Faking It (17 page)

Holy shit. I mentally slap a hand over my mouth. I just lied again. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Maybe Fanny is right. Maybe I do have a pathological need to paint myself as the perpetual virgin.

“Easy, Vivia,” Luc says, holding up his hands. “I am not judging
you
. I think your Edwards sounds like a
connard
.”

I don’t know what
connard
means, but it doesn’t sound nice. My protective instincts kick in. “You shouldn’t insult someone you don’t know.”

Luc whistles, eyes wide.

“What?” I snap.

“Your fiancé rides off at the first bump in the road, and you defend him. I’m impressed with your loyalty, woefully misguided as it is.” Luc leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you ask me—”

“Which I haven’t!”

“—this Edwards is an uptight ass. You’re lucky to be rid of him. Riding solo is better than riding with a
connard
.”

“I don’t know what a
connard
is.”

“Ass.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t be upset if you found out your fiancé wasn’t a virgin, after she said she was?”

Why am I defending Nathan to Luc? This has veered from the ridiculous to the insane.

Luc pierces me with an intense stare. “One lover. One hundred lovers. It doesn’t matter. You Americans are too preoccupied with chastity and monogamy.”

“So monogamy isn’t important to you? Nice to know.”

Is it my imagination or did Luc just wince?

“I am not saying monogamy doesn’t matter.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Luc inhales deeply and his muscular chest expands. “Chastity is a lovely thing, Vivia, but if I found out you weren’t as innocent as you said you were, I would be more concerned with
why
you felt it necessary to lie to me. I would worry that you didn’t feel you could be genuine with me. Honesty is far more important to me than some antiquated ideal of chastity.”

Luc doesn’t know it, but his words impact me like daggers thrown at my conscience. Bull’s-eye! He’s neatly, swiftly gotten to the heart of the matter. I wasn’t my authentic self with Nathan, and I am not being my authentic self with Luc.

“Luc?”

He nods, still holding my gaze.

I draw a shaky breath and then let the words come out in a guilty rush. “I lied to you before. When I said I’ve only been with two men. That’s not true. I’ve been with a lot of men.”

Luc raises an eyebrow.

“Well, maybe not
a lot
. Just more than two. I’m not a nymphomaniac. I just like sex. I
really
like sex, but my mum named me after some saint and raised me with all of these dire warnings about sex. So I have learned to feel guilty and lie about it. I’m not blaming my mum.” I shrug. The babble train is steaming wildly and I can’t find the brakes. “It’s not her fault I keep making myself out to be perpetually virginal. I just want to be honest with you…with myself.”

Luc sits quietly. When I finally run out of steam he leans forward and kisses me. It’s not like our farmhouse kiss. This kiss is not urgent or salacious. It’s soft, tender, reassuring. He’s letting me know with his lips, not his words, he accepts me as I am.

He Googled Me All Night Long

I want Luc to keep kissing me, never stop kissing me, but he pulls away at the sound of the gate opening. I quickly wipe my lips and arrange myself on the lounger, scooting away from Luc a little.

Chantal and Fanny stroll over to us. It’s clear from their expressions my feigned nonchalance isn’t fooling them. Fanny’s wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. Chantal’s eyebrows knit together, and she stares pointedly at Luc.

“
Bonjour
, Vivia,” Chantal says, smiling at me. She returns her sharp gaze to Luc. “Luc.”

I sense a weird tension between them. Chantal looks like she wants to wring Luc’s neck, but Luc is cool, impassive, smiling easily. I assume Chantal is upset with her employee for fraternizing with the customers, but my gut tells me it’s something more.

“Vivia and I were just getting to know each other better,” Luc says, directly meeting Chantal’s gaze. “Why don’t you join us?”

“We have to leave for Cannes soon,” Chantal snaps.

Luc looks at the sleek black Rolex on his wrist. “We have plenty of time. Sit down, Chantal.”

Hold on! How can a bike guide afford a Rolex? I think of my Cartier tank watch, a gift from Nathan. Does Luc have a rich lover. Maybe someone like Chantal. Chantal and Luc? I look at the pair, locked in some kind of silent battle, and my heart aches. They’re lovers. I know it.

Fanny stretches out on the lounger beside me and closes her eyes. Chantal pulls a chair over. She’s slipped her sunglasses on, but I can tell she’s staring at Luc.

“Vivia was about to tell me about her job.”

I was? Oh yeah.

“Like I said,” I bluff, “I lost my job when Nathan broke off our engagement. I’m unemployed.”

“That’s bad timing.”

“Not really,” I say, avoiding Chantal’s gaze. “Nathan’s family owned the magazine I wrote for. No engagement, no job.”

“
Connard
,” Luc mumbles.

Chantal sits up. “You’re a writer?”

“Vivia is a brilliant writer,” Fanny says, keeping her eyes closed. “You should read her articles. They were the best articles in
San Francisco Magazine
. She deserved a Pulitzer.”

“Pulitzers are awarded to journalists who write for newspapers, not magazines.”

“Whatever,” Fanny says. “You’re still brilliant.”

I grimace at Luc. “Fanny employs hyperbole when describing my journalistic capabilities.”

“I doubt that.”

Luc smiles and we sit staring at each other.

Chantal clears her throat. “What a coincidence. Did Luc tell you that he’s a—”

“An avid reader.” Luc says, interrupting Chantal. “It’s true. I love to read. I admire anyone who earns their living writing.”

Chantal’s brow knits together. She presses her lips together and sits back.

“I’m afraid I no longer fall in that category,” I say, frowning. “I’ve joined the legion of unemployed, struggling artists.”

“You’ll find a job soon,” Fanny says.

“Did you always want to be a journalist?” Luc asks.

I shake my head. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

“So why don't you?”

“Yeah, Vivia.” Fanny sits up. “Why don’t you?”

“Maybe I will.”

“What would you write about?”

Luc seems genuinely interested. It gives me the courage to voice my secret dream.

“I’ve always wanted to write a novel about Mary Shelley.”

“Really?” Luc and Fanny respond in unison.

I nod, smiling.

“I never knew that,” Fanny says, sounding more hurt than surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I shrug.

“Would it be a romance?” Luc asks.

I shake my head. “I want to write a historical novel focusing on Mary Shelley’s most tumultuous years, from the time she met Percy until his death.”

“That sounds like a romance to me.”

“Not at all. She suffered enormously. She lost children, nearly died from a miscarriage, and overcame a crippling depression. She described those years as the ‘time she stepped out of childhood and into life.’” I cross my legs and lean back. I might not know how to train for the Tour de France, but I can ride circles around most Mary Shelley aficionados. “Through it all, she wrote arguably the most famous horror story.”

“Didn’t the Shelleys believe in a non-exclusive marriage?” Luc asks.

“Yes!” I am impressed with his knowledge of literature. “How did you know that?”

Chantal chuckles. “Luc is an—”

“Avid reader of gothic literature,” Luc interrupts. He stares at Chantal for several beats before looking at me again. “It’s my favorite genre.”

“Mine too!”

We sit, beaming at each other like two love-struck teenagers who’ve suddenly realized they like the same band.

“Your novel sounds interesting, Vivia,” Luc says. “I’d read it.”

“Really?”

“
Bien sûr
! You should write it.”

“I think I will.”

“
Bon
.”

Fanny looks at Luc, using my book to shield her eyes from the sun. “What about you, Jean-Luc?”

“What about me?”

“Have you always wanted to be a bike guide?”

Luc chuckles. “No.”

“No?”

Poor Luc. He’s just stepped into the gulag and he doesn’t even know it.

“I am only a guide part of the time.”

Fanny narrows her eyes. She has this intense
“I will break you”
expression on her face. I swear I hear the thwack of a riding crop.
Give up, Luc
.

“What do you do the rest of the time?”

Luc shrugs. “Enjoy life.”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously.”

Fanny swivels on her lounger so she can face Luc. “But how do you survive?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

I consider intervening, but one look at Luc tells me there’s no need. He’s holding his own against Mademoiselle Gulag.

“Luc”—Chantal hops to her feet—“we really need to go over the itinerary. The Agriturismo in San Gimignano is having some problems with their plumbing, so we had to make some last minute changes.”

Chantal bids us farewell before stalking out of the pool, the gate slamming behind her.

Luc stands. “If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.” He grabs his towel, tosses it over his tanned shoulder, faces me, and bows slightly. “As always, it’s been a pleasure, Vivia.”

His gaze slides over my nearly naked body and his lips curve in a slow, sexy smile.

“
Au revoir
, Jean-Luc,” Fanny says, waving.

“
Au revoir
, Mademoiselle Moreau.”

The gate has barely closed behind him when I turn to look at my best friend. “What was that about?”

“I know, right? Did you see the looks Chantal was giving Jean-Luc?”

“I’m not talking about that, Fanny.”

“What then?”

“Your interrogation.”

Fanny shrugs. “Just looking out for my girl. I can’t have you falling in love with a shiftless bum.”

“Luc is not a shiftless bum.”

“I don’t know,” Fanny says, skepticism staining her voice. “He was so evasive in his answers. Why couldn’t he just say what he does when he’s not playing bike guide? It’s all a little sketchy, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” I know she means well, but Fanny’s probing and picking have irritated me. Why wouldn’t Luc answer her questions? “Besides, you’re the one who told me to live it up and love a thousand Lucs, remember?”

“Just be careful, Vivia. My intuition tells me Jean-Luc isn’t all he seems, and you’re vulnerable. I don’t want you to get hurt any more than you already have.”

Later, Fanny shows me the picture she snapped when we were at the pool. I’m stretched out on the lounger, my hand resting on my book, my engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. Luc is slightly out of focus behind me, shirtless and smiling. He looks gorgeous.

“You can’t post this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it looks like…like…”

“Like you’re having sexy time by the pool?”

“Exactly. What will Nathan say if he sees it?”

“Who cares what Nathan will say?”

“Good point,” I concede. “Still, you can’t post a picture of me in my bathing suit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You look hot…and
happy
!”

I look at the photo again. She’s right, I do look happy. Happier than I looked in the Big Sur photo with Nathan.

“Don’t post it, Fanny.”

She grins. “Too late.”

“Are you serious?”

Fanny nods.

“Where?”

“Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”

“Fanny!”

I turn on my iPhone, open the Facebook app, and stare in mute horror at the photo of Luc and me posted on my wall. I am about to delete it when I get a new text.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia Perpetua, it’s Mum. I saw the photo of you and that naked man on the Facebook. Who is he? Why is he naked? What will Father Escobar say if he sees that photo?

“Great! Now look what you’ve done!”

I turn the screen to Fanny. She reads the text and laughs.

“It’s not funny, Fanny! What am I going to say to my mum?”

“Tell her the truth,” Fanny says. “That you’re trying to erase the memory of Nathan with a hot French man.”

“Fanny!”

“Tell her the naked man is a baker, and you’re eloping with him because he knows what to do with a scone.”

“What? You’re gross.”

Fanny is laughing so hard now tears are running down her face.

My phone vibrates as another text comes in.

Text from Grace Murphy:

Just saw the photo on Instagram. Love the hashtags: #RidingIt #TradingUp Naughty girl! I want all the details.

“Oh no you didn’t,” I groan. “Did you really use those hashtags?”

Fanny glances at the screen, reads Grace’s text, and proudly nods her head. “Sure did.”

“You’re killing me, Fanny. You’re killing me.”

My phone vibrates again.

Text from Alexis:

Just saw ur latest photo. When Nathan said he wanted 2 book a riding vacay, I don’t think he envisioned u riding a hot French guy! U’ve taken riding vacays in a whole new direction. I’m in!

I turn my phone off before I can get any more texts or tweets and toss it in my bag. I’ll just leave my phone off for the next twenty-four hours. Pretend it never happened. By the time I check back in, the photo will be yesterday’s news. Everyone will have forgotten all about it.

I’m standing outside the chateau the next morning, gazing at my reflection in the window of the minibus we’re about to take to Cannes, when Luc’s handsome face appears in the glass beside me.

“You look lovely as always, Vivia.”

I’d just licked my finger to rub in a smudge of dried tinted moisturizer, so I am standing there with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, a wet pinkie raised in the air. Lovely? If he says so.

“
Bonjour
, Luc.” I wipe my wet finger on my maxi dress before turning around; silently hoping the blotch of moisturizer isn’t too noticeable…in the blinding sunlight. “Did you sleep well?”