Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  It doesn’t help that Aventures de Caumont bikes are proper touring cycles, with proper pedals designed for proper cycling shoes. The only way I can make it work is to wedge my toe under the front lip and let my spiked heel hang off the back. My toes are throbbing, but I refuse to stop even for a rest.

  The champagne bottle is banging painfully against my hip, the Mylar balloons keep smacking me in the face, and my dress keeps riding up. Every hundred yards or so, I have to stand on my tiptoes and yank my skirt down. I haven’t checked, but I am almost certain I have left a trail of beads and sunflower petals.

  A truck full of road repairmen slows and the driver yells, “Oolala, la vache!”

  Cars beep their horns as they zip by on the narrow road. A few of my balloons pop, my ass hangs out of the bottom of my dress, and my head pounds-pounds-pounds, but I don’t stop until I reach the hill leading to Roussillon.

  I have to get off the bike and push it up the final steep climb to the village. Perched atop magnificent rust-colored cliffs, Roussillon is a major must-see in the South of France. Visitors from all over the world come to marvel at the village carved into the cliffs, the view, the vast Provençal sky stretching for miles, like an enormous blue canopy. It’s the perfect setting for a romantic rendezvous, even if you have to climb in shaky Louboutins to get there.

  Though, I am not feeling all that romantic. My feet ache, my dress is shedding beads like a stripper shaking her moneymaker, and I don’t need a mirror to tell me my ginger ’fro is plastered to my sweaty, bruised head.

  And I have to pee. Sweet Jesus in Heaven, do I have to pee! It could be nerves or the bottle of Coke I downed in the van on the way here. At this point, I am running on masochistic adrenaline and caffeine.

  On my discharge papers, Nurse Terminator wrote in big BLOCK letters, “Take pain medication as needed and no strenuous activity for ten days.”

  I chuckle a little maniacally. If the old Terminator could see me now, she would jab a hypodermic needle full of phenobarbital into my arm and push the plunger until I was out cold on the rusty road.

  When I finally reach the village, I am gasping for breath and limping like a long-distance marathon runner crossing the finish line. I don’t know what is propelling me forward—sheer determination or rampant insanity—but I am determined to make it to the hotel, find a bathroom, repair the damage to my appearance caused by the death march, and ask Luc to marry me.

  My stomach aches at the thought of proposing, but I am determined to make it epic, even without the fireworks and fluttering doves. I will knock on his door, hand him the flowers and champagne, and lead him out unto the balcony with a panoramic view of the hills and valley. Then, while the setting sunbathes us liquid gold, I will get down on one bruised knee, declare my love for him, and beg him for his hand in marriage. It will be unexpected and quirky-cute. It will be the stuff of two-hankie rom-coms.

  An orange-painted sign points me in the direction of the village square, so I follow it and unwittingly push my bike smack-dab into the middle of some kind of photo shoot. The spotlight is, quite literally, on me—and a dozen impossibly beautiful models posing seductively on or beside shiny touring bikes.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckedee. Fuck. This is not happening. This is so not happening. I did not just hobble into Angelina von Teese’s photo shoot.

  I look for a quick escape route, but I am too late.

  “Vivia?”

  Maybe if I close my eyes real hard and click my heels together, my Karma Godmother will whisk me far away from this nightmare.

  “Vivia? What are you doing here?”

  When I open my eyes, Luc is standing about ten feet away from me and the models have peeled themselves from their bikes to inspect the ’orrid leetle creature brazen enough to interrupt their fifteen minutes of fame.

  This is it. This is the way my epic proposal is going to go down, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. I look a ratchet mess and Luc looks…oh, freak me...Luc looks more handsome than I remember him to be. He’s still in his cycling gear, the tight-fitting spandex black shirt and riding shorts that accentuate every chiseled ripple of his Michelangelo worthy physique, and his aviator sunglasses. The Provençal sun has tanned his skin a rich brown.

  “Luc.”

  Now that the moment is finally upon me, I don’t know what to say. “Luc, will you marry me?” sounds lame. My bones suddenly feel as if they have turned to JELL-O—my legs wibbling and wobbling above my dusty heels.

  “Who is zat?”

  Angelina von Teese herself steps closer to Luc, hands on narrow hips, lips pursed like she’s taking a duckie face selfie.

  Luc ignores her and steps closer to me.

  “Vivia? Why are you here? What happened to your head?”

  “La!” Celine’s red-lacquered lips curl on her fashionably pale face in a way that reminds me of Heath Ledger as the Joker. “So zhees ees Vivia?”

  I drop my bike and shoot Miss Thong a look that says, “You better just back the hell up. I am hungry, tired, nervous, and my meds have worn off.”

  “Vivia? Did you ride here wearing those shoes?”

  I look down at my feet, notice the blood staining the toes, and look back at Luc. “You said you liked them.”

  Celine rolls her eyes.

  A cameraman moves closer. He is preserving this entire humiliating encounter digitally. It will probably end up on YouTube under the title Sad American Girl Chasing Disinterested Frenchman. Great! Just add video humiliation to my curriculum vitae of social media disgraces.

  The models snarl at me as if I just said the dirtiest word in their lexicon: cellulite.

  “Luc, I called you the other day because I wanted to tell you—”

  “When? When did you call me? I didn’t get a message.”

  I narrow my gaze on Celine and she takes a step back. She never gave Luc my message. I figure out her game in a model-skinny minute. The Facebook photographs, the super models bike tour, the phone call. She’s making a play for Luc. She realized she had a good thing and she’s trying to get him back. Well, sister, take a number and step on back. I’m the one with the bubbly and the ring, so I figure I got first crack at him.

  Luc takes off his sunglasses and reveals his beautiful, soulful, smoldering eyes. The lights, the cameraman, the sneering models, even Celine, fade to the background and there is only Luc. I forget my pretty speeches, reach into my bag, and pull out the mangled sunflowers.

  “This was supposed to be an epically romantic moment, one you would remember for the rest of your life, but I’ve bungled it.” I take a deep breath and exhale. My breath sends several sunflower petals spinning to the ground. “I’ve bungled a lot of things, actually. First, I let Bishop Raine kiss me and then I tried to cover it up. That was a big bungle. The other day, I went hiking in the pouring rain and fell off a mountain. Another epic bungle. A pack of coyotes would be using my bones for toothpicks if a Coast Guard Search and Rescue crew hadn’t found me.”

  Luc frowns. I don’t know if he’s angry or concerned.

  “I was sitting on a ledge, thousands of feet above the ground, bleeding and in pain, and all I could think about was you.” I pause to wipe the tears from my cheek. “Luc, I don’t know how to paddleboard or ski or bake pastries. If you did put me on skis, I would probably veer hopelessly off course and end up causing an avalanche. I can’t speak French fluently, deworm a ram, outdrink a Scot, or pose like a supermodel. I am only really good at one thing: loving you madly and deeply.”

  I hand the flowers to the cameraman and reach into my bag to pull out Luc’s ring. I planned on getting down on one knee, but my legs are so shaky I would probably end up flat on my face, with my bead-less derriere up in the air. So I hold the ring on the palm of my hand and present it to Luc.

  He doesn’t take it. He stares at me as if I…as if I am wearing a mangled designer gown and cycling helmet.

  The models snicker. Celine giggles. The cameram
an pulls back to get a wide shot, presumably of the Sad, Stupid American Girl proposing to the Disinterested Frenchman. I just know any moment Luc is going to turn and walk away, leaving me with a ring I couldn’t afford and a bundle of wilted flowers.

  I am about to lose my grasp on the slender thread of hope I’ve been clutching all day, when Luc puts his hand around the back of my neck, pulls me close against him, and kisses me the way only a tall, dark, über-sexy Frenchman can kiss.

  The villagers who gathered burst into applause.

  “Does this mean you will marry me?”

  “You never asked.”

  “Luc, will you—”

  “Oui, mon cœur. I will marry you.” He kisses me again. “And I promise, I won’t ever ask you to deworm a sheep.”

  Text from Stéphanie Moreau:

  Pls, Im begging u, pls do not pick cotton-candy pink as the color for yr bridesmaids dresses. Bisous.

  Text from Poppy Worthington:

  Congratulations! I’ve watched the video of your proposal on YouTube a dozen times. Your bravery inspired me: I am resigning from my position with Worthington Boutique Hotels and buying a sheep farm in Plockton, Scotland.

  Text from Poppy Worthington:

  Aye, lass, I am serious.

  Text from Camille Grant:

  Vivia, it’s your mum. Guess what? Anna Johnson’s daughter was arrested in Golden Gate Park for committing lewd acts…and she wasn’t with her husband! Anna is beside herself. I’ve been praying all day that God would forgive me for feeling just the teensiest bit happy.

  E-mail from Fiona MacFarlane:

  Dear Vivia,

  We read your articles about our farm and couldn’t be more flattered. Thank you, Vivia. If you ever want to visit again, we would love to have you and Luc.

  This from Angus: I filled in the hole by the old shed and Torcach hasn’t had a “seizure” since.

  Calder has accepted an assignment to a Coast Guard station in Alaska, but he asked me to relay the following message, “Tell Bùtais I am verra happy for her and to please avoid choosing mountainous destinations for her honeymoon.”

  All the best,

  Fee

  Meet the Author

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31669

  Be sure not to miss Leah Marie Brown’s first book of the It Girls series

  Faking It

  Haven't you ever told a little lie in the name of love?

  Vivia Grant couldn’t be happier. She has her dream job and is about to marry her dream man. Does it really matter that she’s led him to believe she’s a virgin? After all, being in love makes every experience feel like the first time anyway! But an unexpected encounter with an ex-lover is about to expose her embarrassing lie…

  When Vivia’s fiancé discovers the truth, he ends their engagement—via text—and uses his connections to get her fired. Unemployed and heartbroken, Vivia begins planning her new future—as a homeless spinster. But her best friend has a better idea. They’ll skip the Ben & Jerry’s binge and go on Vivia’s honeymoon instead. Two weeks cycling through Provence and Tuscany, with Luc de Caumont, a sexy French bike guide. Too bad Vivia’s not a big fan of biking. And she’s abysmal at languages. Will she fib her way through the adventure, or finally learn to love herself—and Luc—flaws and all?

  Faking It on sale now!

  Learn more about Leah Marie http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/31338

  Chapter 1

  Saint or Sinner?

  All right, I’ll admit it; I have told more than one man he was my first lover. I don’t know why I started lying about my sexual history, but I think it could have something to do with my name.

  What’s in a name? If you’re looking for the poetic answer, check out Shakespeare. If you want a real-life example of the importance of a name, of how it helps shape the personality and sexuality of an individual, read on.

  I’m Vivia Perpetua Grant. I know what you’re thinking. What in the hell sort of name is Vivia Perpetua?

  I’m a little shaky on the details, but apparently old Vivia Perpetua was a noblewoman who lived a thousand years ago and was imprisoned because of her faith. I’m not sure if she was known for her modesty or her virtues. Either way, my grandmother—God rest her soul—raised my mother to believe that Saint Vivia Perpetua had been the superlative woman, someone who knew that chastity and humility paved the road to Heaven, just as wantonness paved the road to Hell. Saint Vivia Perpetua spent her last few morally-correct moments on earth in a Roman amphitheater being torn limb from limb by a boar, bear, or leopard. I don’t remember which wild animal mauled the martyr, but that’s not really the point.

  My mother named me Vivia Perpetua because she believed naming me after some long-dead, mostly forgotten saint would motivate me to spend my life collecting unused eyeglasses for the blind or doling out mosquito netting to malaria-plagued Africans. Not that there is anything wrong with those efforts, but please. Even more important than my mother’s desire to raise a socially conscious do-gooder was her desire to raise a young woman who would guard her chastity until matrimony.

  It didn’t work.

  I never dabbled in drugs—not even a puff on a joint, despite the fact one of my friends promised me smoking pot would make me popular and increase my breast size—but in high school I cranked Aerosmith and had sex. I’ve been out of high school for ten years now. I still like rock and roll and I still like sex.

  In fact, I love sex.

  My mother could have named me something more normal. I could’ve been one of a million Jennifers or Amys, and it wouldn’t have made one bit of difference. But no. She had to saddle me with Vivia Perpetua and a load of baggage about sex. I have more baggage than the Louis Vuitton flagship store on 5th Avenue in New York City, which I visited once with my best friend Fanny Moreau who works as a Regional Merchandiser for LVMH. Fanny is gorgeous, smart, talented, and has sophistication oozing from her otherwise immaculate pores. She’s French, so I’m pretty sure the sophistication gene is hardwired into her DNA. Fanny never lies about her sexual history. She is confident and blunt.

  Like when I first met her. She told me her name was Stéphanie Elise Girard Moreau, and I told her mine was Vivia Perpetua.

  “How horrible,” she gasped, as if I had just confessed to having been born one half of a blind and deaf Siamese twin. “I cannot call you this name. To me, you shall be Vivian.”

  She pronounced the name in such a seductive way it made me wish my name was Vivian.

  “Like Vivien Leigh?”

  “Exactement.” She smiled. “Only less tragique.”

  We were best friends from that moment on. We talk every day, and we share all of our secrets.

  The first time I told her I’d lied to a lover about my sexual prowess, she said, “Honestly Vivian,” pronouncing the end of my name with her charming nasal accent, “I do not understand why you lie about such things. If a man won’t accept you for who you are, he is not worth the Dior Gloss.”

  Fanny and I are addicted to Dior’s Addict Ultra Lip Gloss, but at $25.00 a tube, we’re careful to use it on only the most delectable and Dior-worthy dates. It has become our code-phrase.

  “Was he Dior-worthy?”

  “I thought he would be, but he spent sixty-eight minutes talking about his ex, suggested I pay half of the bill, and then tried to use a Groupon to pay for his half.”

  “Chérie, I hope you saved the Dior.”

  Fanny is obsessed with Christian Dior. Not the conglomerate, but the couturier. She even quotes him.

  “Remember Christian’s mantra: ‘The tones of gray, pale turquoise, and pink always prevail,’” she once quipped, in an effort to persuade me to wear an absurd fuchsia bubble skirt.

  But I digress.

  I was supposed to be telling you about my pathological need to portray myself as a virgin, why it is my mother’s fault, and why I am now in the eye of the maelstrom that has des
troyed everything I once cherished.

  Maybe I should start at the beginning….

  Chapter 2

  Losing My Virginity

  I lost my virginity when I was seventeen to Leo Crandall, a gangly cello player who lived down the street from us. My mom fell in love with Leo from the first time he rode his Little Fire Chief Big Wheel up our driveway and declared he was “on duty.” She proclaimed his mop of blond hair, wide brown eyes, freckled nose, and slight lisp “blooming precious” and insisted we play together often, even though I complained he used his Transformer to crush my Strawberry Shortcake doll. As he grew, Leo became more studious, earnestly practicing his cello while other boys his age were perfecting rad tricks on their BMX dirt bikes.

  In our junior year, we both worked at Sonic Burger. Sometimes he would give me a lift home. Leo was sweet and dependable, like a sad-eyed basset hound, but he didn’t raise my pulse. If Steven Spielberg ever wanted to turn my life into a movie, Leo’s part wouldn’t be played by Ryan Gosling or Brad Pitt. Leo did not have leading man appeal. He was more of a supporting character, like Harry Connick, Jr. in Independence Day.

  I had sex with Leo because I was angry that Jason Thomas asked Carrie Stemokowitz to the prom instead of me. Jason had been the subject of my preteen fantasies ever since he’d blocked a dodge ball from hitting me in the face during fourth grade PE. Carrie was my arch nemesis. Petite, popular, pretty, and the captain of the pom-pom squad, she was my polar opposite.

  I was angry with my mother for insisting I go with Leo to the Prom and for making me wear one of her vintage store finds, a ruffled gown in a shade she called delicate daffodil. I disagreed, saying it was more of a junkie jaundice yellow, which prompted my mother to cross herself and my father to peer at me over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. My dad, a professor of Religious Studies at UC Davis, could make a lecture hall full of self-impressed students tremble with a single disapproving glance.