Cannes
Cannes
Strolling along a cobbled sidewalk, licking an ice cream cone which cost far too much money, Presley
reminded herself she was in a part of the world mere mortals like her should never tread. She wondered
whether the people walking around dressed to the nines in the early morning did this every day. It seemed a waste of an effort which would have taken her hours to do, considering she normally woke up in the morning
and put her hair in a messy bun, added sunscreen and lip gloss and called herself ready for work.
Her phone buzzed again in her pocket, and she knew it was impossible for it to be anyone from home. When she’d spoken to her parents it was after eleven at night. She’d seen her last text messages from the girls after midnight their time and took one annoyed call from her editor while she’d been on the train.
It was easily two in the morning now in Vancouver so the person blowing up her phone right now needed to be Cruz. She considered shutting it off but then she’d have to look at it and if she looked it, she’d be tempted to read the messages and listen to the voice mails. If she engaged, she’d likely end up calling him back. She wanted to enjoy her day, not spend it being guilted over the fact his company was taking a hit while her book
sales were soaring.
“Bonjour!” a vibrantly dressed man approached her with a big smile.
Immediately she made note of her phone with her cash tucked into her pocket and nodded politely. Was she going to be mugged?
“Do you speak English?” the Frenchman asked with a wide smile.
“Yes.”
“I must ask,” he blocked her path on the sidewalk, “your hair, it is natural?”
“Yes.”
“It is magnifique!” he kissed his fingers into the air. “Can I paint you?”
“Um, excuse me?”
“I am a painter, an artist” he pointed across the way to where an easel was set up. “I saw you coming down the path and thought, I must paint this woman. May I paint you?”
“Oh,” she waved her hands to deny his request, “I don’t think so. I’m flattered really but I’m meeting a friend.”
“I beg you,” he clasped his hands in front of his face and shook them exaggeratedly. “You do not know how you inspire me!”
“Really, I can’t.” Her phone rang again in her pocket, and she immediately thanked Cruz for his persistence. Um, excuse me.” She pulled her device from her pocket and answered. “Hello?”
“Hi. Where are you?”
“Cannes.”
“Well, I know that. The concierge told me after I slipped him a hundred euros. I took a train in. Where abouts are you?”
“You’re here?” she wasn’t sure whether to cry or rejoice. The painter was doing slow circles around her as if he was taking inventory of her. “Um, I just got an ice cream from a little shop I passed on the way. I am at the
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Boulevard de la Croisette near La Roserie which is a park or a garden, I think?”
“Okay, I think I see you. Who is the guy, Ladybird?”
She wrinkled her forehead at the jealous quality to his question, “the guy is a painter who asked me to pose for him, but I told him I didn’t have time because I was meeting someone.”
“I don’t like how he’s looking at your ass.”
She looked over her shoulder to see the man was indeed scoping her out with his head tilted and his eyes squinting. She pointed at the painter, “Monsieur, I should warn you, my boyfriend is very possessive.”
“It is about the art!” the man proclaimed in defense of his actions. “I am merely looking to see the best way to put you on my canvas.”
“I already said no.”
“But you are my new muse.”
“I am certain there are plenty of muses around here.” She looked around frantically for Cruz. “Where are you?”
“Look to your left,” he growled angrily. “What the f**k is he doing?”
She looked at the man again and noted the man was squatted down on his heels and was looking up at her. I don’t have the foggiest,” she said in utter confusion as the stranger eyeballed her.
“If he puts a hand on you, I’m breaking his f*****g fingers, and he’ll never paint another thing again in this
lifetime.”
“He hasn’t touched me,” she looked at the man on the ground. “He says he’s trying to figure out how best to put me on canvas.”
“He’ll be painting with his blood if he doesn’t get away from you.”
“What is your problem?”
“I don’t want any man ogling my girl.”
She wanted to argue she wasn’t his girl, but she needed him to play the role because this weirdo who was now moving his finger in the air as if painting around her was freaking her out.
She looked to where Cruz said he was coming from and then sighed with relief when she saw him coming towards her. The scowl on his face was causing people to move out of his way and she almost chuckled as a woman and a child crossed the street to avoid him.
“Sacré bleu,” the painter exclaimed, “what on earth is that?”
Presley felt her lips twist as the painter was back on his feet and staring in awe at the rageful rugby player bearing down on him. It was evident Cruz was coming for the painter, and the painter was fearing for his life. “That,” she grinned at the painter, “is the jealous and overprotective boyfriend I mentioned. He didn’t like the way you were looking at my butt. I warned you.”
“It is for the art!” the man held his hands up defensively and hopped onto a nearby bench.
His actions reminded her of a monkey which needed to climb a tree for safety, and she couldn’t help but giggle.
“Cruz,” she grabbed his arm as he started past her towards the man, “he’s an artist. Look, look,” she tried to
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direct his gaze to the easel. “He was painting there and saw me and asked me to pose for him. I declined.”
“She is beautiful, a stunning creature, I want only to capture her essence in oils!” The man trembled as Cruz’s nostrils flared and his fists bunched. “I meant no harm!”
“She said no.” Cruz grunted, “when a woman says no, she means it.”
“Pretty sure you don’t follow the rule,” Presley mumbled under her breath. “You’ve highjacked my entire life in the last twenty–four hours despite my begging you no.”
“It’s different, Ladybird,” Cruz growled at her, his hazel eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage or hurt you. I don’t trust this creep.”
“Monsieur, I am not a creep!” the painter stomped his foot in outrage. “I am an artist, and she captured the beauty of the carefree life walking down the street, with her ice cream cone and her beautiful hair blowing in the breeze. I wanted to capture her!”
“Capture her? Where were you going to take her once you capture her?” Cruz lunged towards the man who leapt over the back of the bench and was wide eyed with terror at Cruz.
“Capture on the canvas! To paint,” the man was nearly weeping now. “I will go.”
“You better go. If I find out you’ve accosted any more women today, I’m coming after you.” Cruz’s gaze followed the man as he ran frantically back to his easel in the distance.
“I think you took it a bit too far there, Rambo. You scared the living daylights out of him.”
He turned to her, “and what were you thinking ditching me at the hotel?”
“I was thinking I wanted a day to explore Cannes without it feeling like I’m making payment on one of those payday loans where the debt collectors call three times a day.”
“Hey,” he frowned at her. “Are you comparing me to a debt collector?”
“Aren’t you? Presley you ruined my image. Presley you made me lose a fifty million dollar deal I was trying to secure with my c**k. Presley you owe me for using my likeness as a space alien with two c***s.” Mocking his voice, she tossed her melting ice cream into a nearby trash bin and started walking again. “I came to be on vacation and to take in the sights and the sounds and to reconnect with myself and instead I’m constantly on edge and stressed.”
“How about,” he walked beside her, “we spend the day together, no talk about s**t from back home. We can simply hang out and enjoy Cannes. Have you been before?”
“Is your paparazzi going to jump out at us and take photos and plaster them on the internet? Sloane sent me a screenshot of one of the pictures making the rounds and it is not flattering of me.”
“Impossible. There is no such thing as an unflattering picture of you.”
“Well, there is.” She grumbled, “also because of your statement about supporting me as my fiancé, the entire world now knows Presley Brookmore and Perris Brooks are one and the same person. I’ve never divulged my real identity to my fans. My avatar on all my social media has always been a brand image. The entire world knows me. I never wanted fame, Cruz. Your stupid statement about doing the cover for me outed me to the world. Consuela called me when I was on the train, before she went to bed, and she’s annoyed I didn’t give her the head’s up I was doing it. I didn’t even know I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
< Cannes
He sounded contrite but she wasn’t buying it.
“Once again, your actions negatively impact my life, my very essence of being, and you get to say it’s all fun and games.”
“Hey, I’m not playing here,” he reached out to hold her hand. “I really am sorry. It didn’t even dawn on me I was revealing your identity. I apologize.” They were getting nearer to the spot where the painter was set up and Cruz’s growl rumbled in his chest, “how is it you attract all the crazies?”
“It’s a gift.” She sighed, looking down at their linked hands. “You do realize you’re one of them, right? You literally chased me across an ocean, sabotaged my entire vacation and took the door off my bathroom. You fit right in with the crazies.”
He laughed at her words and then squeezed her fingers. “True.”
“I’m letting you hang out with me for the afternoon because you make a good buffer against the weirdos, but I swear Cruz Hawley, if you upset me even one time, I’m going to be really ugly over it. Uglier than the photo Sloane set me.”
“Deal. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
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