Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “I am!” Humiliated, I press my face against his warm chest and close my eyes. “I am the only one struggling to finish the rides. I come in last each day.”

  “Some of the riders on this tour are extremely experienced cyclists.”

  “Give me a break, Luc. Half of the riders fall into the geriatric or toddler demographic. Old people and kids! I’m getting my ass waxed by old people and kids!”

  To Luc’s credit, he doesn’t laugh or even chuckle at my self-pitying declaration. He just rubs my back and waits for me to stop crying.

  When my sniffles finally subside, Luc murmurs something in French and releases his hold on me. Is it my imagination, or did the temperature suddenly drop twenty degrees without Luc’s body to keep me warm?

  Luc walks over to his bike, pulls something silver out of his pack, and walks back to me. The silver thing is a thin rolled up blanket. He unrolls the blanket and wraps it around my shoulders, holding onto the ends and staring into my eyes.

  “You are not a loser, Vivia.” His low, accented voice is doing funny things to my stomach. “You are remarkable and brave.”

  “Remarkable? Brave? Me?”

  His gaze is so intense, too intense. I have to look away.

  “Oui. You.”

  What is it about this Frenchman and his ability to steal my breath? I inhale and my heartbeat quickens when I smell the scent of the cologne on his heated skin. Fanny would probably laugh if I told her Luc’s cologne smells like sex and sunshine, passion and power, a sultry aroma that could be worn only by confident men like Greek gods or Roman gladiators. Does he know what he is doing to me? That I have trouble breathing whenever he is near?

  I look up, pretending to study the sky. “How much longer do you think this rain will last?”

  Luc shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I hope it ends soon. We still have several miles to ride.”

  “We aren’t riding, Vivia.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “It’s nearly dark.”

  “So?”

  “These mountain roads are treacherous at night. It would be too dangerous to ride. The van should be here any minute now.”

  “The van?” I try to step back, but Luc is still holding the ends of the blanket. “I can’t show up at the hotel in the van.”

  “Why not?”

  “What will the others think?”

  “Who cares about the others?”

  “I do!”

  Honestly, I don’t care what the others think about me. I care what I will think about me if I don’t finish the ride. I care about thwarting a destiny of spinsterhood and pigeon feeding. But how can I explain such convoluted thinking to Luc? What would he think of me if I exposed my vulnerabilities to him?

  “Why do you care so much about what strangers think of you?”

  “Everyone wants to make a good impression.” I have to look away again before Luc sees the pain in my eyes. “I’ve already earned the reputation as being the slowest rider on the tour.”

  He drops an end of the blanket and tilts my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes.

  “It's not how fast you move through life, Vivia, or how perfectly you execute the moves, but that you do it with grace and humor.”

  His words are like an iron band around my chest, squeezing my lungs until it hurts to breathe.

  “Grace? Me?”

  Luc flashes a dimpled smile. “You possess a certain grace.”

  I press my hand to his tanned forehead. “You must have heat stroke.”

  Luc looks up at the gray sky. “It’s cold and raining.”

  “Okay then, rain stroke.”

  He removes my hand from his forehead, but continues to hold it. “You attack the hills with humor, Vivia. Humor is sexy.”

  Before I can respond with some self-deprecating, pithy comment, Luc grabs the ends of the blanket and pulls me against him. I look into his eyes and my heart stops beating. I am hovering in that exquisite place between agony and ecstasy. I imagine it’s a lot like purgatory—that excruciating pause between heaven and hell, waiting to find out your fate. And then he leans down, presses his lips to mine, and I’m falling, crashing through the clouds, spiraling toward—heaven, hell? I don’t know which. Frankly, I don’t care. I close my eyes and lean into him.

  He smells so damned good. Warm, spicy, exotic.

  I remember how he looked the previous morning, with his tousled wet hair, and how much I wanted to touch him, inhale his scent. Before I realize what I am doing, I am running my fingers through his hair. It’s thick, wavy.

  Luc leans in until I can feel the ancient stones of the farmhouse wall against my back and his hard cock pressing into my abdomen.

  Oh my God! Was that me? Did I just moan?

  Something explodes in my head and the world tilts precariously. I am going to faint. No drama. No exaggeration. I literally feel faint.

  I’ve only felt like this once before. With Travis Trunnell.

  Shit! Why did I have to think of him now?

  Thinking of Travis has me thinking of that night at Snob, and Nathan, and Nathan’s angry accusations. Oh my God! Maybe I am a slut. I’m on my honeymoon and I’m making out with some random sexy stranger.

  I pull back and take a jagged breath. Luc reads the shift in my emotions, but he plays it off like it’s not a big deal. He leans back a little, putting some space between us, but not totally moving away either. I shiver as a wave of heat emanating from his chest washes over me.

  What’s wrong with me? What in the hell is wrong with me? How could I cheat on Nathan? Shouldn’t I be garbed in black and mourning the demise of our love? Guilty tears fill my eyes.

  Luc smiles sweetly and presses his hand to my cheek. “Are my kisses that bad, then? They make you cry?”

  I can’t help but laugh at his preposterous questions. “If kissing were the Tour de France, you would take home the gold, or silver, or whatever it is they give the victorious rider.”

  Luc laughs. “You see what I mean? You have humor.”

  “Humor, huh?”

  “Oui.”

  “Well, my humor is wearing thin.” I reach up and knead a knot in my shoulder. “I don’t know how I will get back on that bike tomorrow.”

  “You just gotta keep riding, pilgrim,” he says in a slow strange accented voice.

  "What was that?”

  “The Duke.”

  “The Duke?”

  “John Wayne.”

  Now I am laughing. “You like John Wayne?”

  Luc nods his head. “I love the cowboy movies. The Duke’s movies are the best.”

  “Taco Bell and John Wayne movies. Are you sure you’re French?”

  “Absolument!” Luc laughs. “What about you?”

  “I’m definitely not French.”

  “Non, what kinds of movies do you like?”

  “Anything but horror.”

  “Which do you prefer, though?”

  “Old Film Noir. Gothic romances. Rebecca with Laurence Olivier.” I sigh. “One of the best films ever made. Have you ever seen it?”

  Luc shakes his head. “I have read the book by Daphne du Maurier though.”

  Who is this man? Trying to figure him out is like trying to solve a Rubics Cube without cheating. After fifteen minutes of talking to someone, I can usually fit him into a neat little box. Luc is not fitting into any boxes. How many hot, muscular bike guides read gothic romance novels?

  “You are surprised?”

  “A little.”

  “Why? You didn’t think bike guides could read?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Actually, that’s totally it. “I just didn’t peg you as a reader of gothic romances.”

  “Romance?” Luc frowns. “I would classify it more as a psychological thriller delving into the darker side of human nature.”

  What just happened? Am I really standing in France discussing lit
erature with a taco eating bike guide? Luc twisted the cube, and I’m more puzzled than ever. I might be confused about Luc’s story, but I know literature.

  “Hold on. Fear, suspicion, and violence are themes in the story, but Rebecca is a novel about love’s restorative powers. It’s definitely a romance.”

  Luc shakes his head. “Psychological drama.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I am prepared to battle to the death for this one. “Romance.”

  “If she were still alive, Daphne du Maurier would disagree. She hated it when people called Rebecca a romance. Daphne called it a study in human jealousy.”

  Maybe now would be a good time to tell Luc that I graduated with a dual degree in literature and journalism. Analyzing text is my forte.

  “Jealousy is another theme running throughout the novel, but it is the heroine’s love for Maxim that propels the story forward. Their romance is the fuel that keeps the story moving from the first to the last page.”

  “That’s certainly a sweet, slightly superficial way of looking at the story,” Luc says in a tone devoid of patronization. “A deeper analysis, however, uncovers consuming vengeances and jealousies.”

  “Superficial—”

  A horn honking draws our attention to the road. The tour van is idling and the driver is waving his arm out the window.

  “Saved by the horn.”

  Luc chuckles. “You’re a fascinating woman, Vivia. I don’t agree with your classification of Rebecca, but I enjoyed the debate. I look forward to our future conversations.”

  The rain has stopped, but the previously parched dirt field is now a muddy quagmire. We push our bikes through the brown muck, our feet making sucking noises with each step. I glance down at Luc’s expensive cycling shoes now caked with mud.

  “I am sorry, Luc.”

  He looks over at me, an eyebrow raised.

  “Your shoes.” I nod my head at his feet. “They’re covered in mud.”

  “Pas de souci.”

  He spares me the pain of trying to draw on my limited French vocabulary.

  “No worries.”

  “Are you sure? They look expensive.”

  Luc shrugs.

  “They’re only shoes. They can be cleaned or replaced. Besides, ruined shoes are a small sacrifice in the rescue of a damsel in distress.”

  Okay. This is probably just a vacation infatuation. Jean-Luc is a handsome single man flirting with an over-emotional tourist. Shit! I hope he’s single. I didn’t even think to ask. I sneak a quick glance at his ring finger. Phew. No ring or telltale white line. Still, logic dictates this is fleeting and frivolous. But my heart isn’t subscribing to my head’s logic. My heart is filled with aching hope. He doesn’t know it, but Luc is gathering up the pieces of my broken heart and putting them back together, piece by piece, with each of his kindnesses. It’s happening so fast it scares me.

  We arrive at the van. Luc lifts his bike onto the carrier and then reaches for mine.

  “What are you doing? I am not getting in that van.”

  “Now, Vivia…”

  “No. No ‘now, Vivia.’” I hold onto the handlebars and fix Luc with a determined expression. “I’m finishing the ride.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I have to.”

  “On se bouge!” He lifts his bike off the carrier. “Let’s go then.”

  “You’re going to ride with me? But you already finished.”

  Luc fixes me with an equally determined expression. “I am staying with you, Vivia.”

  He leans around the van and says something in French to Robert, the driver. Robert launches a full-fledged verbal attack, barraging us with a flurry of words. I translate the first two sentences: “You are crazy! It’s almost dark.” After that, the words blend together to form one long word.

  “Merci, Robert,” Luc says in a firm tone, tapping the back window. “À plus tard.”

  Robert takes off, his wheels casting a spray of rainwater on us. As soon as the van disappears behind a curve in the road, doubt reaches in and twists my stomach in knots. It is nearly dark. The road is steep, narrow, and now wet. Maybe finishing the ride was a stupid idea.

  Luc smiles at me and the knots relax a little.

  “On se bouge!”

  “On se bouge!” I repeat, clicking my feet onto the pedals.

  We’ve been riding only a few minutes when I ask Luc to translate Robert’s dire sounding speech.

  “He said we were crazy to be riding on this road so late in the day.”

  “I got that part, but what about the last part? What is tufaire something something something toxicomane?”

  Luc laughs. “Toxicomane means addict. Good accent, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Addict? As in drug addict?”

  “Oui.”

  “Robert thinks I’m a tweaker?”

  “What is a tweaker?”

  “A drug addict.”

  Luc laughs again. “No, he’s worried we will be hit by a drunk driver or a meth addict.”

  “Meth addict? What the hell? What would a meth addict be doing on mountain road in the middle of Nowhere, France? Does Provence have a lot of addicts?”

  Luc chuckles again. “No.”

  “Well that was a bizarre thing to say.”

  “Robert is a bizarre man. A good man, but bizarre.”

  We ride on in silence, attacking the hills with slow, steady revolutions. Now that the sun has slipped behind the mountain, we move in and out of darkness with each turn of the road. I am okay as long as I don’t look down the mountain. A few times my tires veer onto the slender dirt path between the road and the abyss.

  We plunge into a dark tunnel. I keep my head down, focusing on the white line painted on the road, so I am not blinded by the lights of oncoming traffic.

  He might be a taco eating tour guide, but I’ll say this for him: Jean-Luc’s one hell of a good guy for doing this. Not a single complaint either. His generosity has kept me from repeatedly voicing my fear of falling off the mountain. I haven’t listed my numerous aches and pains, either. Normally, I am extremely free with sharing my feelings. Nathan used to call it emotional diarrhea.

  “Vivia, please stem the flow of emotional diarrhea,” he would say. “You know you don’t have to share every feeling, right?”

  He would laugh and give me a hug when he said it, but it still stung. I played it off like it didn’t matter, laughing with him, but something inside of me would shrink. I never told him how much that hurt my feelings. Would it have mattered? Probably. Nathan isn’t a mean person, just blunt to the point of being tactless.

  It’s funny, isn’t it? The way our perspective shifts when we’re no longer close to someone we once loved. When Nathan and I were still engaged, I rejected the notion of his imperfections, choosing instead to dwell on his most lovely traits. Our break-up seems to have broken down the dam restraining my negative thoughts about my ex-fiancé. They’re flowing freely, overwhelming me.

  A circle of light like a giant eye blinks at me in the distance. We are almost through the tunnel, thank God. Careening wildly down a narrow mountain road is not as terrifying as cycling in the dark with cars speeding at me.

  We leave the uncertain darkness of the tunnel behind and ride into the dying light of a Provençal evening. Thin golden rays stretch tautly from the sky to the road before us. Soon, the magical light of gloaming will vanish, leaving us to complete our journey in darkness. The idea of being alone with Luc in a world shrouded in the velvetiness of night kind of excites me.

  Alone with Luc.

  Alone.

  With.

  Luc.

  Alone. With. Luc. The words become a cadence I repeat in my head. Alone. Push on right pedal. With. Push on left pedal. Luc. Push on right pedal.

  I am still mentally calling out my cadence when Luc says, “We are almost there, Vivia. Less than two kilometers.”

  “Is
that all?”

  Luc chuckles. “You were hoping for more?”

  It’s dark, but not dark enough to obscure the intense expression on Luc’s face, the thinly veiled challenge in his gaze.

  “Actually,” I bluff, pretending I missed his meaning, “I’m kinda digging this ride.”

  “Digging?”

  “Sorry. Enjoying.”

  “You said you wouldn’t use ready and ride in the same sentence, yet here you are using enjoy and ride in the same breath.” Luc chuckles again, a deep-throated sound that coaxes my smile. “My work here is done. Au revoir!”

  He gives me a quick wave and pretends to increase his speed, as if he were about to leave me.

  “Not so fast, Monsieur Confidence. The only reason I am enjoying this ride is because the end is finally within sight.”

  Luc sits up, crosses his arms, and stares at me beneath a quirked eyebrow. “Really? The only reason?”

  I warm.

  “Admit it. You are enjoying this ride for another reason.” Luc continues to ride with his arms crossed. “Go on, admit it.”

  “Would you please put your hands back on your handlebars? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Not until you admit it.”

  Obviously Luc doesn’t know who I am. Bonjour Irresistible Force, meet Unmovable Object. I am about to educate him on the futility of entering into grudge matches with me when he shifts his weight back and forth, causing his bike to zigzag precariously.

  “Fine! Fine! I admit it!”

  “Admit what?”

  “I’m enjoying this ride for more than one reason.”

  “I thought so.” Luc uncrosses his arms and grabs the handlebars. “I knew I could break you.”

  “Whatever! My confession was given under duress.”

  “Duress? You make me sound like the Gestapo.”

  I sniff and look away. “You used my fear of death or dismemberment by bike crash against me.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, if the uniform fits, Herr Luc…”

  Luc doesn’t immediately respond. I am worrying that my tendency to over-exaggerate has offended him when he laughs.

  “I like your sense of humor, Vivia.”

  And I like the way you say my name in your low, throaty accent. Viv-ee-ah.

  The sun is a slender crescent on the horizon, the ombre sky streaked with varying shades of purple, from watery lavender, radiant orchid, to majestic plum. Like a scene out of a syrupy sweet rom-com starring Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling.