Page 50 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Itoldyou, there is no exactly anything.” I hear his breathing over the phone as if he’s reconsidering his approach. When he speaks again, his tone is calmer. “What signs do you have that he might be improving?”
“Something in his eyes. Like he’s remembering.” It sounds silly coming out of my mouth now, but I don’t know how else to describe it. “And he’s sleeping less.”
“This is a good sign. You need to remain close to him, as he will likely experience confusion over the—um—incident.”
“Stay close, got it.”
“Ease the transition. Don’t force him to face memories his brain might not yet be able to handle.”
“Easing the transition, right.”
“The most important thing is what I already said—he may have a hard time facing what happened. Do what you can to reduce your American edge so that he can come around on his own time.”
American edge. Mmm-hmmm. I am not going to take this on right now, and the good doctor is probably not wrong given what he’s seen of me.
“Understood, doctor.”
“Excellent. I suspect you’ll see a great improvement by Monday.”
“I’ll let you know if things go sideways.”
“I’ll be on vacation in Biarritz for a few days, so you’ll have to call thequinze.”
And with that, I hear the phone slam down. I didn’t know there were still phones like that in the world. But good to know the doctor’s going on vacation. And I’ve very recently learned that calling thequinze, fifteen, is the French equivalent of nine-one-one. Or something like that. Apparently there’s also thedix-sept, thedix-huit, and thecent-douze, if I can just remember what each of them do—
My phone rings in my hand, a number I don’t recognize.
“Laura, it’s Monsieur Tremblay. Nicolas.” He sounds as formal as ever, and I suddenly remember when the principal called me into the office because I’d pulled Stephanie Warwick’s ponytail. He called my mom, and it was one of the most anxiety-inducing experiences of my childhood. And definitely not a good way to think about the voice of the man I could potentially date. “I happen to have a window free tomorrow evening,” he continues as if setting up a dental appointment, “an event at the Italian embassy. I hope that whatever chaos in which you were involved has now passed and you can attend with me.”
Tomorrow. The engagement party where I will wear a zillion dollar dress and be surrounded by people who may or may not think I’m Marc’s wife. Could I ditch it in order to date another man?
The good doctor doesn’t have to be here for me to feel his judging glare. I don’t have a choice.
“I’m sorry, I have another engagement.”
“I see. It seems you are not as available as your friend implied.” I don’t reply, because what on earth does a girl say tothat? “Perhaps I would reconsider if your situation changes, but it seems that for now we would be best to forget this arrangement ever occurred.”
“O—” the line goes dead, “—kay.” So much for access to another level of French society, but that man is more grump than dating material, if his attitude is any sign. I don’t know what Chrissy was thinking, but her heart was in the right place. How does she work for that man? Unless he’s drop-dead gorgeous, but even then…
“Dinner is ready in thirty.” Marc is dressed, spiffy and handsome. Forget old what’s-his-name-grump, I’ve got the real deal right here.
Andthat’sjust the sort of thinking that’s going to get me into big trouble. Shake it off, girl.
“I’ll shower quickly then.”
I turn the water up hot, anything to help me think straight. Steam fills the room, my eyes, and my nose, which feels oh-so good after months in our shoebox shower with its single stream of water that’s barely sufficient for washing one leg at a time.
“Laura?”
“OH GOD.” I smush my body into the corner of the shower.
His voice fills the room but the door is barely open a crack. “Will you have red tonight? If so, I’ll let it breathe.”
“Yes! Red! Lots of it, please!”
The door clicks shut. My heart is beating so loud it drowns out the rainforest showerhead.
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