One To Watch(97)

“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 chateau.

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 chateau 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 br?lée, 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.