Page 55 of Enemies to French Kisses
This guy had you on his mind long before that moment.
Those moments of recognition in his eyes—is it possible he’s playing me? He seems so earnest, and Lord knows there’s very, very little chance he actually had romantic feelings, of all things, with the way he’s treated me ever since we met.
But…
“Marc, youdoknow that this isn’t… isn’t…” Dr. Rousse’s voice echoes in my head. I can hear him calling me a flat out bad wife. “You know how things really are between us, right?”
He blinks and cocks his head, but he doesn’t reply.
Until he does.
“You mean our marriage?” He smiles, but it’s not a confident one. “I didn’t miss an anniversary, did I?”
That answers that. We remain in this alternate reality, at least for a little longer.
And the thought of that is bothering me less than it used to.
Marc squeezes my arm. “I’d better get dressed. There’s a chill in the air,non?”
He kisses my cheek and heads back into the bedroom, but I don’t feel any chill. If anything, it just got way too hot in here.
* * *
This dress hugsevery bit of me more than I care to admit, and the slit that reaches my thigh seems almost inappropriate for polite company. But considering the price tag that comes with the dress, I’m guessing this slit is one-hundred percenten vogue. I hardly feel equipped to critique a dress that has been designed by Raza Amiel, one of France’s up and comingcouturiers.
On top of that, Ms. Amiel is going to be at tonight’s event. Marc let it slip that I’ll probably have my photo taken several times in the dress, and there’s a chance I might end up in the society pages.
I didn’t know society pages were a real thing. I thought it was made up by Hollywood for those rags to riches stories that always do well at the box office. But no. In France, when you wear a designer’schef d’œuvre, your image becomes public property. A part of me gets a thrill at the thought—Lil’ old Laura Anne Dowling in the French press, imagine!—but when I see myself in the mirror, every ounce of insecurity comes rushing in.
The way the dress leaves little to the imagination—every curve and extra bulge where I wish it weren’t—every breath I take posing the danger of a wardrobe malfunction.
What would the girls say if they saw me in this dress?
Scratch that. I know exactly what the girls would say. Annelise would whistle low and make a compliment disguised in sarcasm. Gina and Chrissy would gush while Jessica nodded in approval, and Natalie would have a list of superlatives that would send me blushing.
Did Marc know what he was putting me into when he laid out the dress in its velvet zip cover? He knows the designer, so there’s a good chance he’s seen the design. But when it’s actually on my body… what will he think then?
Wait, why do I care what he thinks? Remember, Laura, he’s yourcolleague, this is a temporary situation as he heals from an accident, and there’s nothing more to it than that.
Except that there is.
Who am I fooling? I’ve seen it coming on, like a hurricane whose trajectory is clear, even though we might want to pretend it’s not coming our way. Sage always gets hit, every single time. We see it coming and we try to pray it away, and then—boom.
This isn’t so different. Ever since I saw his eyes widen in adoration as he called me wife, I haven’t been able to change the path of the hurricane.
It’s coming straight for me.
“Everything okay?” Marc knocks gently on the door.
“Fine.” I twist and turn in the mirror one more time, my nerves on edge but I can’t hide from him forever. “Come in.”
I can’t meet his eyes, since I don’t want to find neither good nor bad news written on them, so I continue to inspect myself in the mirror. I twist left and right as he steps behind me. His tuxedoed reflection in the full-length mirror sends my heart racing.
His eyes are wide and his lips part. He raises his hands but then appears not to know what to do with them. They hover over my shoulders, the warmth of his skin washing off him, but he doesn’t touch me. The hairs on my arms all rise, as if they are communicating directly with him, completely subverting any authority I have over my own goosebumps.
He drinks in our reflection, his eyes finally meeting mine in the mirror.
“You look…” He stops, mouth open, shaking his head.
