Faking It (9 page)

Fanny tilts her head, narrows her gaze. “It’s really not that bad. The skort is—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “No need to finish. It’s a freaking
skort
.”

“You won’t have to wear it for long.” Fanny puts her bike helmet on and adjusts the chin strap. “Chantal said your luggage is already on the way.”

We leave our posh room and head to the courtyard. The group is assembled in a cluster near a row of sleek aluminum bikes. We are exchanging
bonjours
when a tall tanned man in muscle-hugging biking gear exits the château. The group falls silent; all eyes on the Adonis striding confidently across the courtyard. We haven’t ridden a single kilometer, and already I am finding it difficult to breath.

Please, God, don’t let him be Jean-Luc. Please.

“
Bonjour
, I am your guide, Jean-Luc.”

“Of course you are,” I mumble.

“Pardon?”

Jean-Luc turns his smoldering gaze on me. Did I mention he has velvety brown eyes fringed with long lashes?

“Nothing.”

My tongue suddenly feels heavy, my mouth dry.

Jean-Luc’s gaze slides down to the cartoon sushi rolls on my T-shirt. A single black eyebrow lifts in an utterly French, utterly arrogant expression. I warm with embarrassment. Who does this smug Frenchman think he is, anyway?

Jean-Luc turns away. Without another glance in my direction, he launches into a lecture on French road rules and biking safety. I stare at the dimples on his angular face and wonder at the cruel twists Fate keeps throwing my way. I would have preferred the drill instructor with the bulging veins.

“To accommodate for any lingering effects of jet-lag, the day’s ride will be an easy one, through lavender fields and ancient vineyards.” Jean-Luc puts his helmet on his head. “We can look forward to one small attack just before the village of Gordes, but it is quite pleasant, I assure you.”

“Pleasant and attack should
not
be used in the same sentence,” I whisper to Fanny.

Jean-Luc fixes his smoldering gaze on me, smiling languidly. I swear his lips twitch. Great. Twenty minutes in, and already he finds me absurd. I tug the skort down in a futile attempt at modesty.

“The ride is only twenty-four kilometers. No problem.”

I am still trying to do the math in my head when Fanny says, “You see, Vivian? Only fifteen miles today.”

“Fifteen miles? You have got to be kidding me? Are you serious?”

I have a vision of Nathan riding beside me, encouraging me to pedal faster with promises of bubble baths and foot rubs. I only agreed to the biking portion of our honeymoon because I wanted to please Nathan. With my wedding canceled and Nathan refusing to speak to me, where will I get the motivation to ride halfway across France?

Fanny must sense my growing gloom.

“You can do this, Vivian. You
must
do it!”

Jean-Luc hands us each a laminated folding map and asks if anyone would like to take the lead. Mr. and Mrs. Byron raise their hands. Their daughter moans, jams ear buds into her ears, and increases the volume on her iPod to a shattering decibel. Their lanky son merely shrugs his shoulders.

Jean-Luc tells us to mount up.

I swing my leg over my bike, slide my foot onto the pedal, and try to click the cleat on the bottom of the cycling shoe onto the pedal. My foot flies off. I try again, but my foot just slides off the pedal again. Sweat is gathering between my breasts. Everyone else has clicked in. One by one, they ride down the tree-lined drive.

I position my foot over the pedal and push down hard but still can’t manage to attach the cleat.

“Let me help you.”

Jean-Luc kneels beside my bike, takes my foot in his hand, and expertly clicks the cleat onto the pedal. I can ride off the side of a mountain now. My humiliation is complete.

I mumble my thanks and begin pedaling. I am racing down the drive in a frantic effort to catch up with Fanny, when a shocking breeze cools my backside. Leaning over the bike has caused the skort to slip low on my hips, leaving an embarrassing amount of upper ass cheek exposed. I remove one hand from handlebars, tug the back of my shirt down, and tuck it into the skort.

Behind me, I hear Jean-Luc’s low, throaty laughter.

* * * *

Around mile four, I am regretting my post-breakup take-out binges.
Damn you, Mr. Foo and your spicy Szechwan chicken!
I am huffing and wheezing like an asthmatic. Maybe I should have done more than the occasional spin class to prepare for this trip. This is
so
not like spin. There’s no dialing back the resistance and faking your effort.

Fanny drops back to ride beside me.

“
Comment vas-tu?
”

“My thighs are burning and my bum feels like I have been cruelly violated. Is it possible to be sodomized by a bike seat?”

Fanny chuckles.

I look ahead. Jean-Luc is effortlessly pumping his legs. Speaking of bums, Jean-Luc’s looks awfully nice in those spandexy shorts. Like Michelangelo’s David, tight and muscled. I could take a bite out of it.

The heat must be getting to me, or all the lavender. The fumes are overpowering, scrambling my brain.

I am still in love with Nathan. So why am I looking at a French man’s
piece de la resistance
and imaging naughty things?

A bead of sweat breaks at my hairline and trickles down my face, stinging my eyes. I slow down.

“I am going to take a rest.”

Fanny looks over, her brow furrowed. “Keep going, Vivian. Build the momentum. Stopping will only make it more difficult to start again.”

Good old competitive, hyper-driven Fanny. My best friend may be five-foot-one and a hair over one hundred pounds, but she has all of the intensity of The Rock. The enthusiasm she musters in visiting a gym perplexes me. An elliptical machine does not excite me as much as a Gothic novel and a chicken chimichanga. Don’t get me wrong. I am not a total lump. I enjoy Pilates and Zumba, but just not as obsessive-compulsively as Fanny.

“I need a break. You keep going though.”

“You sure?”

My lungs are burning. I nod. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

I pull off the road into a field of lavender. My legs wobble as I carry my water bottle to a droopy tree. Taking a seat on the cracked earth in the shade of the tree, I remove my helmet and push my sweaty, limp bangs from my forehead.

This. Just. Sucks.

Walking back to my bike, I zip open the small pouch hooked to the seat and remove my iPhone and ear buds. I wish I could check my e-mail, but the roaming charges would probably kill my gasping bank account. I’ll have to wait until I get to the château.

I walk back to the tree, collapse on the ground, lean my aching back against the trunk, and pop the ear buds into my ears. I am three songs into Buckcherry’s
15
when the Byron boy rides up, drops his bike on the ground, and plops down next to me.

I pull the ear buds out of my ears and Josh Todd’s growling fills the air between us.

The kid grins. “Hey.”

Embarrassed to be caught listening to such a nasty song, especially by a teenager, I jab the off button.

“Hey. It’s Gabriel, right?”

The kid nods, and a lock of sandy blond hair falls over his forehead, concealing one eye. He tosses it back but it flops over his eye again.

“What are you doing here?”

He peers at me from behind his hair and I realize how rude I must have sounded.

“I mean, I thought you were at the front, leading the group. I am surprised to see you with the loser bringing up the rear.”

“I saw you lagging behind and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

The simple act of compassion plucks at the chords of my lacerated heart and before I can stop them, tears pool up in my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say, sniffling. “That’s cool of you.”

He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

A stray breeze rattles the leaves on the tree and whispers over my sweaty face. I stare at the sea of lavender undulating like purple waves. I should engage in meaningless chit-chat, but it feels good just to sit in silence. The kid seems to get it. He leans back on his arms and stares up at the cerulean sky.

A minute later, he looks over at me. “So, you married?”

Oh my God! First I am mistaken for a lesbian, and now a teenager is trying to run his game on me. I cross my arms and give him my most earnest stern-librarian impression.

“Look. You seem like a nice kid but—”

Gabriel sits up. “No! It’s not like that, I swear.” Red patches mottle his cheeks. “I was just wondering if you were married, or if you and Fanny are partners. Whatever. It’s cool. I am cool with it. Just wondering. That’s all.”

“I am not a lesbian.”

Before I realize it, I have unloaded my whole sorry story on him. Well, not my
whole
story. I omitted the part about lying to Nathan about being a virgin.

“Wow. That really sucks. Your fiancé sounds like a total d-bag.”

“Thanks.” I brush a stray tear from my cheek. “But the thing is, he’s not a total d-bag. He has his redeeming qualities.”

Gabriel tilts his head. “So does Charles Manson, but that doesn’t mean you should marry him. Compatibility is a complex formula. Did you know that Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham were romantically involved and members of a crazy successful band?”

“No, but I am not sure where you are going with this.”

“Their musical collaboration produced the fourth most successful album of all time, but Stevie said, ‘Lindsey and I were about as compatible as a rat and a boa constrictor.’”

Gabriel stands up, slaps his helmet back on his head, and holds a hand out to me. I put my hand in his and he pulls me up. We get back on our bikes, click in, and begin pedaling to catch up with the group.

I pedal mindlessly, mulling over Gabriel’s Stevie Nicks parable. I wouldn’t exactly describe Nathan and myself as a rat and a snake, but for the first time ever I am considering our compatibility. I remember the time Nathan caught me reading a romance novel. He looked so disappointed.

“You’re not seriously reading a book about-”—he grabbed the paperback from my hands and read the back cover—“a Vampire-slaying tattoo artist and her undead lover? Don’t you have a degree in literature? I’m surprised.”

He’d said surprised, but he meant disappointed. I hated disappointing Nathan, so I only read paperbacks when he wasn’t around.

I concealed so many parts of myself—my love of raunchy rock music, greasy ethnic food, and distressed jeans. I learned early on the things Nathan labeled vapid, sleazy, disgusting, so I altered my appearance to conform. I shoved my distressed jeans, band shirts, and worn-in Uggs to the back of my closet to make room for an acceptable number of J. Crew sweater sets, pencil skirts, and toe-pinching pumps.

I have always prided myself on my authenticity. What you see is what you get. Yet I denied my interests and pretended to enjoy snooty wine bars, golf, and Michael freaking Bublé just to please Nathan. I might be the only female on the planet who thinks Michael Bublé is a cheap Sinatra imitation for the overly-nostalgic forty-something set. So why did I pretend to like him?

Because I thought I was lucky to have snagged a man as perfect as Nathaniel Edwards III, with his highly polished pedigree—Boston roots, Harvard degree, wealthy family. I never could understand why a man as cultured, proper, and driven as Nathan would want me as his girlfriend. Little old brassy-haired Vivia Perpetua Grant with her over-weaning seriously-kooky mother and middle-class suburbia upbringing. So I smoothed my rough edges, concealed my flaws, strained myself to always sparkle in his presence.

I am looking at myself in a new way, as if I had been in a coma and am staring at the familiar stranger in the mirror. Maybe I am not the authentic, confident, empowered woman I have been projecting. What other reason could I have had for setting my price tag so low and Nathan’s so high?

A Sweaty Ride

When we finally ride into Gordes, I am too mentally and physically spent to appreciate the beautiful cliff top village. My bike seat-sodomized ass has me groaning in pain with every pedal. Jean-Luc’s
small
attack turned out to be a thigh burning climb up a steep narrow road.

The kid kept me motivated by peppering me with random trivia. He is a veritable encyclopedia of minutia. Even so, I had to get off my bike and walk the last block to the hotel.

I hobble into the courtyard of the posh La Bastide de Gordes Spa bent over like a sway-backed old woman, my Raw T-shirt plastered to my breasts. The group is enjoying the view on the hotel’s cliff-side terrace. They cheer when they see me.

Jean-Luc rises, walks over to me with the grace of a predatory cat, and presses a chilled glass of white wine into my trembling hand.

“Bravo, Vivia! I knew you could do it.”

“Really?” I snap. “And how did you come to that conclusion? Was it my pathetic failure at clicking in this morning? Or maybe it was my inappropriate biking gear? I know. It must be the fact that I finished thirty minutes after everyone else.”

“Sixty.”

“What?”

“You finished sixty minutes after everyone else.”

I am about to toss my glass of wine at the Frenchman’s smug face, when his gaze shifts to my chest and his lips curve in a slow, sensual smile. He returns his gaze to my face.

“I like your cycling gear. It’s unusual.”

My heart is thudding like crazy…and it has nothing to do with the bike ride. Jean-Luc is handsome, but he’s just a flirty bike guide trying to score a better tip. Besides, all Frenchmen are flirtatious. I can’t compete with a country full of urbane women.

Fanny comes bounding over, her neat ponytail swinging with an annoying amount of enthusiasm. How can she still have so much energy? Jean-Luc winks at me and walks back to the group.

“How are you doing, Vivian?”

“A thick crust of road grime and sweat are the only things keeping me upright. I hurt in embarrassing places. Other than that, I am just fabulous.”

“Wait until you see our room,” she says, wrapping an arm around my aching shoulders and leading me back into the hotel. “You’ll forget about today’s miseries.”