Page 9 of Enemies to French Kisses
“I had a feeling,” Gina whispers to Chrissy who nods.
“You rememberthat guy…” I know they know.
Natalie bites her lip. “Not MarcLemonstreagain?”
“The one who treats you like you’re not worth the gum on the bottom of his shoe?”
“The one who’s rotten like last year’s eggs but handsome like a two-year-old rooster?” We all turn to stare at Chrissy. “What? It’s true.”
“Yeah,” I clench my fists in spite of myself, “that one. Seems he has also been assigned to the Dutch domain.”
The collective gasp of the girls makes me laugh out loud.
“That conniving scoundrel!”
“How couldGuimauvedo that to you?” Annelise shakes her head.
“Does Marc smell as good as he looks?” Chrissy bats her eyelashes. “What? Stop glaring at me. Laura could use a little romance in her life.”
“Ew, stop right there. It’s going to be fine.” I say it for my own benefit. “He saved me from a nasty currency conversion botch today. Though that’s a far cry from being able to work together on the job opportunity of the century.”
“You know we’ve got your back.” Natalie squeezes my arm. “You can send me texts with curse words all day long if you want to let out some steam. Because I know you, and I know you aren’t going to let him run you off this project. You’re going to up your game to the next level and show him who’s bossing it.”
I love having my bestie here.
Gina loops her arm through mine. “But really, MarcLemonstre? He’s so horrible. How will you possibly work together?”
“I don’t know.” I breathe in the air of falling night as the Eiffel Tower lights up in the distance. “I only hope we both come out of this alive.”
CHAPTER4
Marc
How provincial,abal trad.
The clink of my keys in the ceramic dish echoes throughout my apartment, while visions of thebal tradfill my head. I used to wonder what the attraction was to them. People running about, dancing to music from a time gone by while children and old folks socialize. It was everything my father hated about countryside life.
And yet, it was wonderful.
I’ve come home feeling lighter than when I left. Whether the credit belongs to thebal trador to the sight of Laura standing with her eyes closed in front of the greatest view of Paris, I’ll never know. Why stand with eyes closed when a view like that is before you? She is at once a mystery and a revelation.
The memory of Sacre Coeur makes me forget I’m back in my own apartment. The couples who danced in their traditional costumes, twirling and spinning around in front of the city’s overseeing church on the hill. The vibrant colors of their costumes, the sparkle of their jewelry, the streaks of streetlight reflecting in their eyes as they laughed and embraced friends and family.
Even my own two left feet tapped to the beat of the music, and without thinking, I clapped and cheered when the dancers took their turns, the joyous sounds of laughter filling the air. The cheerful tunes of fiddles, accordions, and drums blended to create a wild, vibrant atmosphere. Feet stamping in rhythm, the jingling of bells from the dancers’ outfits, the end of a sun-filled day drifting into night.
Glittering dresses flowing in the wind, people spinning and twirling in synchronized patterns, bright red ribbons streaming from hands and hats, lining up to spin and leap across the cobblestones. Cheeks flushed with joy and happiness as everyone was swept away in the music and movement.
Ouch, this moustache is stickier than I expected.
A meow squeaks below me as Delia jumps and swats at the moustache dangling between my fingers.
“Non, non,ma chérie,” I tuck the moustache in a kitchen drawer. “I might need that again one day. Here’s your toy.”
The softness of velour envelops me as I drop into my grandmother’s sofa set. Father scoffed when I asked for it after she passed, but he never spent enough time in it. He always sent a car for Grandmother and insisted she visit at my parents’ apartments in the district of St. Michel. As if her bourgeois residence wasn’t good enough for him.
But Father didn’t get to be a billionaire by having bourgeois tastes. Only the best, forget the rest. And never a sliver of patience for anything that could be called “common.”
Including emotions.
