by Stacy Travis
Inside, someone had fully equipped the white marble chef’s kitchen with every necessary modern appliance and stocked the open shelves with floral-painted dishes and delicate glassware. I couldn’t imagine Chris handpicking everything in the kitchen, or in the house, for that matter. Not when he traveled for work and lived in New York.
“Who furnished this place?”
He looked sheepish. “I had to hire someone. I knew I couldn’t be here to do all of that. Does that seem… bougie?”
“No, and please don’t feel self-conscious for having money. I know you work hard. I have a job too. I just don’t happen to get paid as much at mine.”
“Which is unfair.”
“Well, you don’t know that,” I said. “I could be shitty at what I do.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
There were at least five bedrooms if you didn’t count the small second house on the property, which had one more, along with its own living room, kitchen, and bathroom. I’d have been happy with that place, let alone the impeccably furnished main house. Every room had stylish but comfortable overstuffed sofas and chairs and was decorated with patterned throw pillows, glass lamps, and blue-green rugs that matched the Mediterranean Sea.
The grounds spread out for several acres, lush green grass rolling toward a rectangular pool and surrounding deck with lounge chairs under wide umbrellas and a cabana in the corner. All the cushions were white and pristine, which meant someone must have been there ahead of us to clean everything and make sure not a speck of dirt or dust marred any surface.
I had no idea whether that was according to Chris’s instructions or those of his assistant, but I couldn’t help feeling acutely aware of a level of privilege no one else I knew had experienced. And at the same time, all I wanted to do was jump into that pool and lounge on a chair in that yard. The setting was entirely too inviting.
Every moment since our dinner the night before had been dusted with the glow of movie romance that turned my questionable travel choice into a vacation dream I never could have pictured. It scared me.
I knew I was living a fantasy, one that would end in a matter of days when I flew home and Chris went back to New York or wherever he had to go next. Of course, it would end. A big part of the wild attraction we felt was knowing our time together was fleeting. The ticking clock made every moment precious and romantic.
That’s why I knew I had to keep my emotions in check. This is just a fling, I almost said out loud. I’d known him for one day, and we’d already proven that we couldn’t go an hour without our hands all over each other. As good as it felt, it was almost too much. I hadn’t planned for any of this, and I couldn’t be certain if I was carefree enough not to get attached. Chris seemed lost in his own thoughts, but I couldn’t worry about that.
Breathe, I told myself. I had a habit of getting overwhelmed when I didn’t have a plan, and nothing about being in a new city, secreted away behind the walls of a stunning beach house with a man I barely knew, spelled plan. With my mind spinning off in directions that were only going to take me to a meltdown, I had to get a grip.
“Hey,” Chris yelled from the other side of the grass, where he’d been typing on his phone while I explored. “You hungry? There’s a cute place in town that opens at twelve.”
I nodded. Cute was comfortable. Cute was something I could manage. The house, on the other hand, was overwhelming. “I’m in.”
Chapter Eighteen
Antibes
I insisted on walking. Chris said he hadn’t walked into town once since he’d bought the house. To me, that seemed like all the more reason to do it.
But he had bikes and mopeds and even a skateboard and I’m sure he figured they were fun and a lot faster.
“The bikes are fun. We could ride into town,” he said, hinting once more. I could tell he’d prefer that, but I smiled and took his hand, leading him away from the storage shed where he kept his toys.
“Can we do that next time? I’m kind of excited about the walk,” I said.
“You’re adorable. There’s no way I’m going to say no to you.”
“I think it will help me get the lay of the land if I’m on my feet, and I don’t want to get lost here.”
“It’s a lot harder to get lost here than in Paris. And what makes you think I’m going to abandon you all of a sudden and you’ll lose your way?”
“I assumed you’ve got stuff to do here. Isn’t that why you came? I figured I’m not going to be with you twenty-four seven, so I’ll need to find my way around.”
“Sounds like you’re working on a plan.”
“It helps me sleep at night if I plan things,” I said, which reminded me we hadn’t slept all night and I was still reeling from jet lag. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d actually slept for eight hours straight. It had to have been three days earlier in LA. No wonder I felt light-headed. It couldn’t all be because of the guy. I wasn’t that easily bowled over.
“I’m fine walking, but you should know that the place I had in mind is about an hour away if we walk. On bikes, it will take us twenty minutes max,” he said. “That’ll leave us time for other activities.”
“Ha. What kind of activities?” I asked, smirking. Maybe he meant things like paddle ball on the beach, but that’s not how it sounded. He grabbed my hand and interlaced his fingers with mine.
“Whatever you want,” he said.
“Four-hour Scrabble tournament?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t want that, but you’ve convinced me. Let’s take the bikes.”
“Are you always this easy and pleasant?”
“Not always. But a morning of orgasms has made me very agreeable,” I said.
“Well then, I’ll make sure you’re agreeable the whole time we’re here.” He went back to the shed to pull out the beach cruisers. I opted for the green one, which left him with the purple.
He scowled and I laughed. “Why do you have a purple bike if you don’t like the color?”
“I didn’t pick out the bikes. And I’m fine with the purple.”
“Lemme guess. Your assistant picked them out?”
“They came with the house. How long are you going to give me shit about having an assistant?”
I laughed and started to pedal. “As long as you have an assistant.”
I was hungry. Bikes were the right call. After we’d ridden for a while, the air changed as we got farther away from the water. I could see what he loved about this place. As small and quaint is it was, it had nuances. Like the cobble stones that appeared every so often and shuddered under our bike tires.
We cycled to the small road that led from the coast. It was flanked by bushes and palm trees and a wall that every couple hundred yards had a gate leading to a private home. I liked how one second we were on a side street and the next we were on a larger street with taller trees, no longer palms but Mediterranean in feel, with agave and lavender growing outside some of the properties. It was the perfect road to travel on bikes.
The restaurant Chris chose was a vine-covered country farmhouse with white tablecloths on small round tables nestled against an ancient cement wall. It had so much charm. Concentric circles of pebbles spread out below our feet, creating a rock floor with grapevines forming a trellis above our heads.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
I loved its simplicity. I had no interest in dining in a Michelin-starred restaurant, mostly because I was wearing shorts and I might not know what to order. Fortunately, Chris knew better than to go overboard with a crazy-fancy venue. The place was casual, though the people around us were clearly of an elite set.
Across from us at another table, a woman in a large straw sunhat and tortoise-shell glasses sipped wine. Her floor-length white caftan would have been as appropriate at a wedding as by the pool at an expensive hotel. She and her companion, a man in pressed navy shorts and a sweater tied around the neck of his polo shirt, looked like they’d just
stepped off their yacht. They were sharing a bottle of white wine, with drips of condensation glistening in the sun.
“Should we have wine?” Chris asked.
“Oh, yes. I think we should,” I said, deciding that if I was going to be on vacation in the South of France, I would go for it one thousand percent. I’d started my day with caviar, and I saw no reason to veer off course now.
He handed me the wine list, and I carefully looked it over before passing it back. “I have no knowledge of French wines, or anything that isn’t in the cheap reds section at Trader Joe’s. But thanks for the option.”
“I don’t know that much about wine either. I usually just order something in the middle of the price range and hope for the best. It mostly works out.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Chris knew the restaurant owner pretty well, and he came over with a warm greeting and a kiss on both cheeks. He kissed me as well, welcoming me like a guest in his home.
The menu was simple—cheese, salads, foie gras for starters, fish and meat as entrées, and a bunch of desserts. We had the option of choosing a salad and dessert, a main course and dessert, or a main course and salad. I didn’t think long before deciding. “A salad, no question because it’s hot and I can’t imagine eating hot food. And a cheese plate for dessert. You can share it with me.”
“Works for me,” he said.
I looked again at the woman in the caftan and the big hat. She was tanned, chic, and fabulous in the way that a third-generation baroness who was born into a certain way of life would be—casual and comfortable around caviar and good French wine. Chris caught me stealing another glimpse of her and turned to check out the object of my fascination. He looked back at me and shrugged.
“That woman is the image of the French dream, swanning through the Côte d’Azure, dipping her toes into the Mediterranean—but not going farther because she doesn’t want her silk caftan to get wet—then lounging on a mega-yacht and sipping champagne.”
“Sounds nice,” he said before shaking his head. “You realize, of course, that she could be meeting with her divorce attorney, who’s picking up the tab for lunch, and planning whether to use her Crock-Pot or the microwave to cook dinner for one later.”
“You really know how to spoil an image.”
Chris ordered grilled fish and a chocolate tart with Tahitian vanilla cream. “You will be having a bite of that. I insist.”
“I will be having a bite.”
Chris was looking at me like he has something on his mind, and once we were finished with our first glass of wine, I discovered why. “You mentioned you were supposed to have a friend come with you on this trip,” he said. I did mention it, but I was surprised he was mentioning it now.
I froze while lifting my class to my lips. “Um, yeah. I was.”
“What happened? Why couldn’t your friend come? Is it okay if I ask?”
I put my glass down without taking a sip. “Um, sure. You can ask.”
He didn’t say anything, maybe because he’d already asked. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to answer or what I should say. I looked at my glass like I might find the answer in its depths.
“Hey, forget I asked. It’s not important. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said.
“No, it’s okay. He was my boyfriend. He cheated on me, we broke up, so I came alone.” I looked up at him, relieved to have gotten the words out.
“Ah, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s not worth it. I was momentarily heartbroken, but I’m over it. Really.”
“Are you really over him?”
I smiled. “Are you worried I’m on the rebound? I might be on the rebound. I don’t feel like I am, but I don’t really know.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m not sure that matters.”
“You mean because we’re just here having a fun vacation fling?”
“I mean because I like you and I don’t care what brought you here.” He seemed to reconsider what he’d said. “I just mean, I’m happy you’re here. And for the record, your ex-boyfriend is an idiot.”
“He is an idiot. And thank you. I’m happy to be here with you too. So can we not talk about my idiot ex now?”
He reached for my hand. “Not now or ever.”
Lunch unfolded over an hour and a half of sipping wine and talking about why Chris had been so taken with this place. I confessed that I’d read Debra’s magazine article about the house, though I hadn’t focused enough on it to notice who bought it.
“It’s not pretentious in the South, not at all. A lot of farms spread throughout Provence and farther south, just humble, normal,” he said.
“Even with Saint-Tropez and all the fancy beaches?”
“Those are different. That’s why I like it here.”
“I still feel like a student traveler who should be squatting in a hostel. Nothing’s going to make me feel like I have anything in common with that woman in the caftan and the hat. Even a caftan and a hat.”
“Well, I didn’t buy a house in one of those places. This town is very low-key. Unless you stay at one of the resorts. They can feel a little more chichi, but that’s because they cost a fortune. Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice dinner by the pool at one of them. Maybe later in the week.” He relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes as the sun hit his face.
I took the opportunity to take a good look at him, understanding for the first time what people meant when they described a person as having “movie-star good looks.” It wasn’t just that he was conventionally attractive. His face had character, subtle expressiveness, and lines that had to have come from experience. Or pain.
So far, he seemed so easy and comfortable. I couldn’t imagine what his dark side could be. Then I worried that it was only a matter of time before I would find out.
Chapter Nineteen
The Old City, Antibes
I couldn’t go into the Old Town without venturing to the Picasso Museum. After seeing the art at the Musée d’Orsay, my expectations were high.
“You know, there’s an incredible Picasso museum in Paris. It was redone a few years ago, and it’s in this really cool hotel particulier,” Chris said.
“In English, señor, por favor.”
“A mansion, basically. Built for a guy who made his money collecting taxes on salt.”
“Like, table salt?”
“Yeah, you know, back in the 1600s when salt was worth more than gold.”
He’d done his homework. I remembered the salt tax from a class I took in college, but back then, the words I’d read in my textbooks had felt far removed from reality. Seeing the places where history unfolded, where the Romans built aqueducts and tax collectors built mansions, brought the events to life as if someone had just painted colors on my black-and-white textbook world.
“Got it,” I said. “Well, if you’ve noticed, I’m no longer in Paris. So it’s gonna have to be this Picasso Museum.”
“I’m game,” he said, starting to walk in the direction of the museum. I stopped walking, and he turned around. “What’s up?”
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “A couple times.”
“So, like, what—five or six?”
“I have no idea. Does it matter?”
“Well, kind of. I don’t want to drag you someplace you’ve been a million times.”
“You’re not dragging me. Will you stop?”
“Stop what?” I asked.
“Worrying about everything. If I don’t want to do something, I’ll tell you. Okay? But only if you promise to do the same.”
I studied him to discern whether he wanted to go to the museum again or not. I couldn’t tell. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him, walking backward in the direction of the museum, leading me like a small unwilling child he had to walk into her first day of school.
“Okay, I promise,” I said, picking up the pace. I really did want to see whatever works
of art this Picasso museum had on its walls. I anticipated the same joy I’d felt in front of all those impressionist pieces. Picasso did not disappoint. Neither did Chris.
An hour later, we were done with the museum and back outside. I assumed we’d ride back to his house, but Chris had other plans. “I have an event later this week. Will you be my date?” he asked, kissing me sweetly on the lips.
I felt like he was asking me to the prom. “Will you bring me a wrist corsage or a nosegay?”
“Um, whichever you’d like?” he said, casting a side glance at me as though he wasn’t sure if I was joking.
“No, no corsage. Kidding. What kind of event?”
“A movie premiere. I’m asking you to be my date at the movies.”
“So, popcorn and making out in the balcony? Sure. I’m in.”
“Definitely popcorn, and making out at anyplace else of your choosing, but not in the theater. Will you go with me?” he asked, rubbing his hands together like a nervous schoolboy.
I knew enough to know what movie premieres entailed. I’d seen plenty of red carpets outside of movie theaters, where the streets had been blocked off and sometimes fans lined up behind barricades, trying to get a look at the stars when they walked in. There were often lights sweeping across the sky to announce the film’s opening. I was just not a starstruck kind of person, so I’d never gone to a premiere, even when a client set aside a handful of tickets for our office. People were always jockeying to go, mainly for the after-parties, where they could eat catered food next to actors and production crew and bring home souvenirs they could put on their desks. None of it interested me.
“You’re making it sound really quaint. I just have one question. Is it your movie?” The no making out in the theater part kind of clued me in. I imagined there’d be gawkers.
He looked uncomfortable, but a tiny shred of pride couldn’t help escaping in the guilty smile on his face. “Yes.”
