Page 5 of Rosé with My Fake Fiancé
I do my best to keep up, but everything is sofascinating,and I’ve never done anything like this. When we pass through the guest sculptor’s workspace, my eyes snag on an unfinished piece. I can see the Rodin influence, though it’s a modern take on some of the sculptures I’ve already seen.
Even though it’s not done, the pose is somehow suggestive. The way the muscles are contracted, the lean arms positioned...
Oh my god. It might be a man grabbing someone’s hips and thrusting from behind.
Or maybe that’s just my mind being in the gutter right now.
“What are you thinking about, Tessa?” Luc’s voice is close enough it makes me jump, and based on his grin, he knows exactly what I was admiring. My cheeks are too flushed to deny it, so while we catch up to Maurice, I fan myself, and Luc chuckles.
Maurice ends the tour, and I thank him for his time before he bids us goodbye. Luc offers me his arm, and it’s so gentlemanly that I’m taken aback. When was the last time a man offered me his arm? Luc is too damn charming. I hook my arm through his and feel that zing of attraction again when our skin touches.
Luc leads me through the streets of Paris, occasionally glancing down at me with his ever-present smile. He points out small things that have become part of the Parisian landscape—intricate carvings hidden in building facades or graffiti—and big things—Michelin-starred restaurants and filming locations from iconic movies.
Arm in arm, we cross over the Seine and stop together to look out on the water and watch a few boats pass. When I glance up, I know exactly where we are—there’s the Louvre, and the Grande Roue De Paris, the spokes of the Ferris wheel slowly turning. My heart twinges. Even in full daylight with a stranger, it’s so freaking romantic here.
“Have you been a tour guide for long?” I ask when Luc starts us off again toward the far side of the bridge. “Off and on for a few years,” Luc answers. I appreciate him continuing to speak French with me, even though I have flubbed a few times, and embarrassingly, I had to ask Maurice to switch to English as he got too technical for me. “I don’t do it often anymore, but it’s my friend’s company, and he asked me to fill in when the original tour guide called in sick.”
“What do you do when you aren’t a tour guide?”
“I bartend and also drive for a rideshare app.”
My eyebrows raise. “Three jobs?” None of which require advanced education. Luc is young, but notthatyoung. And then I reprimand myself. Who am I to judge? Most people haven’t had a life as easy as mine.
Luc shrugs. “Mostly just the two. I like working with people, and the hours suit me. It also means I get to have a car in Paris, which is difficult for most people, and I often have time in the day to spend with my grandmother, who needs care sometimes.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
Luc waves it off. “No, please. I didn't mean it like that. She’s spry for her age, but I like to see her.”
“That’s nice,” I say, envious that he has someone. My grandparents passed away when I was a teenager, and my dad died when I was in my thirties. I only have my mother and sister left, and we aren’t close.
“What about your family?”
“My family lives in Houston while I live in—” I cut myself off with a laugh. “Well, I was going to say I live outside of Austin, but that’s not true anymore.”
Luc glances at me, amusement tipping his lips up.
“I live here now. Well, not here,” I rush to say when I see Luc’s surprise. “I’m a journalist, writer, and editor. Because I can work remotely and from anywhere in the world, I’m moving to The Algarve in Portugal.”
“That is not so far from here,” Luc points out, and I get the sense I’ve unintentionally encouraged him because his smile widens.
“A two-and-a-half-hour flight,” I agree. “I fly out Sunday and settle into my new apartment.”
“Only a weekend in Paris?”
“Even though it’s my favorite city, yeah, I’m just having a quick trip. I’m excited to get settled someplace new.”
He nods and then pulls me to a stop. “That building,” he says, pointing across the street, “is one of the oldest houses in Paris.”
“I believe it,” I say, squinting at the facade. It’s gray and weather-worn, looking like it’s being held up by the building next to it. The timber cross beams give it a medieval feel. “Where are we?” Glancing around, I don’t recognize the part of Paris we’re in.
“Le Marais, the old Jewish quarter. Home of many old buildings and even more wonderful bakeries. I thought we would get the best rugelach in the city. It’s not a Nutella-filled crepe, but it’s adjacent.”
This time, Luc takes my hand. The simple gesture sends a wave of goosebumps up my arm despite the summer heat. The casual intimacy is sweet, and Luc guides me to our destination while giving me some of the history of the area. Now that I’m looking for it, I spot advertising for kosher cafes and flyers in Hebrew.
Luc tugs me into an aged but bustling bakery. I peer into the glass case while he orders for us, and then we adjourn to a small local park to sit on a bench and eat. “What is this again?” I say, holding up the filled pastry that looks a bit like a pig-in-a-blanket but smells of cinnamon and sugar.
“Rugelach,” Luc says, and then repeats it slowly to me until I say it correctly with the guttural “ch”.
