Page 39 of Enemies to French Kisses
This must be a dream, for there’s no other reason I would wake from this… this… am I still asleep? None of it makes sense, even as Laura continues conversing with the officers as if this is the real thing.
There’s only one reason she could be here—that’s if everything I thought I imagined is real.
Ididask her out. Shedidwrap her sweet arms around me. Ididopen my heart to her and she said yes.
My angel. My Laura. My wife.
That’s the only explanation. But my head… why does it pound like this?
Laura gazes down at me, worry written into every line in her face. I want to console her, I want to tell her I’ll be fine. I want to say everything and say it all at once.
But I’m just… too… tired.
The warmth of her hand on my shoulder is all the comfort I need to slip back into necessary slumber.
She’s here. That’s all I ever wanted.
CHAPTER15
Laura
He’s back asleep.I hardly notice the constant beep of the heart monitor anymore. It’s a relief to have the cops off my back. The mental image of being carted home in handcuffs, flying through Charles de Gaulle Airport to JFK to George Bush Intercontinental Airport as everyone I know and don’t know glare at the woman who has created an international incident is finally fading.
I might be catastrophizing, but not by much.
The sight of Marc flying down the steps won’t get out of my head. It could have been so much worse.
I catch myself running my fingers along his cheek. The stubble is longer now, where he always has the smoothest face. The look suits him with the ripples of muscles cascading down his body. He is seriously going to burst that hospital gown if he breathes too deeply.
Now that the police are gone, I need to gear up for the conversation with Marc. If this was all a ruse to get the police to back off, then no doubt I owe him. As if I didn’t owe him enough already for the nearly cracked skull.
But what if he is genuinely confused?
Hold up. There’s confused and then there’sconfused.
“Comment va notre patient?” Dr. Rousse strides in, glaring at me over the top rim of his glasses. Ever since he thought I was taking off on my husband, he hasn’t looked at me the same.
“Lots of sleeping, doctor.”
“Good, good. And you?” That look again, like he’s weighing my every word.
“I’m okay, thank you.”
“I mean,” he narrows his eyes and lowers his voice, “do you have permission to be in this country? Just because you are a spouse does not automatically give you the right to be in France.”
Whoa, left turn at what-the-what land. “I, yes, do.” That wasn’t English nor French. “I mean, I have a visa.”
“Perhaps in America you do things differently, but in France, spouses have both legal and moral responsibilities.”
“Understood.Je comprends.”
“Fine.” He doesn’t mean it. “I will release Monsieur Lemaire but you will have to stay with him.”
“Uh, forever?” I feel like if we were actually married that this doctor is dangerously close to meddling in our relationship.
“I am not interested in your forever business, though in this country we do say ‘until the end of our days.’”
“We say that, too,” I whisper in defense of America, though I am doing my country no favors today.
