Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANTOINE
T he poolside is decorated with soft lights strung from palm trees, their glow reflecting off the water. A live band plays pop hits. The newlywed couples mingle over cocktails and finger foods. It’s all very festive and only moderately contrived.
I’m clad in ripped skinny jeans that are cut low enough to make me feel exposed. The black shirt I’m wearing untucked over the jeans is an abomination with rhinestones that spell out RENEGADE.
I wonder if it was Pedro or some other MESS agent that picked this outfit for me. Whoever it was, they must’ve had a good laugh forcing an Evorian peer to dress like a Casanova from the wrong side of the tracks in Marseilles.
Perhaps I’m reading too much into their intentions.
My wardrobe is simply optimized to fit the archetype that makes Laura tick. By the way, I better act like I think I’m cool, or else she might see through my subterfuge. My “better half” is far from stupid.
And she looks amazing tonight. Her red dress suits her perfectly, complimenting her figure and skin tone. She’s chatting with one of the show’s producers, and her smile illuminates the space better than all the strings of lights combined.
When their conversation ends, she comes up to me. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
“It’s a possibility I’m considering.”
“Because you’re afraid that if you sit down in those jeans, you’ll split them at the seams?”
I smile. “They’re not as uncomfortable as they look. Don’t you like them?”
“On a Kurt Cobain type of guy, totally.” She grins. “But on a hunky beefcake…”
Was that a taunt or a compliment?
She points with her glass. “Oh, look, there’s the couple we saw on the beach! We haven’t met them yet. Shall we talk to them?”
“Let me finish my drink first.”
Laura raises an eyebrow. A fully justified reaction, because nothing prevents me from talking to them with my drink in hand. But the prospect of meeting more people I have nothing in common with, and would rather not know, triggers my inner introvert and makes him say nonsensical things.
Fortunately, Isabelle swoops in. “Antoine! Laura! How’s your evening going? Are you enjoying the Honeymoon’s End party?”
“Very much,” Laura says.
“Have you met all the couples yet?”
“Almost,” Laura answers.
“We’re looking forward to seeing your salsa routine!” Isabelle’s gaze flicks to me. “I hear you two were quite dedicated during practice.”
I nod. “Quite.”
She gives me a tight laugh, then excuses herself to harass another couple. Laura and I trade a look. Hers is amused, mine less so.
As the band shifts to a slower tune, Laura pulls me toward a small group gathered near the bar. Introductions follow—names, hobbies, forced pleasantries. I contribute the bare minimum, all while noticing Laura’s easy rapport with everyone she meets. She’s relaxed and charming, and her warmth genuine.
For no reason, I picture her hosting a garden party at Chateau de Bellay. She’s radiant, like now. Her gown is less sexy but more elegant. A champagne flute in hand, she circulates, chatting to our upper-crust guests with so much natural, unaffected cordiality that it even rubs off on me.
What the hell?
I push the image out of my head. The idea that Laura could fit into my world is preposterous. Not to mention that there’s no basis for assuming she’s naturally convivial. What I’m observing now is simply Laura still exhilarated by a luxury she’s not used to, surrounded by people like her, and having a jolly good time.
Unlike me.
This noisy, overenthusiastic, live streamed party is starting to feel like it’s closing in on me. Lights reflecting off the pool, bursts of manic laughter, music that’s too loud for my taste—it’s all suddenly suffocating. Laura is in her element, but I need air.
“Be right back,” I whisper to her. “Restroom.” I turn around and weave through the crowd toward the most remote corner of the property, as far away from the cameras and the relentless cheeriness as I can get without technically leaving.
I halt on one of the wooden pathways to gaze at the dark waters of the sea and fill my lungs with the cool, salty air.
Ah. Better.
But as much as I’d like to stay until the party ends, I know I can’t. I begin to make my way back, scanning the crowd for Laura.
It’s her body language that catches my attention first. She’s standing stiffly and sideways, as if preparing to walk away. Her arms are crossed over her chest—not in a casual way, but tight, defensive.
Then I spot the guy. Fabian, if memory serves. He’s one of the bridegrooms we met tonight. I can’t see his wife anywhere. He’s leaning toward Laura, too close, his gaze far too lecherous. Even from this distance, I can see it’s fixed on her cleavage.
Gritting my teeth, I push through the crowd.
A few more steps, and I’m close enough to catch Fabian’s come-on. “…I’m just saying, if things don’t work out with Antoine, we should grab a drink sometime, you and I.”
The audacity!
“I live in Paris,” he adds. “In my own apartment. What about you?”
Laura’s response is polite but curt. “I’m pretty sure Antoine and I are fine.”
Good girl.
“Hey, no pressure,” he chuckles. “I’m just putting it out there, beautiful.”
That’s enough.
I plant myself beside Laura and wrap my arm around her shoulders—not hard, just enough to stake my claim. Fabian, who’s shorter than me, looks up. It’s rather satisfying to watch his smug expression falter.
“Is there a problem here?” I ask.
“No problem,” he replies quickly as the last vestige of his smile slips.
I stare him in the eye. “Good. Because I’d hate for there to be any misunderstanding.”
He laughs nervously.
But I’m not finished. “Just so we’re clear, Laura’s out of your league.”
He nods.
“And in case you forgot,” I add. “She’s taken.”
I sense her surprised gaze flicking at me. To be honest, I’m equally surprised by my show of possessiveness.
Fabian’s face flushes red. “Of course. I didn’t mean—uh—sorry about that.”
He stumbles backward, mumbling more apologies, and disappears into the crowd.
Laura turns to me, her eyes wide.
“What?” I shrug as I let go of her arm. “I wasn’t going to let that idiot annoy you all night.”
She surveys my face.
Before either of us can say more, Isabelle’s amplified voice cuts through the noise. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for our Honeymoon Challenge showcase!”
Laura and I move closer to the stage. The crowd cheers. Isabelle reads off the first couple’s names, followed by the announcement of the skill they’ll be demonstrating. The couple we saw on the beach steps forward. The band plays “Summertime , ” and the couple sing as a duet. Honestly, not bad! The next couple do a lukewarm cheerleading routine.
Laura adjusts her skirt, her attention already on the performance area. We’re up next.
When Isabelle calls our names, I offer Laura my hand. “Ready?”
She nods. We step forward together.
The music starts. As the upbeat rhythm pulses through the warm night air, the two of us move into the basic half-closed position. My right hand settles on her back, just below her shoulder blade. She leans into it, as if to let me know she trusts me fully to guide the dance. I sense no unnecessary tension. Good. Her left hand finds its place on my shoulder, her touch light but steady. I anchor my stance, and she mirrors the adjustment, aligning with me.
And then, on my signal, we dance. Laura manages not to step on my feet. Better still, she’s gotten the hang of the Latin body mechanics. She keeps her spine tall, shoulders lowered, the core engaged, and the hips moving in the perfect figure eight pattern. She’s doing great.
I guide her with more and more ease, varying the handholds—and she follows. When I venture into the intermediate side-by-side position, she keeps up. The world narrows to the steps, the music, and the feel of her hands in mine.
Everyone cheers when we nail a particularly flashy turn.
We’re going to pull this off, aren’t we? Not bad for a fabricated couple!
The song ends with a flourish, and we step back, both slightly out of breath.
Laura gushes, “That was so cool!”
“You’re welcome,” I say, earning a playful swat on the arm.
The applause swells as we leave the makeshift dance floor. My mood has improved immensely. I bow and wave to the crowd. Even the cameras rolling don’t bother me. When one cheekily zooms in for a close-up of my face, I don’t turn away.
I look straight into the lens and smile.