Page 30 of Enemies to French Kisses
He’s standing in the same spot I was during thebal trad, watching the beginning of sunset as streaks of red illuminate the roofs below.
With the sun casting a glow over him, he doesn’t look like the same man I shared a boardroom with for two days non-stop. His hands are hanging off his pockets and his shoulders are relaxed. He looks at once younger and wiser, if that’s possible.
He must feel me looking at him—the force of my stare makes him turn to meet my eyes. Neither of us move, and for just this second, I don’t feel like me and he doesn’t seem like him. Is this an out of body experience? I don’t think so, as I feel Valerie below me, the cobblestones complicating my choice of heels.
And just like that, he transforms. It’s almost a physical armor he puts on, tilting his head to the side and adjusting his scarf, despite the warmth in the air. French men and their scarves. He swaggers over, and I immediately regret my decision to show up at all.
If only he were more like the man he occasionally lets show through, the one who doubts himself and stumbles over his words. The kind of man who stares over the skyline with a gentle smile painted on his lips. If only.
That’s not the man walking toward me now. This is clearly MarcLemonstre.
“Good evening,” he lilts, a half-smile on his lips. “I am glad you finally made it.”
“Traffic.”
He purses his lips and nods but doesn’t say anything.
“Marc, why am I here? I’ve got to get—”
“Oui, oui. You are busy, very busy.”
“Is it the RFP?”
“The RFP? No. Please, Laura,” he holds out his hand, “come with me for a moment.”
I can smell a snake. I watch his eyes, but I knock the kickstand into place.
He’s unfazed. “I love how you do that.”
“How I park my Vespa?”
“Come.”
I take his hand, which is softer and larger than I expected. I am not a dainty little thing, but my hand disappears in his.
“Look around.” He gestures. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is…” I’m waiting for a punch line.
“I can feel the history in the stones beneath our feet.”
“Can you now?”
I’ve disarmed him. He huffs as if recalibrating his arguments, though I still don’t know why I’ve been beckoned by him.
“Marc, I love Sacre Coeur and all, but—”
“Hush,” he puts his fingers on my lips and if I weren’t so polite I’d bite them off his hand. “I have to say something and you’re making it difficult.”
I’m going to lose it. “Say your piece, Marc. Make it quick.”
He inhales sharply. “So, Innov’ Biotech is a fine location for the mainstay of what has been, to date, our encounters.”
“Encounters?”
“But this is something I’d like to propose under the auspices of a different, um, approach.”
“Marc,” the thought suddenly occurs to me. “Are you corrupt? Are you about to make some weird proposal to go behind Guillaume’s back and launch our own company?”
