Page 6 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Laura attending a Bal Trad?” Marc sneers.
I pull my phone into my chest. “You mind your business. Come on, Vincent, show us the goods.”
I have to get through this first day on the project, but then I’ll be taking in the sights of Paris from above the skyline as accordion music fills the air. We might be attached at the hip for the coming days and weeks, but for now I’m getting out of dodge and MarcLemonstreexists.
CHAPTER3
Laura
I don’t knowhow I made it through today. The emotional roller coaster of being told that you’ve landed the opportunity of a lifetime, a career-making project, just to learn that your archnemesis is on the team with you.
It could have been anyone. Emilien from the Swiss team, Paulo from the Spanish portfolio. But no. I get Marc. Is it because he always sits beside me at meetings? Did he manipulate Guillaume into forcing us together so that he can poke fun, criticize, and torment me all day long?
I worked so hard to get to this point. Student loans and years filled with nothing more than textbooks and case studies. My career is only just beginning to blossom, and now I have to not only overcome the challenge of Dutch regulators—which I’ve learned is no small feat—but I have to do it with the man who makes me feel two inches tall.
My antique red Vespa—who I’ve affectionately named Valerie, feels like a getaway car, leaving all that madness behind. Zooming through traffic does wonders for clearing the mind. If only I could drive it up the one hundred and thirty-seven steps leading to our apartment. The penthouse, as we affectionately call it, is more like an afterthought of a box someone stuck on top of a building with dicey wiring and makeshift plumbing, barely the size of an extra-large mug of coffee back home.
But it’s what we could collectively afford.
“Laura’s back!” The voice echoes down the hall as I open the door.
“Anyone in the kitchen?” I call, stepping inside but holding the door at a careful ninety degree angle.
“No, you’re good.”
If I open the door all the way, I risk squishing someone in the kitchen corner. It’s only hazardous if someone is wielding a knife, which happens a lot more than you’d think. We learned that the hard way, a couple of punctures and one set of stitches later.
The tiny apartment is abuzz with activity. I barely have a chance to put my bag down before Jessica rushes past.
“I'm next in the shower!” she calls.
“No way!” Chrissy shouts. “I called dibs.”
“Who took my raincoat?” Natalie stands in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. “I am constantly looking for this raincoat. Gina?”
“Wasn't me.” She pops her head over the top bunk. “I haven't worn it since you blew a fuse after the metro incident.”
I close the door behind me, a knee length beige bundle of fabric staring me in the face. “Found your raincoat,” I call and toss it at Natalie.
She dances to get out from underneath the coat. “I sure didn't put it there,” she says.
“Exactly,” I reply. “You are constantly leaving that coat lying all over the place. That's why I hang it up on the hook where all the coats go.”
“That's why I hang it on the hook where all the coats go,” Natalie repeats back at me and sticks out her tongue. That's the thing about being friends forever. Behavior from kindergarten can pop up at any moment and is completely socially acceptable.
“Careful, or your face will freeze that way.” I squeeze past her and slide my messenger bag under bottom bunk bed, right where I always put it, next to my suitcase containing all my worldly possessions. I also have about four inches in the much-coveted closet space for my blazers. No one dared to argue with me on that. I love these girls, but our career paths look very different. So far, I'm the only one who needs to go to work business semi-formal attire.
“Jess?” I ask but she already knows why.
She nods from the stool by the window. “You can sit on my bed, girl.”
I flop onto the clic-clac, the springs threatening to give out underneath me. The clic-clac is a popular sofa bed in France, so called because of the literal sound it makes when you fold down the futon. ‘Click’ to lift, ‘clac’ to set it in place, and it’s as comfortable as sleeping across four seats at the Sage High football field. Yes, I know this for a fact and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
These landlords. It's hard enough to get them to fix the plumbing in the one bathroom for six girls. I'd better not break Jessica’s bed.
“Uh oh,” Gina says popping up again from her upper bunk. “I heard that.”
“I know,” I reply, “I’ll be more careful.”
