‘It did cross my mind.’
I’d almost forgotten Noah is still here when he says, ‘How could you not lift such a light shelf?’ Suspicion flits across his features.
Light shelf?Is this some kind of macho man thing? He wants to be fawned over for his big, strong, wild-man muscles? ‘The shelf is so heavy I couldn’t even get it to budge! I don’t think you need to highlight the fact my upper body strength is somewhat lacking to feel better about yourself, Noah.’ The ego on the man is astounding!
Manon shrugs. ‘Anais might have very strong phalanxes from all that typing but that’s where it ends.’ I go to argue, but she’s probably right. If I didn’t force myself to walk the streets of Paris for sustenance or at least a baguette to go with a home-cooked meal, I dread to think what shape I’d be in.
I survey the books that lay scattered on the carpet and suddenly the jig is up. ‘You climbed the bookshelf like a tree to get to the hardbacks on the top shelf in case they were first editions you could smuggle out and sell, Manon?’
My devious cousin has the grace to blush. ‘I would have gone halves with you.’
‘Please, do keep nattering,’ Margaret says. ‘It’s not like I have other authors who need my attention.’
Oh god, my life has devolved into a comedy of errors! ‘Sorry, Margaret.’ I pick up the phone and take off the speaker function. ‘I’ll get Manon settled and call you back.’
‘No, you’ll make another excuse to avoid me. Get that man to watch Manon while you and I have aserioustalk.’ There’s no avoiding it, I guess. The brief reprieve is over.
‘Fine.’ I turn to Noah. ‘Would you be able to keep an eye on Manon while I talk to my literary agent who doesn’t take medical emergencies into account?’
‘I can hear you!’
‘Sure.’ He folds his arms. ‘Your literary agent, eh?’
‘Oui, I’m a novelist.’
He raises a brow as if impressed. ‘What do you write?’
‘Romantic comedies.’
His face falls. Typical. He’s probably one of those men who get off denigrating romance novels as trashy when they’re anything but. ‘Oh, uh, I see,’ he eventually manages.
‘Not literary enough for you, Noah?’ He wears his judgement like a cloak, apparently. Not a surprise, but still.
‘Still waiting!’ Margaret says just as I’m about to educate the ignorance out of him. Romance is the highest-earning genre of fiction for a reason and it riles me up when people (men typically) frown upon it, as if it isn’t literary enough because the books end in a happy ever after or a happy for now, so get labelled as predictable. Formulaic. It makes my blood boil. Trust Noah to fall into that category, with his love of the literary authors from the Roaring Twenties. He’s got that hot-guy scowl perfected too, as judgement lines his masculine features. Men – who needs them! I’ll stick to my misunderstood fictional heroes,merci beaucoup!
‘I’d better take this,’ I say and turn to Manon. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ Manon wears the expression of a petulant child.
‘Let me put out this fire before I return to yours.Please.’
Manon rolls her eyes dramatically before wincing. ‘Fine.’
I turn to Noah and grudgingly thank him for his help. ‘Sure, sure. I’ve got nothing better to do.’
Sarcasm? I don’t tell him that’s the lowest form of wit; instead, I express my contempt with a cool gaze, just like one of my heroines would do, and hope it cuts him to the quick.
I return to my suite when there’s a commotion down the phone line.
‘Ah, damn it all to hell,’ Margaret says. ‘I’ve got another client here. Some two-bit celebrity who has written yet another cosy mystery. I’ll have to go and dance attendance on him, which irksme no end. I’ll call you back, probably not until tomorrow since I’ll have to be the one who wines and dines him.’
We say our goodbyes and I return to the library room to check on Manon and find that Noah is nowhere to be found. So much for keeping an eye on my poor cousin, who could very well be concussed. It says a lot about the guy, just vanishing like that. Comes to our rescue, tells us how strong he is, and then leaves with no care or concern for Manon’s possible collapsed lung, or worse.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, finding her leaning against the wall, reading a book.
‘I’ll need a few days to recuperate,’ she says, twisting her features. She’s clearly in pain. What if she’s broken some ribs? Or is bleeding internally? Is it possible that she will really fall asleep and never wake up? Maybe her earlier stoic reaction was for Noah’s benefit.
‘Manon, maybe we should get you looked at?’
