Page 87 of Enemies to French Kisses
“I don’t know how you two pulled it off,” Vincent shakes his head, “It’s a miracle you are both walking out of this room alive.”
He gathers up the summaries, minutes, budgets, and modeling that was clearly unnecessary for today, and struts out, leaving me and Marc alone.
“I…” Marc begins, but stops.
“You…?” I try to help, but I suddenly know exactly how he is feeling. A tingle comes over me, head to toe, and this breathing business is difficult again.
His breath quickens too, that muscular chest rising and falling, and like the moment when two magnets are suddenly facing the way they should, our lips instantly find each other.
The relief and stress and fear and frustration all comes out in this one moment, his arms around me, mine tucked underneath his suit jacket.
And then the door flies open.
“You have GOT to be kidding me.”
Like a couple of high school kids, Marc and I snap to look at Vincent, but don’t let go of our embrace. Like maybe if we stand still enough, he won’t see us, and will just back away.
“Months!” he shouts. “Months you have been at each other’s throats. And nowthis? No, no, no, no, no. I am taking my laptop and getting out of here.” He points at us as he leaves. “And I’m taking the rest of the day off! Consider doing the same, as you have both clearly lost your minds.”
The second the door closes, Marc and I look at each other… and burst into laughter.
“Did you see his face?” Marc howls.
“Like two aliens just appeared in front of him.”
Marc sighs. “It’s going to take a while for him to forgive us.”
“Marc,” he meets my eyes, “stop talking about Vincent and kiss me.”
I’ll give him one thing, Marc sure knows how to take instruction well.
All those questions bubble up about what to do about falling for a colleague after months of teasing, plus a full week of living a lie, but I file them away for later. They will have their time in the light.
Right now the only thing I want is this kiss.
CHAPTER35
Marc
The Dutch projectis in the bag, the paperwork signed and submitted, and tomorrow is a day off. Laura’s smile is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen as the waiter pours champagne. Our glasses clink, the bubbles rushing to the surface and bursting like the taste of success.
Only my pulse is racing and I feel like I am farther from success than I’ve ever been in my life.
Laura and I are on our first “date.”
This concept of dating is not French in the slightest. Here, when you meet someone you like, you attend events together, you enjoy some dinners, you join like-minded individuals, but you don’t go on a “date”—and this night shows exactly why.
How do American men deal with this pressure? While I know she has feelings for me—as evidenced this morning by the kiss that would have stopped traffic—I’m now sitting across the table from her and entirely unsure about what to say or not say. I know there’s a formula, rules to follow, and while I’ve spent years dismissing the ridiculous ritualization of feelings, I’m now stuck right in the middle of it.
And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
“The lamb looks lovely,” I point at the menu as if she can’t see it herself.
“Where is it?” She glances across the restaurant.
“Right here,” I point again like an idiot. “On the menu. It looks good in a figurative sense.”
A figurative sense?
