Perhaps the lady doth protest too much?”
“Stop. You don’t know the guy. He’s impossible.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
My wardrobe options are limited. I mostly dress to impress in the boardroom, not on a date in a fancy restaurant. I’m taller than most of the girls, but Annelise came through, having packed a flowing light blue dress that hugs in just the right places. It was kind of a shocker that of all of us she’d be the one with a pretty little number, but no complaints here. I’m going to be super cute on Valerie, rolling up in front of the latestPaul Bocuserestaurant. Natalie tried to convince me to go to the restaurant she works at with her boyfriend, who just happens to be the super-rich owner. But it’s bad enough trying to navigate this dating thing without having your bestie watching from across the dining room. Nicolas and I are both trying each other out tonight, seeing if at least we can enjoy each other’s company before being put to the test in front of international high society.
Chrissy warned me he’s very Type A, but after these last few days at work, I feel I could use a little Type A in my life. Structure. Predictability. Anyone but Marc Lemaire.
And yet Marc is my first stop.
What on Earth could there be at Sacre Coeur that he needs from me on a Friday night? Unless Guillaume gave him word about the RFP, which is possible given how far the two of them go back. I don’t know how far exactly, but when the boss puts up with antics like Marc’s, there’s history.
And even so, why do that at Sacre Coeur?
Cat calls and low whistles fill the apartment as I step out of the bathroom.
“Thank you, thank you. No photos, please. Line up for autographs.” I stick out my tongue for emphasis.
“For once, would you just let that guard down and have a good time?” Natalie adjusts my hair. “And pack a brush. That helmet does your coif no favors.”
“Nicolas Tremblay is the lucky one, remember that,” Gina grins from her upper bunk.
Annelise doesn’t look up from her magazine. “She’s right.Youare the catch.” She turns her head. “Holy smokes. In that dress, even I want to date you.”
“I’d better get out of here before y’all make me blush.” But I’m already blushing. It’s the very thought that romance in France could start for me tonight…
I just have to get through this brief—very brief—meeting with Marc first.
Paris traffic on a Friday night is nothing to scoff at, but I quickly learned how to navigate by following behind the cars of locals. They know when to go, I follow. Occasionally I end up on a road that wasn’t quite what the GPS called for, but not so badly that I can’t make my way back where I’m supposed to be.
Except tonight.
“Darned one-way streets…” I take the second exit instead of the third off the roundabout, and now not only am I going to be late to meet Marc, but I might be late for Nicolas, too.
I can tell that he’s the kind of man who wants things to happen on time, the way he planned.
“Excusez-moi?”I pull over and see an older woman who looks more French than France itself. “Sacre Coeur?”
She points.
I’m directly behind it.
The late spring evening is warm on my skin, or is that the stress of my first date in France? Then again, given my outfit, I might be stressing because Marc is likely to ask questions I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to test how this dress will hold up if I get to sweating. Then again, we’re Texans. We live in sweat most months of the year. Let’s not talk about the cost of electricity these days—it’s bad enough to keep the AC off.
I steady my breathing and pull in front of the grand church that dominates this part of the Paris skyline.
Marc can’t be far. I’m late, but not so late that it’s outside the realm of reasonable. Fashionably late is all.
Why am I even here? How did I let him talk me into this?
There he is.
