Page 44 of Enemies to French Kisses
He says something to her in French that I understand to mean something like ‘get a life’ and ‘mind your own business,’ and ‘isn’t there something more meaningful you could do with your time.’ At least, that’s my best French interpretation of it, since he’s both talking low and talking fast.
This issoawkward. I wait her out, but whoever she is, she doesn’t hesitate to touch Marc’s cheek, and chest, and abs—come on, lady!—before marching to the door with her laser-killer eyes targeted on me.
She slams the door behind her.
Marc scratches the back of his head. “That’s Charlotte.”
“She’s a delight.”
“She’s a nightmare, but we have history.”
He struts toward me and my heart is beating out of my chest. Does he remember last night’s kiss? Does he remember who I am, for real? Is he still confused?
He stops as he reaches me, kisses me on the cheek, and carries on to the kitchen. It is the most ambiguous form of tender affection I have ever experienced in my life.
“I am so very thirsty. Did they say that a concussion can make you dehydrated?”
The way he’s talking, I could be a friend, a colleague, or a lover.
“Not specifically, but I’m guessing hydration is always good.”
I follow him into the kitchen, or “the Great Granite Room” as I’ve come to call it. “Marc, can we talk for a minute?”
He points at a calendar hanging on the side of the spotless steel fridge. “Yes, we must talk.”
I sit down on a stool at the end of the granite island. “Exactly. So here’s the thing. Uh, would you mind joining me over here to talk about this?” I tap the stool beside me. This kitchen risks crossing international borders.
“Saturday.” He pokes at the calendar again. “Are you wearing one of your current dresses or will you purchase something new? I think Raza Amiel might have one of her designs ready by then, she mentioned it at a mixer a while ago. I got to see a sketch and I think it would look divine on you.”
This discussion is not going as planned. “I was hoping to talk about other things.”
“Other things more important than Gabriel and Amelie’s engagement party? You know there’s nothing more important than that.”
“I beg to differ.”
He struts, running his fingertips along the granite island where he reaches me. I am face-to-rock-solid-abs. He reaches down and lifts my chin to look at him, which I both appreciate and regret.
“You know you are as good as any of those high-society classists. Better than. You could make great contacts for the future, and they will love your American swagger.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, but that’s not what I meant.”
He walks past me, the opportunity to talk swiftly slipping through my fingers, though it seems I have the answer already. If he expects me to be his date at an engagement party, it’s because for him, we’re an item.
“My head is getting heavy again. Did they say anything about pain killers? I’ll drink the water and try to sleep it off.”
As he reaches his bedroom door, his phone rings.
“Allo?—Alain, pas possible. J’étais dans un accident, je ne me sens pas bien.”He looks over at me. “Please, Laura is here.”
Even from the kitchen I hear the male voice shouting,“MAIS QUI EST LAURA?”
“À toute.” Marc hangs up the phone and winks at me.
Who is Laura, the man wanted to know. That is the question of the freaking year.
CHAPTER18
Marc
