Page 15

FIFTEEN

CHARLOTTE

èze is a fairy tale, with its picturesque ancient stone buildings draped in ivy and flowers. Normally, the village would be teeming with tourists, but thanks to the Monaco Grand Prix, it’s mostly deserted. Lucas wore a baseball hat—which is a close second to gray sweatpants in the girl porn clothing competition—to keep a low profile, but he quickly realized it wasn’t necessary.

We spend an hour meandering down alleyways and cobblestone streets before we end up in a small square surrounded by charming shops. Their windows display an array of handmade soaps, tiny perfume bottles, and delicate ceramics, all untouched by the usual throngs of visitors. It’s at one of these shops that we learn about Parfumerie Galimard, a local perfume laboratory. To my surprise, it’s Lucas who suggests that we check it out, claiming it sounds like a “fun activity.” I think he’s more interested in having a plan than the actual perfume, but I’m on board. I’ve been on the lookout for a new scent since my last perfume bottle shattered when Theo tossed my carry-on luggage into the back of an Uber like it was a sack of grain. Lesson learned: travel with your perfume bottles in plastic baggies unless you want your clothes smelling like nectarine blossom and honey .

Despite the very specific hard-to-fuck-up instructions the shopkeeper gave us, Lucas whips out the Maps app on his phone. The perfumery is in a beautifully preserved historic building. The entire village has been around for thousands of years, but while many restaurants and stores have updated interiors, this structure still holds a sense of old-fashioned elegance. When a woman greets us in French, dread washes over me. I hate having to ask people whether they speak English. But as it turns out, that’s unnecessary, because Lucas replies in perfectly accented French.

Excusez-moi?

The two of them volley back and forth while I stand there in stupefied silence. Every time I think Lucas has reached peak hotness, he outdoes himself. There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who’s bilingual. Maybe because it hints that he’s good with his tongue?

“I am élisabeth,” the perfume lady says, turning her attention to me. “Your boyfriend says you would enjoy a private tour and workshop. Yes?”

Boyfriend? Maybe Lucas’s French isn’t as good as he thinks. Clearly, something got lost in translation. Even so, I confirm the tour part before turning to Lucas and smacking him in the stomach. On contact, pain radiates through my hand. I can only imagine the hit hurt me more than it hurt his abs.

“I can’t believe you speak fluent French while I’ve been walking around making an arsehole of myself, tossing around the phrase ‘parlez-vous anglais’ like a typical tourist.”

“Your French accent is cute,” he says with a laugh that has my heart rate increasing. “And I wouldn’t say I’m fluent, but I know enough to get by.”

“My French accent sounds like silverware in a garbage disposal, you liar. ”

With a grin, he holds out a hand, signaling for me to follow élisabeth, who’s patiently waiting to start our tour. She guides us through the mini museum, pointing out the gleaming vintage machinery and the star of the show, an antique perfume organ used by master perfumers. Although élisabeth probably does this tour a thousand times a week, she answers every one of my questions with enthusiasm. The tour ends in a sleek, modern area filled with bottles and ingredients for our workshop.

She seats us at a workstation with droppers, pipettes, small glass beakers, and scent strips, along with a selection of essential and fragrance oils, and explains the architecture of how to create perfume. The variety of scents is impressive to say the least—everything from corn and nectarine to ones I’ve never heard of, like seriguela and cloudberry . She encourages us to try everything rather than going with a preconceived idea of notes we will or won’t like.

“Smell this one,” Lucas says, holding out a test strip.

I lean down and sneeze at the mossy, woodsy smell. “That smells like a national park.”

“In a bad way or a good way?”

I scrunch my nose at him. “My idea of outdoorsy is sitting on a patio with a cocktail in my hand. What do you think?”

He lets out a loud laugh that echoes off the walls. “Okay, so it’s a pass.”

“Don’t skip it just because I don’t like it,” I tell him with a wave. “It’s your cologne.”

“Why would I create a scent you don’t like?” he asks, arching a brow. “If I did, then you’d be less inclined to hang out with me.”

Swoon .

“I think your ability to speak French cancels out smelling like a forest.”

Grinning, he gets back to work, so I follow suit. While I stick to testing out fruity and floral scents, Lucas strays toward the spicier ones, avoiding anything that I deem smells like camping. I don’t actually know what camping smells like, since I’ve never been, but one can assume.

“Oh, I love this one.” I shove a test strip in front of him. “Isn’t it good?”

He jerks his head back, his face scrunched up adorably. “That doesn’t smell like you.”

Head tilted, I fix him with an inquisitive stare. “Well, yeah. It’s supposed to smell like”—I turn the bottle around so I can read the label—“heliotrope.”

Whatever the fuck that is .

“It’s too vanilla,” he says, tossing a rejected tester into the small container on the table.

“What’s wrong with vanilla?” I ask, offended on behalf of the world’s most beloved flavor. “It’s a fan fave. You’ve got vanilla ice cream, vanilla cake with vanilla frosting… hell, even vanilla sex can be top tier if you know what you’re doing.”

élisabeth lets out a squeak and drops a small vial of thyme to the table with a clatter. Clearly, she understands English. I shoot her an apologetic smile, but Lucas simply chuckles.

“I’m not saying vanilla is bad,” he insists. “It’s just not you. You smell like honey and flowers.”

My cheeks heat, and élisabeth’s are pink as well. She quickly locates a few scents that she thinks will best represent my “boyfriend’s description.” He doesn’t correct her, so neither do I. In the end, I choose black orchid, lemongrass, and sage. élisabeth notes the selections, including measurements. That way the recipe will remain on file in the event that I want to order more in the future.

“What are you going to name yours?” I ask Lucas.

“Um…” he hedges, lips pushed to one side. “èze cologne.”

With a groan, I drop my head back. “That’s like naming your dog ‘dog.’ You need something more creative. ”

I lift his beaker, savoring the refreshing yet smoky and leathery smell. If it wasn’t toxic—not to mention socially frowned upon—I’d drink this stuff straight off his body. “How about Scent-sational?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Nose-talgic?”

He grimaces, which has me laughing.

“Oh, c’mon… have a scents of humor.”

Rubbing his brow, he asks, “You have a serious hard-on for puns, don’t you?”

“Monaco has no punny shirts, Lucas.” I let out an annoyed huff. “Not that I could afford them, anyway. Even the cheapest bottles of water here are glass. I’m all about being hydrated, but I’m not about to pay a bloody ransom for natural spring water if it doesn’t promise eternal youth, you know?”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “What are you naming your perfume?”

“I was thinking something simple, like Wildflower or Bloom.”

“You get those, yet you suggest Nose-stalgic for mine?” He shakes his head and sighs. “I vote for Wildflower.”

With warmth blooming in my chest, I nod. “That’s what I was leaning toward.”

Now that my name has been officially picked, I hand the bottle over to élisabeth so she can make it look legit enough to earn a spot on my bathroom counter. Lucas looks utterly perplexed, as if I asked him to name his firstborn child—which, if I have anything to do with it, will be Riley, girl or boy—rather than a cologne.

Groaning at his indecisiveness, I brainstorm quickly and blurt out the first name I come up with. “Velvet Desire.”

He lifts a brow but simply shrugs. “Sounds like a porno from the ’80s, but sure.”

élisabeth leads us to a softly lit showroom with strategically placed spotlights highlighting the stunning bottles displayed on sleek glass shelves. Each area is dedicated to a different fragrance family, with a curated collection of perfumes artfully arranged to showcase their unique characteristics. She leaves us here, encouraging us to sample whatever we want before disappearing to bottle our final scents.

“Thank you for doing this,” Lucas says as we wander toward a shelf holding heart-shaped crystal perfume bottles.

“Helping you create a cologne that doesn’t make me want to take an allergy pill?” I tease.

“Ha ha,” he says. “But seriously, I appreciate it.”

“Of course.” I wave off his thanks. “It’s no biggie.”

“To me it is,” he admits. “If it weren’t for this, I’d be spending the day in a shitty mood, pissed at the world. Not everyone would go above and beyond to make sure I’m okay like you did.”

Not everyone wants to have your babies either .

“You’re my friend,” I say simply.

It sounds juvenile, but it’s true. Sure, I’m outgoing and social and know a lot of people. But friends I can sit in silence with because I miss my dad and want company without the expectation of conversation? The ones I can call in the middle of the night to help me bury a body with no questions asked? I can count those on one hand. Lucas would definitely have a lot of questions about the body, but I’m almost positive he’d do it. I think. I have no actual confirmation that he would show up with a shovel and tarp, but in the 0.03 percent chance that I end up in a situation that would force my hand, I think he would.

“You’re my friend, too,” he says, bumping my shoulder.

“You’re not just saying that because I’m Theo’s sister?” I affect a teasing tone, though underneath, the question is a serious one. I’ve had one too many people enter my life solely because of who my brother is, rather than who I am .

“I don’t have to pretend around you,” Lucas says casually, as if that statement doesn’t melt me on the spot. “That has nothing to do with Theo and everything to do with you .”

“And I smell like flowers,” I add.

He throws back his head and laughs. “That definitely helps.”

I pick up a round perfume bottle that’s painted with delicate roses and has one of those old-fashioned atomizers. I spritz one wrist, then rub the other against it. Before I’ve even set the bottle down, I’m engulfed in the scent. Damn . If a perfume can be described as provocative, then this is it. It smells expensive and sexy, yet clean and classy, with subtle notes of lavender and bergamot. Because I’m an all-or-nothing type of girl, I pick the bottle up again and hit the pulse points behind my ears and then my collarbone.

Curious about what Lucas will think of it, I motion him over from where he’s checking out a cologne shaped like a rearing horse. I extend my arm, expecting him to smell my wrist, but nope . He gets all up in my space and dips his head until his nose is nearly brushing the crook of my neck. I’m too stunned to do anything but stand still as a statue, my heart fluttering in my chest. He smells sinful—like fuel, exhaust, sweat, and minty deodorant.

When Lucas lifts his head, he doesn’t step back, leaving our lips nearly touching. From here, the specks of gold in his eyes are visible, and his warm breath ghosts across my skin like a tantalizing promise. His lips part slightly, as if on the brink of forming words, but none come. Instead, we stand in silence as time holds its breath. I can’t help but drop my focus to his lips—soft, inviting, and so temptingly close.

Breath held, I somehow muster up the willpower to not ask “are we about to kiss?” and leave the ball in his court. I’m not afraid to make a first move, but I don’t want to make things awkward if I’m misreading the situation. Maybe he just really likes the smell of the sex bomb perfume?

A sudden noise from the hallway breaks the spell, then élisabeth returns with our perfumes in organza bags and cute little diplomas of participation. Lucas steps back ever so slightly, as if I’m not covered in fuel, ready to ignite, and he’s holding the match.

I may have learned that Lucas speaks French today, but it looks like I won’t be finding out if he French kisses, too.