With Asher, and now Sam, it was different—they were finding their path together, all excitement and uncertainty. And then … there was Luc. She was looking forward to their date this afternoon—and perhaps to kisses that would feel less agitated and complex than those they shared the night of the yacht and the crème brûlée.
Bea felt that same rush of effortless chemistry when she saw him waiting for her in front of the riad, sporting dark jeans, a charcoal sweater, and just the right amount of transatlantic scruff.
“Morocco suits you,” he murmured as he leaned down to kiss her on the mouth, a soft hello that lingered for a delicious moment.
“You like me in menswear?” Bea teased. She was wearing head-to-toe Veronica Beard today: high-waisted linen trousers in a soft brown clay, a ribbed white shell with a low scoop neck, and a stunning slouchy houndstooth blazer that made her feel like Rosalind Russell circa His Girl Friday.
“I like you anywhere.” Luc smiled and kissed her again; he tasted like salt and smoke.
“If that’s true, then I think you’re really going to like me today.”
“Oh?” He let his hands settle at her waist, comfortably holding her as they talked. “What adventures do you have planned?”
“I thought we could spice things up a little. Maybe add some flavor to our date.”
“You are making cooking jokes, yes?”
“Yes. Cooking puns, technically.”
“Ah. And perhaps my English is to blame, or perhaps the puns are bad?”
Bea grinned. “The puns are awful.”
They rode in a fancy old car to the Marrakesh spice market, an open square stuffed with dozens of vendors whose glass jars filled with rainbow spices lined shelves that stretched to the roof of each stall like some kind of Wonka-esque dream. Luc’s eyes lit up as he took Bea from stall to stall, sharing tastes of hot cayenne and pungent cumin and savory ras el hanout. He held out a strand of golden saffron for Bea to try; she went to take it from his finger, but he shook his head.
“It is too delicate. This way is better.” He lifted his finger to her lips, and it felt so much more erotic than kissing as she took it into her mouth, gently letting the intensity of the pure saffron wash over her tongue.
He let his finger rest on her lips for a moment, and she wanted to kiss it, to kiss him, to get the hell away from the crowd of bystanders and the laughing merchants she felt certain were mocking her in Arabic.
Instead she just smiled, and Luc ran his fingers along her jawline. “A pity I need my hands back at all. I’d rather leave them with you.”
After the spice market, they went to the home of a squat, exuberant grandmother who offered cooking lessons in her copper-filled kitchen.
“Today, we make chicken with couscous, vegetable, and saffron. You like saffron, yes?”
Luc put his hand on the small of Bea’s back. “She loves it.”
Luc’s tendency to veer over-the-top was one reason Bea couldn’t see herself trusting him—was he putting on a romantic performance, or was he just genuinely European? But chopping chicken and vegetables together while Grandma Adilah yelled at them to adjust their form, Luc cursing under his breath in French that she didn’t know the first thing about knife work, then laughing when Bea understood well enough to call him out, Bea felt she was starting to get a sense of what a life together might actually look like, how his character might be outside the trappings of all these grand gestures.
“Tell me about your restaurant?” Bea asked, mincing ginger as Luc butchered a chicken, his knife easily finding the magic spaces between the joints.
“It is not my restaurant.” He sniffed.
“But you’re the head chef there, right?”
“Yes, it is my place—but I am cooking someone else’s vision. Ultimately, nothing is your own unless you can make your own choices, unless success or failure rests only with you. Like with your work, no? No one tells you what to photograph, what to say. You say what you think, and this is why so many people adore you.”
Bea hunched over the ginger so he wouldn’t see her blush. “That’s kind of you.”
Luc shrugged. “It’s just the truth, no? This is what I want, to get my own place—many places, if I can.”
“In America or Europe?”
He smirked. “And why not both? Would you object to summer in New York and winter in Paris?”
“Spring in L.A., autumn in Rome?”
Luc paused his chopping and leaned in toward Bea. “I think this is an excellent plan.” They kissed, and it was all so easy, so attractive. A shared little fantasy where they both were welcome tenants.
Once the cooking was done, they ate their meal in Grandma Adilah’s twinkle-lit garden, where warm blankets and space heaters were required to keep them from freezing in the desert night. After dinner, they fed each other slices of orange drizzled with honey, and Bea thought she’d never tasted anything so perfectly sweet in her life.
Back at the riad, Luc kissed Bea good night, surrounded by cameras and bathed in artificial light. When Lauren called cut and declared the date was a wrap, Bea said a quick good night to Luc and made her way back to her room. The date had been flirty and enjoyable—time with Luc always was—but Bea didn’t feel any more certain about him than she had beforehand. She washed off her makeup and threw on sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt, then crawled into bed; she was looking forward to a good night’s sleep before her day with Asher and Jefferson tomorrow.
She had just turned out the light when she heard a knock on her door.
“Ugh,” she groaned, and flipped her bedside light back on. She trudged over to the door and opened it, expecting a producer or PA with some new bit of information about her morning call time.
But instead, there was Luc, wearing chic dark sweats that probably cost more than most men’s best suits, carrying a bottle of wine. It was just like his surprise visit the night of the crème brûlée—except this time, there weren’t any cameras.
“Luc, what are you doing here?” Bea folded her arms over her chest, wishing she’d put on one of the buttery nightdresses Alison had packed for her, or that she’d bothered to brush her hair instead of throwing it into a crooked bun, crunchy hair spray and all. “Do the producers know you’re here?”
Luc grinned mischievously. “We are adults, no? We can choose our own destiny?”
Bea felt a mild panic rising—she barely knew this man. Before, his behavior had always been so predictable: the cheesy flirting, the vying for camera time, for fame. But now he was alone in the doorway of her darkened bedroom—what did he want from her? Did he expect sex? She certainly wasn’t ready for that—oh God. What the hell was happening?
“Oh no,” he murmured, his expression falling as he read Bea’s face. “I thought it would be a little pleasure to see you without the cameras, but now I see I have made you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she stammered, trying to figure out the right thing to say and what she actually wanted in the same breath. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Um, I need to go to sleep soon, but one glass of wine would be okay? I guess?”
“You are certain?” He looked unsure. “The last thing I want is to give you troubles.”
“It’s okay.” Bea smiled, heartened that he seemed nervous too. “Please, come in.”
She turned on more lamps in the room as he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. She pulled a robe out of her wardrobe to throw on over her PJs.
“No,” Luc said with a smile, “but I love you in this T-shirt.”
“Really?” Bea laughed. “Maybe I should have worn it on our date today.”
Luc produced a small wine key from his pocket and began opening the bottle, a deep Moroccan red.
“Perhaps I am wrong,” he said, “but when I see you in your fashions, your makeup, your hair all done, I think this is like your armor, your uniform for war.”
“Love is a battlefield?” Bea raised an eyebrow.
“Non, Ms. Benatar.�
�� He smiled. “There is something about these fashions that feel like—a challenge, I think is the right word. Like you are telling the world the way you want them to see you.”
“Doesn’t everyone do that?” she asked, feeling a bit self-conscious that this man who seemed so self-involved had seen her so clearly.
“Yes, but not for a living.” He grabbed two glasses from a sideboard and poured the wine, then brought them over to the little settee where Bea was sitting. “Now, like this, you are soft. Unguarded. I prefer it.”
They clinked glasses and drank; the wine was dark and fruity.
“So.” Bea tried for a flirtatious tone, but she was afraid it came out more pointed. “Do you want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”
“Here in your room? Whatever you like.”
“No.” Bea flushed. “Here on this show.”
Luc cocked his head. “What do you mean by this?”
“Well,” Bea explained, “tonight, for example. When you were telling me about your restaurant, and how you want to own your places. Being famous would help with that, right? Make it easier to get investors?”
Luc looked puzzled. “Yes, of course.”
“I mean, that’s why you came on this show, isn’t it? To raise your profile, to become a celebrity? To help your career?”
“Certainly,” Luc admitted. “Is this a problem?”
“No, but—” Bea paused, unsure how to articulate her concern. “I guess I thought that that’s why you wanted to spend time with me. Not that we weren’t having fun, but just that—I don’t know. If we weren’t here, on this show, you would never give me a second glance. That’s why I don’t understand why you’re here in my room now, when there aren’t any cameras.”
Luc put down his wine, his expression darker now. “You are saying you do not have interest in me.”
“Luc, come on. I was sure you had no interest in me.”
“But why? Why would you assume this?”
“Look at you!” Bea spluttered. “The longer I keep you here, the more fame you get. And if I pick you in the end, it means magazine covers, and TV specials, and interviews, and …” Bea felt like an idiot. Of course he was here to increase his own chances of winning, especially now that she was getting closer with Asher and Sam. Of course. “I just answered my own question, didn’t I?”
Luc frowned. “I do not understand.”
“It’s fine, Luc. I like you, and we have a good time together. I won’t send you home unless there’s a reason to, okay? I’m not trying to get in the way of your goals.”
She stood and walked toward the door, assuming this was the assurance he wanted, but he looked even more upset as he came to follow her.
“You think I am a liar.”
“What? I didn’t say that!”
“This is what you are saying right now!” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You think I am using you for my own gain, that my enjoyment of you is false. Is this really what you think of me? That I would be so cruel?”
“Luc, you have to understand where I’m coming from here.”
“Why did you agree to do this show?” he demanded. “You work in an industry where publicity is valuable, like mine—was this a factor in your decision?”
“Of course it was.” She exhaled. There was no use in lying to him, even if she did feel like a hypocrite.
“So?” he pressed. “What am I to think? Are you leading me on, pretending to fall in love with me so your audience will fall in love with you?”
“That’s not the same!” Bea protested.
“What is different? You think I would pretend to have feelings for you because I am some kind of liar, but you would never do the same to me?”
“I had twenty-five men here, Luc. Why would I single you out and pretend to be interested in you?”
“Perhaps because, for our first week together, I was the only one showing interest in you.”
The remark hit Bea in the gut—that awful first night, the catastrophic afternoon on the boat, and Luc, out of everyone, taking time to make her feel beautiful. She didn’t feel beautiful now.
“Maybe the fact that you wanted me from the beginning is the reason I don’t trust you.”
Luc looked genuinely confused. “Why would you say this?”
“Because it makes it seem like you have an agenda! You have a lot to gain by being here, and more to gain the longer you stay. You’re one of the most attractive men on this show, one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. I don’t date men who look like you, and I can only presume you don’t date women who look like me. So what am I supposed to think, Luc? That you’re some perfect prince come to rescue me from my nightmare of a love life? Or that you came here with a goal, and you didn’t waste any time setting out to achieve it?”
“Is that what you thought when you met me?” he asked quietly. “Is it what you thought the first time I kissed you?”
“I thought you were playing me.” Bea shrugged. “Maybe I was right.”
“And you think this because you believe I cannot be attracted to you. This is how you see yourself?”
Bea wanted to speak, but tears threatened. “It’s how men like you see me,” she choked out, and Luc’s face crumpled, his anger suddenly gone.
“I understand, I understand,” he murmured, pulling her close. “You are not so tough after all, my Bea.”
“Who ever said I was tough?” she joked, burying her face in his chest.
“I think you are beautiful,” he whispered. “Your face, your body, your laugh. Can you believe this?”
Bea looked up at him, trying to read his face. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm. I think perhaps this is good news for me.”
Bea frowned. “How so?”
“Because this means I will have to prove how much I want you.”
He rested the pads of his fingers lightly on her cheekbones, gently circling the contours of her face. The gesture was so small, so intimate, that Bea felt shaky—she closed her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her, and with no cameras, no makeup (hell, no bra), it felt like something honest and apart from the artifice of the show, like instead of a luxury riad in Morocco, they could be in his apartment in New York, or her place in L.A. Everything was slow, languid; none of it felt urgent or performed. He kissed her for a long time, and then he held her, still standing, breathing slowly.
“I’m glad you came over,” she whispered.
He smiled and kissed the crown of her head. “So am I.”
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, MARCH 27: MAIN SQUEEZE PRODUCER THREAD
Shareeza [6:38am]: Is Bea finished in wardrobe yet? We’re supposed to load out in ten
Mike [6:38am]: She is DRAGGING this morning, she’s so tired and cranky and everything’s taking forever
Mike [6:39am]: Which makes no sense, didn’t we wrap her early last night?
Jeannie [6:39am]: One of the PAs ran into Luc in the hall at 4am
Jeannie [6:40am]: Related???
Shareeza [6:41am]: Lauren, are you seeing this? What do you want us to do?
Mike [6:44am]: Bea just rejected outfit #4. Lauren?? Where are you???
Lauren [6:49am]: Was with Luc trying to figure out what went down last night
Lauren [6:49am]: (He went to Bea’s room and NO ONE caught it! Come on guys!!!)
Lauren [6:50am]: Reezy, get down to wardrobe and tell Alison we’re going right now—we’ve only got the camels for five hours
Shareeza [6:51am]: Copy! Bea says if someone doesn’t get her an iced coffee she’s breaking up with everyone
Lauren [6:51am]: Honestly same
Bea was absolutely exhausted after her night with Luc, but once some blessed PA procured her caffeine and the production crew headed out of the city into the fresh air of the mountains, she started to feel a bit better. The Atlas Mountains were stunning—blue and jagged, blanketed in thick green groves on their western side where rain fell, rocky and barren to the east where
Morocco abruptly faded into endless sand. Bea journeyed up the side of a mountain in a 4x4 with their guide for the day, Rahim, who had a truly lush beard and a warm, mischievous manner that made Bea laugh—something she sorely needed after all the emotional drama of the night before.
“Riding a camel is basically like riding a horse,” Rahim explained over the whip of the mountain winds, “but the meat is much gamier.”
“I feel like you switched thoughts there, Rahim.”
“If the trek goes south and we need to eat our camels to survive, I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into—a nice, smoky flavor.”
They made it to a little plateau near the base of the mountain, where Asher, Jefferson, and the camera crew were already set up to film Bea’s arrival.
“Hi guys!” She waved, inelegantly dismounting the 4x4—Jefferson rushed over to steady her.
“Take it easy, we’re not even on the camels yet.” Jefferson let out a big laugh, and Bea was reminded momentarily of that feeling she’d had on the first night when he called her “little lady,” when she couldn’t quite tell whether he was laughing at her expense. But he flashed a broad grin and kissed her on the cheek, and she dismissed the thought; it was genuinely nice to see him.
“Hello, Bea.”
Bea looked up to see that Asher was still several feet away—he made no move to come closer.
“Hey.” She walked over to him, noting how wonderfully normal he looked in his faded jeans and woolen sweater: a dad from Vermont. She wanted to hug him, to rest her head on his shoulder and snuggle into his arms—but something about his manner stopped her, made her ill at ease.
“Seems like you’ve had a good week,” he said, an edge in his voice.
“Yes, this country is amazing. I really love it here.” Bea was so confused—the last time she saw him, they’d been confessing their feelings and kissing passionately. What had changed?
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