One To Watch: this summer's must-read romcom to fill the Love Island-shaped hole in your life

by Kate Stayman-London

  “Congrats.” Bea rolled her eyes. “You nailed it.”

  “No, come on, Bea, that’s not what I mean.”

  “What, then?”

  “A couple of things, because I know you’re going through hell right now, and I have a lot of information you don’t—I’m the one interviewing these guys ad infinitum when you’re not in the room, okay?”

  Bea looked up at Lauren. “What do you know?”

  “First, that Sam and Asher both really care about you. I know Jefferson got in your head, flared up all the doubts you’ve been having since day one. And I know how badly it hurt to have two guys in a row refuse to spend the night with you—but neither of them knew the other was going to do that. You’ve worked so hard to trust them—don’t stop now.”

  “Because it would be bad for the show?”

  Lauren exhaled in frustration. “Bea, we’ve been through this—at this point, what’s bad for the show is also bad for you. You want to spend your last two weeks here moping and feeling sorry for yourself and end up alone? Have at it. But I also want to remind you that there’s an exceptionally attractive man waiting for you in Amboise, who frankly hasn’t fucking shut up for weeks about how badly he wants to get you in bed.”

  “Really?” Luc had said as much to Bea, but somehow hearing it from Lauren made it seem like it could actually be true.

  “Yes.” Lauren sighed. “Really. So maybe we can put this week in a different perspective? You had great dates with Sam and Asher. You opened up to each other and got closer, and they both told you in no uncertain terms that they want to stick with you for a long time. So you didn’t spend the night with them? Fine. You have a fresh start with Luc today—and I have something really special planned for you guys. Don’t waste it. Don’t let every fear and bad thought you have about yourself stop you from having the fabulous fantasy with him that you deserve.”

  Bea knew Lauren wanted what was best for the show—to avoid another depressing episode on the order of the boat catastrophe. But she also couldn’t help feeling that Lauren had grown attached to her, had begun to root for her success. And she was right, in any case, about their goals at this stage being aligned. It wasn’t Luc’s fault that Sam and Asher had rejected her—there was no sense in punishing him for it.

  “Okay,” Bea told Lauren. “I’ll do my best.”

  Bea wasn’t sure what Lauren meant by “something special,” but when they got to the hotel in Amboise and began filming, she saw Johnny lounging beside a full-on Cinderella horse-drawn carriage. It was painted gold, driven by a man in fancy pantaloons and a white powdered wig, and drawn by four white horses with elaborately curled manes.

  “What is all this?” Bea laughed, somewhere between giddiness and horror.

  “I have an invitation that explains everything,” Johnny pronounced, then handed her a scroll that was tied with red ribbon. Bea unfurled it and read aloud:

  “Dear Bea, you’ve spent the whole season planning such amazing dates for me and the other men here.” This was hardly true, she noted internally—Lauren and the producers did most of the planning. But she read on anyway: “So today, I wanted to plan something special for you. Will you join me for a royal ball at the Château de Chenonceau? I’ll see you there when the clock strikes five. Oh, Jesus,” she added despite herself.

  “Do you accept the invitation?” Johnny asked.

  “Who would say no to a royal ball?” Bea laughed, giving in to the ridiculousness of it all.

  “Excellent.” Johnny held open the door of the carriage, and Bea climbed in.

  When they arrived at the Château de Chenonceau, they couldn’t see the castle itself—just a small building for buying tickets and an elaborate tree-lined avenue that ran through the immaculate gardens before it reached the palace beyond. The little ticket building had a space that was usually a gift shop, but today, it had been remade into a dressing area for Bea.

  “Just wait until you see.” Alison grinned. “Christian Siriano asked if he could make something for you.”

  She led Bea to a room filled with light, where a spectacular ball gown was waiting on a dress form. The corseted bodice was a rich forest green with a wide portrait neckline and bracelet sleeves, and the full princess skirt was hand embroidered with thousands upon thousands of swirls of crinkled tulle, deepening in an ombré from the palest mint green at the skirt’s waistline to a green as dark as the bodice at the hem. This wasn’t just a custom gown—this was couture, worthy of the cover of Vogue, of any runway in the world. Made personally and especially for Bea.

  “I know it’s not exactly your style,” Alison was saying, “but when Christian called, I knew right away that this would be the perfect occasion. What do you think?”

  Bea could barely raise her voice above a whisper. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”

  As Bea’s team put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup, Bea thought back to her interview with People—could it really have been just seven weeks ago?—when she’d told the interviewer she’d never heard of a fairy tale featuring a fat princess. Now, here she was, feeling more beautiful than she ever had in her life, on her way to attend a ball with a man handsome enough to be cast as a prince in any movie, a man who’d spent the better part of their time together working to convince her how strongly he felt about her. It was going to be a big, special moment on television—but even more than that, it felt to Bea like she had reached a real turning point in her own life. Last winter, alone and missing Ray so intensely, she’d fervently wished for her life to change; today, she couldn’t deny that it had. That she was becoming someone new. That she was believing, despite all the mess of the week so far, that she was on a path toward something better.

  “So?” Alison asked. “How do you feel?”

  She felt like a dream. She felt like a fraud. She felt like a fucking princess.

  “Grateful.” She turned to Alison with tears in her eyes. “I feel really, really grateful.”

  Back outside, climbing into the horse-drawn carriage was considerably more difficult now that Bea was wearing a massive gown, but she was fully committed, and with the help of a couple of intrepid sound guys, they made it work. The carriage drove down the center of the tree-lined avenue to the Château de Chenonceau, the afternoon sunlight dappling through the leaves and making everything look magical.

  The Loire valley was home to dozens of magnificent castles that had belonged to one French noble or another, but the Château de Chenonceau was Bea’s favorite. The château was built over the Loire river instead of beside it, the castle itself becoming a sort of graceful bridge, its piles and arched girders serving as the foundation of the home. As the outline of the magnificent structure came into view, Bea saw that there were people everywhere, all dressed in period garb like the courtiers who would have been here hundreds of years ago.

  “This is incredible,” Bea laughed with amazement—and then she saw Luc.

  He was standing at the castle doorway in an immaculate black tuxedo finished with a crisp white bow tie—of all the people there, they were the only two in modern dress—and he was so handsome, she couldn’t humanly believe he was there for her. Luc helped her down from the carriage, then took a moment to admire her.

  “Bea, in this dress—you are perfect.”

  “I’m not complaining about you in that suit either.”

  She took his arm, and he led her into the palace, through the arched entryway where a butler handed them both glasses of sparkling rosé, and into the grand gallery directly over the river.

  The gallery at Chenonceau was different from other castles’ ballrooms because of the strange shape of the building, but Bea thought it was all the more special for that. The room was long and narrow, with soaring ceilings, black-and-white stone floors, and rows of tall windows looking out over the river in both directions, giving the space the airy feeling of being suspended in midair. Dozens of men and women in suits and gowns were dancing to the music of a
small orchestra, and when Luc asked Bea to join them, she didn’t hesitate.

  Luc wasn’t the strongest dancer, but God they had fun, the cameras rushing to keep up with them as they laughed and swirled around the floor until they had to take a break because Bea felt dizzy.

  “What is it? Is everything all right?” He looked at her quizzically, but she just smiled.

  “It’s nothing.” She leaned against him. “Should we get another drink?”

  He grabbed two glasses from a passing server and suggested that they take a walk to explore the château.

  Upstairs, they wandered through bedrooms where Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici had once slept, admiring the carved fireplaces and ornate tapestries. The sun had set, and stars were starting to appear; Luc led Bea out to the balcony over the castle’s entryway to better observe them.

  From the balcony, Luc and Bea could see the castle gardens, which were filled with glowing lanterns—the production staff had really outdone themselves tonight. Bea’s corset was too tight to eat much (so that’s how those women stayed so thin, she thought bitterly), but the wine made everything pleasantly wispy and buzzy: the people wandering through the gardens, the orchestra music playing dimly downstairs, Luc’s arms grazing her waistline.

  “I think about you each night.” His throaty voice tickled at her earlobes. He was stronger than he looked, she thought. The tide of his arms was pulling her in, always wanting more. Everyone wanted so many things from her—to believe in herself and see her own true beauty, but not to be conceited, to know her place. Be more than your looks, but never speak out of turn. Don’t be defined by love, but remember, you’re nothing without it. Be a princess. Find your prince. You don’t need a man to complete you. Stand on your own two feet.

  It all swam together—this place, this dress, this man, this role she was supposed to play, this person she just wasn’t. Princesses don’t sleep with engaged men and get rejected twice in two days. She shouldn’t be here, this was never supposed to be her, it was just Lauren’s brainchild to help their careers. Lauren. Lauren wanted her to have a good night, to have fun with Luc, but how was she supposed to when she felt so confused? But Luc wasn’t confused—he was right there, his chest pressed against hers, tasting faintly of smoke as he kissed her—he was kissing her. When had he started kissing her?

  “Wait”—she pulled back, gasping for breath—“wait … I’m sorry, my head. I’m sorry.”

  Everything was spinning, and she had to sit down—wasn’t there anywhere to sit down?

  “I knew something was wrong.” Luc helped her to one of the balcony benches, then turned to a field producer. “Can you send someone up here? Bea isn’t feeling well.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Bea tried to take a deep breath, but she couldn’t. The corset was squeezing her, the air was too thin. “This is silly. I had too much to drink.”

  “You’re not silly. You had perhaps two glasses? Let them check on you, all right?” He was sitting beside her, gently stroking her hair.

  In short order, the on-set paramedic arrived and confirmed Bea was exhausted and dehydrated. His prescription: food, water, and since she couldn’t eat in her gown, to change into some more comfortable clothes.

  “But the ball!” Bea protested and turned to Luc. “I’m ruining our date.”

  Luc kissed her forehead. “You are just taking us on a new adventure. Let’s put on pajamas and have some frites. After all, we are in France, non? What is France without some fries?”

  An hour later in luxe cashmere sweats, Bea sat beside Luc in the château courtyard, sipping water and admiring how good he looked in his tuxedo pants and white button-down, his undone bowtie hanging loose around his neck. The staff had set up a gorgeous table spread with food for them, surrounded by hundreds of candles.

  “How did they do this so quickly?” Bea asked.

  “I asked if it was possible, and they said, since I was French, they could, so long as I promised them I was the one you liked best.” He dropped his voice to a comedic whisper. “They do not want you to marry an American. They are very invested in us together.”

  Bea was sure he was joking, but looking around, a lot of the staff had gathered eagerly to watch them enjoy the cheese and charcuterie and warm, crusty baguettes they’d laid out. Luc made sure Bea’s plate was never empty and her water glass was always full, shooing the staff away when they tried to do anything, adamant that he’d care for her himself.

  Bea thought back on all the little moments when Luc had rescued her throughout filming. The very first night, when she thought she might have a panic attack, he was the one who made her feel beautiful. After the catastrophic group date on the boat, it was Luc who came over with crème brûlée, who kissed away her heartache. He’d let her rail at him in Morocco, spent hours by her side. And in New York, when she’d publicly dismissed him, then changed her mind, he didn’t get angry or defensive. All he did was take her in his arms and tell her, again, how much he wanted her.

  From the very beginning, Bea had thought Luc was the most attractive man in the house. Was that why she couldn’t trust him—why she could never quite believe he might actually like her as much as he said he did? She had grown to believe that Asher had true feelings for her, as did Sam. Was it so impossible that Luc could too? And, more to the immediate point, was she so certain he was a liar that she’d throw away an opportunity for them to spend another night together off camera to find out more?

  Luc gazed at her deeply, the candlelight illuminating his five-o’clock shadow that had started to grow in.

  “What are you thinking, my Bea?” he asked, lifting a hand to her cheek.

  She was thinking of how long she’d been here, of how much she’d changed since that first night of filming. She was thinking of Asher, and of Sam. She was thinking of Ray, how much she still missed him, how far away he seemed.

  “I was thinking …” Bea formed the words slowly, like if she wasn’t careful they might disappear before she could speak them. “Maybe you and I should go back to our hotel?”

  Luc’s whole beautiful face warmed as his lips spread into a smile. “Together?”

  She nodded. “Together.”

  As they gathered themselves to head back to the vans, Bea saw Lauren standing near the castle entrance, talking with a couple of the camera ops. She looked over at Bea and caught her eye—then gave her an assuring nod. Bea nodded in return, and Lauren smiled.

  Sleeping with Luc was nothing like sleeping with Ray.

  With Ray, there had been an oppressive urgency, a shared knowledge that whatever the two of them would ever have together could only exist in the space of these few hours, this one night. It was ending as it was beginning, their long-delayed happiness already mingling with their inevitable destruction. They didn’t luxuriate in lengthy explorations of their bodies—there wasn’t time for that. They consumed each other instead, and when morning came and he was gone, Bea felt chewed over, destroyed.

  With Luc, everything was different. The soft way he kissed her, how tenderly he removed her clothes.

  “And you’re sure you are okay?” He must have asked a dozen times, and every time she laughed and told him she was, and every time he smiled with genuine relief, and every time she let herself fall for him just a little bit more.

  “You understand my concern,” he said, kissing the edge of her jaw beneath her ear. “At the château, I kissed you, and they had to call the paramedics. I would not want to cause a cardiac arrest.”

  Bea tried to come up with a rejoinder, but she was having trouble being quippy. Then Luc started kissing her neck and slowly moving his mouth down her body, and she stopped being able to form any thoughts at all.

  “You’re certain you want this?” he asked a few minutes (or maybe hours) later. He’d gone to find a condom and now was back in bed, lying beside her, his muscled body fully displayed in the lamplight. Bea ran her hands along the dark tattoos on his arms, marveling at how unself-conscious he w
as—she had pulled a sheet up to her armpits as soon as he’d gotten up.

  “I think I do,” she said, but her voice was small and unsure.

  “Bea,” he said, kissing her gently. “It’s okay if you’re not ready. Tonight, next week, next month. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She reached for his neck, and he pulled her close to kiss her. “I’m ready.”

  He slid the sheet down her body, and the light touch of his fingers grazing her torso gave her chills. She leaned over to turn off the bedside light, but he stopped her.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Bea blushed. “I just—that’s what I usually do.”

  Luc grinned at her. “But you know the chef eats first with his eyes.”

  “I’m no expert, but I thought the chef ate pretty well with his mouth.”

  Luc threw his head back and laughed, then leaned down and kissed her deeply.

  “Let me see you,” he whispered. And Bea nodded.

  “Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you,” she implored—there was nothing uncertain in her voice now. “I want this.”

  He lowered himself down, his body hovering above hers. “Do you remember what I said, the first night I met you?”

  Bea’s eyes searched his—the moments all jumbled together, she couldn’t pick out the one he meant. She shook her head, then gasped softly as she felt him move into her. He let his weight press her down, and she loved the feel of him pushing her deeper into the mattress. She twisted her limbs around him, pulling him closer, kissing him harder.

  “Tell me,” she pleaded, and suddenly she was desperate, she had to know. “Tell me what you said the night you met me.”

  He moved his fingers down, and she felt everything being pushed out of her body and brain except him and this; the sounds they made were low and primal.

  “I said,” he rasped, “you should have everything you want.”

  He moaned her name, and his voice was full of gravel; the stones flooded over her, rough and smooth like the banks of a river, remembering and forgetting, and she was gone.