“Yes, thank you.”
“Your presence at my parents’ charity dinner will be sorely missed,” he says.
Your presence here won’t be. Ugh, I should’ve never slept with him!
I should’ve known it would result in yet another disappointment. All my lovers since Henri have fallen short of my hopes. It didn’t matter whether they had a title or knew who I was. Most, including Julian, handled me with too much care, too much reverence. While I do expect to be treated with respect, subservience is not what I want, nor what my body needs, from a lover.
It’s something I do try to tell them subtly, and sometimes not so subtly. But they won’t listen. They can’t hear me behind their wall of adulation. Where it gets weird is that the few foreign men that I was cleared to date under my Delaroche alias, acted no differently. I’ve concluded that something about me acts as an inhibitor on my lovers, including the ones unaware of my royal lineage.
As an experiment, I’ve tried a different approach. I told the man I dated for a bit last year exactly what I wanted him to do and how to do it. That was a failure, too, because it put me in control. I can’t come when I’m in control.
When I shared my quagmire with Sophie, she set me up with an ex of a cousin of hers who she promised would give me what I was looking for. The guy took charge, all right, which was appreciated. But all he seemed to care about on our first night was his own pleasure. On our second night, he instructed me to call him “Sir.”
To my raised eyebrows, he argued, “In bed, I’m your master!”
“What does that make me?” I asked.
“My slave.”
Needless to say, security escorted him out five minutes later, and there never was a third night.
Why, why is it so hard to meet someone like Henri again? How come he was able to find the right balance of control and respect, hit that soft spot between focusing on my needs and satisfying his own?
Is that too much to ask?Am I the problem?Am I the kind of woman that makes it impossible for anyone to get it right?
Maybe Henri never hit that spot. He was my first love, so I might’ve embellished our relationship. The self-deception probably began in real time, while we were together. After we broke up, I kept piling on layers of imagined perfection, turning him into something he wasn’t. The ideal lover for me. An unattainable standard for other men.
I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. He’s crouching in front of a bush, stained fingers reaching for another ripe berry. As he plucks it, our eyes meet, and there’s a moment between us, fleeting yet charged.
Meanwhile, Emily is flirting with Yann like there’s no tomorrow. She’s orbiting around him, her every word and gesture a study in seduction.
“You’re the fittest person I’ve ever met,” she coos, her eyes glued to his biceps. “And, let me tell you, I’ve seen my share of musclemen during my lingerie modeling days.”
He cracks a smile. “Owning a gym does have its perks.”
“I bet it does.” She nudges his arm playfully, her touch lingering. “I should work out more than I do. Maybe you could give me some personal training tips?”
Yann’s grin widens. “I’m sure I could show you a thing or two.”
“Yes, please!” she claps, delighted.
His gaze drops to her cleavage. “Lingerie model, huh?”
Their banter continues, as does our hike. Henri, who’s been trailing a few steps behind, catches up with Julian and me. He hasn’t said a word, but his presence feels like a silent challenge to Julian. The air between the two of them begins to crackle with unspoken hostility.
“So, Gigi, which region of which country will your next guide cover?” Julian asks in a transparent attempt to mark his territory.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“You should do Dordogne,” Henri says.
Julian’s mouth twists. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Might ruin her luxury travel brand.”
“This,”—Henri points toward the vineyards and the medieval village clinging to the cliffside—“is luxury. And so are the truffles.” He looks at me. “Write about my truffles. They’re the best.”
Julian glowers at him. The tension between the two rises another notch. Fortunately, we’re at the end of the trail, and everyone turns to Henri in expectation. Stepping into the center of the group, he presents us with two options to get to the village of Rocamadour. We can climb 233 steps or take the elevator. The majority votes for the elevator, despite Yann’s pleas to pick the steps.
The ride up is short but filled with an air of anticipation. Once we arrive, it’s like stepping back in time to the MiddleAges. The ramparts, the towers, and the ancient buildings in cream and gray stone that have defied gravity since the twelfth century… The beauty of this place is almost surreal.
