Page 47 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Who is Laura?”
Laura’s eyes widen at the sound of her name. I don’t reply.
“Marc,” Alain continues but he stops himself. We stand silent on the phone, Laura still watching me with deer eyes. “Marc, I’m worried about you. It came out as shouts and reprimands, but I don’t know what else to say. Who is this woman? How badly did you hit your head? Do you need me to—”
“I’m going to lie down, Alain. I’m still so exhausted from the accident. Thank you for the update.” I hang up before he has a chance to say anything more.
And I’ve lost my appetite. A small smile is all I can offer Laura as I slip past, suddenly feeling truly exhausted. I know she’s watching me go back in the bedroom. I close the door on her worried face across the apartment.
This is the beginning of the end of the charade. I know that now. But just a little longer. I have to ease us back into real life.
My head is killing me.
CHAPTER19
Laura
Things I’ve learnedabout Marc Lemaire since accidentally becoming his wife in order to fool the police:
Number one. The man can cook. I don’t know why I had a doubt, given that the French love their cuisine. But a man who cancook like that? Wow. I didn’t realize just how sexy a man in jammies and an apron bent over a frying pan could be. I’m melting over my omelet.
And he does it with a smile, as if this morning was the best morning of his life.
If only it weren’t for that concussion-amnesia-imaginary marriage thing.
Number two. He loves that cat like football fans love a tailgate party. His devotion to her is awe-inspiring. He’s gentle, responds to her every whim, and kisses noses with her every morning. He is most definitely her papa, though I’ve become her new best friend, turning every loose thread into a toy.
Number three. He has a way more complicated backstory than I knew. I only “accidently” overhear snippets of his conversations with his brother, but none of them are particularly positive in tone. Every time Marc hangs up, he has a cloud over his head. I’ve figured out that his parents have both passed away, and there’s just this one brother, Alain, who gives Marc a run for his money.
All families have their complications, but this weighs heavily on Marc. I’m torn between wanting to ask about it and giving him his space. It’s where this not-actually-wife thing gets challenging. If I truly were his wife, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask. But then if he told me details that I don’t have a right to, I’d feel awful. Taking advantage of a man with a brain injury is most definitely not my brand.
The morning passes in relative peacefulness. I even manage to pull out my laptop, but don’t find any news about the Dutch, and I think Marc just might be coming out of this concussion business at last.
And I have just enough of a window to rush off to the Bouchon Noir. I’m sure Natalie won’t mind a midday visit.
I’m not gonna lie—I love the Bouchon Noir. There are always rich and powerful and famous of all sorts nibbling away at the high-class Michelin dishes like paying fifty bucks for an appetizer is normal. The people-watching is to die for.
Especially when that people-watching is of Natalie and her super-beau, Olivier. When I think of all those two went through to finally be together—eccentric grandmother, a massive near-miss that could have shut down the Bouchon Noir, an event to remember on top of the Eiffel Tower—just wow.
The high-class joint is crowded for a lunch service, but then again, what do I know about a mid-week lunch service? I usually eat at my desk, a monster faux-pas in the country of fine cuisine. But I’ve got my priorities set. If only I could catch sight of Natalie…
Ah, there she is, stealing a quick kiss from Olivier in the kitchen. Figures, those two are ridiculously cute together..
Natalie catches sight of me, jumps, and waves with Olivier in tow. He’s dressed to the nines, because that’s how he dresses every day. Did I mention he’s the owner of the Bouchon Noir?
“Hey, girl!” Natalie throws her arms around my neck like it’s been six years and not six days since I last saw her at the hospital.
“How are the lovebirds?” I ask, intentionally trying to be cheeky because it makes Olivier blush.
But Olivier raises an eyebrow and leans forward. “I should be asking you that question.” Touché. “Got you!” Olivier laughs and claps his hands together.
Seems I’m the one blushing today.
“Don’t be insensitive, Ollie.” Natalie stings him with one of her protective mama looks. “Laura is going through a very difficult time having to wait on her ultra-handsome archnemesis.”
“Et tu,Brutus?” I grab at my chest for dramatic effect.
“Mademoiselle?” a guest interrupts us and raises her pinky finger.
