One To Watch(65)

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 br?lée—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?”