“Did you want to?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course not.” Laurent’s stare continued, steady and unblinking, with an obvious question in his eyes. “What? If you have something to say, just say it.”
“Have you kissed a man before?”
“No.” The slight narrowing of Laurent’s eyes said he didn’t believe me. “Oh wait, there was that one guy.” I snapped my fingers. “What was his name? French. Wore a suit. Told me he knew a lot of important people.” I left a deliberate pause before delivering the sting in the tail. “Name sounded something like Macaroon.”
Laurent let out a sigh that said I was a monumental pain in the arse. Its layered meaning made me grin. “I presume you mean Emmanuel Macron?”
“That’s it! Nice man.”
“You did not kiss the president of France.”
I winked at him. “I could if I wanted to.”
“His wife might have something to say about it.”
“She can get in line.”
Laurent shook his head. “Is that your thing, is it? Politicians?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. I have a little book where I give them marks out of ten for various attributes.”
“Such as?”
Laurent was smiling now. We both knew I was talking absolute bullshit, so it was more a test of how quickly I could think on my feet. I’d achieved my aim, though, of diverting him from discussing the kiss. Because the problem was I had enjoyed it, and I needed to wrap my head around that fact and work out what it meant before indulging in public discussion, even if it was with the other participant in said kiss, who had every right in the world to ask.
“Style,” I said. “Macron comes out top in that one, but…”
“Macron… Macron… Macron,” Laurent teased. “I’m beginning to see why you came to Paris. Nothing to do with getting your hands on the key to your brother’s flat, and everything to do with this strange crush you apparently have on our president.”
I pressed on. “Second in the style stakes is Pedro Sanchez, the president of Spain, closely followed by the Belgian prime minister.”
“U-huh,” Laurent said. “That’s one category.”
“Ability to give a great speech.” I ticked it off on my finger, my brain working at a million miles an hour to come up with more possibilities. “Richest.”
“Who comes out top in that category?”
“He who shall not be named.” At Laurent’s blank look, I elaborated. “Begins with a P. Ends with an N. Wants to expand his borders by any means necessary.”
Laurent nodded. “Got it.”
“Most popular. Which, before you ask, is the Indian prime minister, Narendra Modri.”
“Based on?” Laurent asked.
“The latest approval ratings.”
“And second, is?”
“Javier Milei. President of Argentina.”
Laurent snorted. “How do you know this stuff?”
“I read.”
“Right.” Rising from his chair, he pointed at my almost empty beer bottle. “Another?”
