Faking It (16 page)

Power off, Vivia. Power off. Don’t wait for his response. You don’t really care what he has to say. Power off!

Text from Travis Trunnell:

Did he send you a Bonjour, beautiful text this morning?

Text from Vivia Grant:

That’s none of your business.

Text from Travis Trunnell:

I didn’t think so. If you were my girl, I’d send you a Bonjour, beautiful text every morning. You’d never doubt my feelings for you. GG. Rosetta Stone time. Have a good day, beautiful.

I power off and toss my iPhone onto the bed. I refuse to reread the cowboy’s texts, overanalyze the cowboy’s texts, or even waste any more brain juice on thinking about the cowboy.

I Am Not A Nymphomaniac!

I’m walking to the pool when I realize I didn’t check my e-mail or Facebook for messages from Nathan. The cowboy completely discombobulated me.

The cowboy’s effect should piss me off, but I’m actually kind of glad he texted me this morning. He distracted me. He spared me from my daily ritual of tossing salt onto my wounded heart. To keep expecting Nathan to write to me is akin to self-flagellation. It’s just sad and gross.

I pass the divorcees on my way through the lobby/great hall. They’ve poured themselves into tight fitting halter dresses. Two distinguished elderly gentlemen are close on their shiny heels. Candace raises her arm to wave to me, her leopard print Lucite bangles slide to her elbow.

“
Bonjour
, Vivia!” She says, waggling her fingers. “We’re headed to a winery for a tasting. Wanna come?”

“Thanks, but I’m going for a swim.” I hoist my Kate Spade beach bag up to my chest. “Have fun!”

“Oh, we will!”

They leave me in a cloud of perfume, their giggles and heel taps echoing in their wake.

I have to admire their
joie de vivre
. They don’t seem to be letting the pain and disillusionment of divorce keep them from squeezing every second of fun out of their trip. Fanny talked to them during one of our breaks. Apparently, they’d each been married over twenty years. If I am an emotional wreck after ending a year-long engagement, what would I be like if Nathan dumped me after twenty years of marriage?

I would be a Hiroshima-sized disaster. A catatonic woman with a shocking Einstein-esque mane of split ends, shuffling from place to place in pajamas and an unbuttoned trench coat. I would be picked up by the SFPD, taken to County Hospital, and admitted to the padded ward. I’d spend the rest of my days staring blindly at Dr. Phil reruns or making useless yarn art tea cozies, while Nathan cruised to Santa Barbara with a car full of bleached-blond floozies.

Maybe it’s time I took a page from the divorcee’s playbook. Maybe I need to indulge in some fun squeezing. If they can survive the end of their marriages, I can survive the end of my engagement.

Following the signs marked with an arrow and the words
la piscine
, I step out of the château and into the garden. Squinting against the bright morning sunlight, I shove my hand into my bag and rifle around until I find my Ray-Bans. I am sliding them on my face when the French doors behind me open.

“Bonjour,
Vivia
.”

Luc’s deep voice rumbles behind me. I jump and then spin around like a teenager caught sneaking into the house after curfew.

“You scared me.”

“That’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” He looks down at his black swim trunks and back at me, a mischievous smile teasing the corners of his lips. “Is it my attire? It is, isn’t it? My suit is old, and I know what a stickler you are for fashion.”

“Ha, ha,” I say, punching his arm. “Very funny.”

“Are you going for a swim?”

I look down at the sheer cover-up that’s barely concealing my black bikini. “I don’t know where you got that idea. I thought I would go hang-gliding.”

“Really?” Luc chuckles.

Heat flushes through my body.

“You’re a bit overdressed. You might want to lose that sheer thing. Women in the south of France hang-glide in bikinis only.”

“Is that so?”

“
Bien sûr!
It’s the latest trend. Bikinis or tiny skirt things and tight T-shirts with cartoon sushi rolls.”

I want to come back with something snappy but I got nothing. It’s hard to be witty when you’re staring at 180 pounds of delicious French man meat.

“That was a joke, Vivia.”

“What?” I blink and try to focus on something other than the tanned expanse of Luc’s naked chest. “Oh, yeah. I know. It was funny.”

Luc frowns. “Do you want to go to the pool?”

No. I want to grab the ends of that towel you have tossed around your neck and pull your hot ass body against mine.

“Sure.”

We follow a gravel path through the gardens until we come to a set of wrought iron gates opening to a private, walled courtyard. Luc unlatches the gate and holds it open for me.

Good manners? Check.

Funny? Check.

Crazy hot body? Check. Check. And triple check.

Blue-cushioned double lounge chairs set beneath broad striped umbrellas surrounding the pool. Double lounge chairs. As in, two people. Side by side. Sweaty skin touching sweaty skin.

I reach into my bag, pull out my paperback, and fan my face. “Do you think it’s hot? It seems unusually hot this morning. I don’t remember it being this hot the last few mornings.” I wave the book frantically in front of my face. “It’s never this hot in San Francisco. We are lucky that way. Cool bay breezes and all…”

Great! I am babbling again. The other night I blathered on and on about the stars, and now the temperature. Luc is going to think this is my first time off the farm. I just want to curl up in a ball and roll into the pool.

Luc walks over to one of the loungers, whips the towel off his shoulders, and holds out his hand.

“Come on, Vivia.”

I gulp. A loud, audible cartoon-character-like swallow. I consider turning and running back to the château, but Luc is looking at me with those sexy, smoldering brown eyes, still holding out his hand.

Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I walk over to Luc, drop my bag to the ground, and sit on the edge of the lounger. Luc drops down beside me, stretching his long, muscular legs out and flexing his arms above his head.

“
C’est beau, n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my back to Luc. “It’s a lovely pool.”

Why am I so nervous? My friend, Grace, gets so nervous around men she finds attractive she becomes physically ill. Why am I channeling Grace right now? Am I trying to induce my own episode of atomic hurling?
Quick, Vivia!
Think of women who are calm, cool, and collected around men. Hillary Clinton. Yikes! Cool, not frigid. Angelina Jolie. The divorcees. Yes! I got this.

“Relax, Vivia. I won’t bite you.”

“Darn,” I murmur, kicking off my sandals and stretching out beside Luc. “I wish you would.”

I’m totally bluffing. Okay, not totally. I
would
like Luc to take a bite out of me, but I’m projecting far more coolness than I actually possess.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing,” I say, sliding my sunglasses up my nose.

Luc flexes his arm, and his bicep brushes against me.

“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

Look ahead, Vivia. Do. Not. Look. At. Luc. Whatever you do, don’t look into those hypnotic brown eyes or he will have you stripping naked and doing naughty things.

“I’m fine. Just a little shiver.” I rest my head against the lounger and pretend to study the clouds. “Must have been the breeze.”

Luc’s arm brushes mine again. I think he’s doing it on purpose.

“Huh, I didn’t feel any wind.”

Luc’s arm presses against mine lightly. I continue to stare at the sky.

“Would you like to swim?”

Swim? Are you kidding? Who cares about swimming? All I can think about is getting naked and diving into your bed.

“No, you go ahead though.”

From behind the safety of my sunglasses, I watch Luc stand, walk to the edge of the pool, and dive into the water.

Watching Luc’s body in motion is exhilarating and terrifying, like witnessing a panther pursuing its prey. It reminds me of the nature videos on the Discovery Channel featuring cheetahs stalking poor dimwitted gazelle. Even though I always root for the hopeless gazelle, I can’t help but admire the beautiful, sleek beast chasing it.

With his black hair and lean, muscular body, Luc could be the personification of a sleek jungle beast. He moves through the water with awesome speed, precision, purpose, diving below the surface to complete a turn, and then popping back up for another lap.

This is the first time I have seen his naked back. He has broad shoulders, clearly defined back muscles, and a tapered waist. Each stroke causes his shoulders to tense and his muscles to ripple.

If I don’t look away, I might do a
When Sally Met Harry
diner scene right here by the pool, only I won’t be faking it.

I grab my book and read the back cover. “
Redemption
by Sophie St. Laurent. From the windswept moors of North Yorkshire, comes a haunting tale of romance, intrigue, and revenge…”

I peek over the top of the book and focus on Luc gliding through the water. What would it feel like to run my fingers down his spine, to feel the deep, vertical chasm between his shoulder muscles?

I force my gaze back to the book.

“After witnessing a violent crime, Arabella Saint Simon seeks sanctuary with the one person who…”

Blah, blah, blah…

No offense to Sophie St. Laurent, but I have a hunch reading her haunting tale of romance and revenge isn’t as thrilling as watching Luc swim. Nevertheless, I open the book to the first page and force myself to begin reading.

Sloan Blackmore lay on his back, wondering why he was in such a position, as the full-breasted, round-hipped Countess of Shrewsbury straddled him.
He had tasted the Titian-haired countess’s drugging nectar, been a witless victim to her hypnotic seduction, six - no seven - years ago, and been more the fool…

Sophie did it. She captured my attention. I am three chapters into the book when Luc climbs out of the pool and collapses on the lounger beside me, smelling of chlorine and suntan lotion. He presses his warm leg against mine. I shiver.

“Good book?”

I nod.

“What is it?” He looks at the cover. “A romance novel? You read romance novels?”

I consider telling him it’s Fanny’s book, when I remember my resolution. Be authentic.

“I do.” I look at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Got a problem with that?”

“Nope.” Luc takes my book, flips it over, and reads the back cover. “Should I?”

I shrug. “Most men find romances silly and insipid.”

“I am not most men, Vivia.” He places the book on my lap and his fingers brush my thighs. “I’m French. Romance is as vital to our existence as air.”

The air is hot, heavy, charged with a palpable electrical current, a promise of something to come. My stomach knots in anticipation. Will Luc kiss me again? What if he doesn’t?

“Can I ask you a question?”

Yes. Yes, you can make love to me right here on this pool lounger. Take me, hard.

“Sure.”

“Did your ex-fiancé think romances were silly?”

The question hits me like a bolt of lightning in a clear blue summer sky, coming out of nowhere. It knocks me off balance.

“Yes,” I whisper, dropping my chin to my chest and staring at the ruined castle on the book cover. “He hated that I read romance novels.”

An embarrassing silence stretches between us. I don’t try to fill it with my usual nervous babble. I just let it stretch, taut.

Luc finally breaks it.

“I am sorry, Vivia. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.” He wraps his hand around mine, squeezing it gently. “I was curious. Chantal mentioned you were supposed to be on this tour with your husband, and all of the hotel reservations have been for
Monsieur et Madame
Edwards.”

Tears are pricking my eyelids. The shame I felt when Nathan left me sitting at Snob, when he dumped me via text, pale in comparison to this moment—this humiliating moment sitting in the garden of some fairy tale château about to confess my immorality to a gorgeous Frenchman.

“This trip was supposed to be my honeymoon, but Monsieur Edwards dumped me days before our wedding.”

I tell him the whole story. My one night stand with Travis Trunnell. The walk of shame from his place back to my dorm room. My engagement to Nathan. The lie. The look on Nathan’s face when he found out I hadn’t been a virgin. The break-up text. All of it.

The tears are falling now and I am straight-up ugly crying. Not quite wailing, but pretty close. My nose is probably as red as Rudolph’s, a shining beacon on my pale face. My cool Grace Kelly façade has fallen away, and I’m just plain old vulnerable Vivia.

Luc pulls me into his arms. I am half-sitting on his lap, my face pressed against his naked collarbone, but there’s nothing sexy about the moment. It’s raw, unvarnished. He keeps his arms around me, rests his chin on my head, and waits for me to stop crying.

Honestly? This outpouring of grief isn’t just for Nathan. I am embarrassed. What will Luc think of me now?

I stop crying, wipe my face, and scoot off Luc’s lap. “Sorry about that.”

He brushes a tear from my cheek. “Never apologize for being honest.”

He hands me his damp towel. I take off my sunglasses and wipe my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say, handing the mascara smudged towel back to him.

“So Edwards broke off your engagement because he found out you weren’t a virgin when he met you?”

I nod.

“How old are you? Twenty-four, twenty-five?

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven? And your fiancé expected you to be a virgin? Did you meet when you were infants?”

I shake my head. “After college.”

“So you came to Edwards with a more checkered sexual past than he would have liked?”

“Yes,” I snap, irritated by his statement of the obvious. “But it wasn’t
that
checkered. It’s not like I’ve been with dozens of men. Travis was my first and Nathan my second. Two.” I hold up two fingers. “Two men in twenty-five years. Not a bad record.”