Page 85 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Hey!”
“GOODGOLLY MOTHER OF AN ARMADILLO.” I grab at my throat for no apparent reason.
“Whoa,” Marc takes a step back, “I just wanted to say good morning.”
“And you couldn’t walk a little louder?”
He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and just smiles.
“Sorry,” I drop the coffee capsule into the machine because clearly three espressos is nowhere near enough to prepare me for what is about to come. “I’m a little distracted.” I hit the start button and turn to face him, my heartbeat running like a locomotive and this time not because of the Dutch.
He takes in a breath and I am desperate to hear what he comes up with that will be more suave than ‘I’m distracted,’ but instead he points. “I think you forgot something.”
The stream of coffee pours straight into the plastic collector below.
“A cup would help, huh?” I grab a mini-mug and shove it under the spout just as the coffee stops dripping. “Figures. As long as this isn’t a sign of what’s to come today.”
“What, a wasted espresso?” He steps close behind me, his chest brushing my shoulders and I take in a sharp breath in spite of myself. “You’re going to be great, Laura. You’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks, arguably even months. Maybe years. They are going to see how much you care.”
“They need to see how we can pull it off, and that I’m the woman who can make it happen. ‘Care’ doesn’t go far in business.”
He chuckles and brushes a lock of hair from my face. “You aren’t in America anymore. ‘Care’ can go a long way when you have the competence to back it up. And you do.”
This is the absolutely sweetest and sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me and if it weren’t for the fact that we’re in the office kitchen, there’s a chance I just might have thrown myself into his arms right here, right now.
Vincent runs into the kitchen and overpours a glass of water. “C’est l’heure. Let’s go.”
“Showtime.” Marc winks and holds the door open for me.
But the conference room is still empty.
“I thought you said it was showtime,” I give Vincent the stink eye. “We’re the only ones here. You trying to give me a heart attack?”
“La France qui ce lève tôt,” he says. “Nicolas Sarkozy. We must have everything in place before they arrive.” Now it’s Vincent who gives me the stink eye. “You have become too French, leaving things to the last minute.”
“Ooh la la,” Marc interrupts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Vincent points a finger in Marc’s face, so close to his nose that Marc recoils.
“Ne me fais pas revenir sur l’histoire des Danois.”
“Point taken,” Marc replies and Vincent carries on prepping the screen and laying out the printed summaries of yesterday’s minutes.
I lean in to Marc’s ear. “What happened with the Danish?”
“Let’s just say a mortal mishap with the hotel I chose. Something about hygge.”
“Strange that they would be that concerned about hygge at a professional meeting.”
Marc’s grin is sheepish. “It was a project combining biotechnologies and hygge.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
Within minutes, Guillaume struts in with the Dutch reps, deep in conversation about medieval ships, of all things, while Vincent, Marc and I take our place at the head of the table.
“The central mast is what made the difference in the great storm of 1783,” Neils Hanbeeker leans toward Guillaume. I can tell we aren’t going anywhere with this discussion until Guillaume gives in to the argument.
