Chapter 9
Maxime
The bar in Biarritz smelled like salt and expensive cologne badly disguised as effortlessness. I was on my third beer, my cheekbone throbbing where Elena's knee had made contact, and I couldn't stop grinning.
"So let me get this straight," Jules said, leaning back with that smirk he always got when he thought he'd caught me in something. "You were just standing there, minding your own business, trying to get the perfect shot for Instagram—"
"Artistic documentation," I corrected.
"—and this girl literally dropped on you from the sky, rode you like a horse into the ocean, and then clung to your head like a terrified koala." Jules shook his head. "And you're telling me this actually happened? This isn't some fantasy you cooked up after too much sun?"
"I have the bruise to prove it." I pointed to my cheekbone, which had gone from red to an impressive purple. "And the Instagram handle. And the phone number."
That got their attention. Antoine looked up from his phone sharply. "You got her number? After she assaulted you?"
"Because she assaulted me." I pulled out my phone and opened Elena's profile. "Here. See for yourself."
Jules took it, his expression shifting from skeptical to genuinely surprised as he scrolled. Most of her feed was gymnastics—competition photos, training videos, the occasional shot in a leotard that made my mouth go dry. But there were glimpses of regular life too: a perfectly plated salad captioned "Nutrition is 80% of performance" in slightly awkward French, a sunset from what looked like a very expensive terrace, a selfie with another girl captioned "Chloé says I need to smile more in photos. This counts, right?"
"Holy shit," Jules breathed. "This is Elena Petrova. The Elena Petrova. She's fucking famous, Max."
"I know. Rhythmic gymnastics. She's training for the Olympic qualifiers."
"And she's living with your uncle?" Antoine took the phone, scrolling with his usual analytical intensity. "Since when?"
"Few years. I was in the States for most of it." I took a long drink, remembering how she'd looked on that beach—all wet hair and wide eyes and that particular kind of beauty that came from not quite realizing how beautiful you were. "Saw her once at my grandmother's birthday last year, but we never talked. She left early, then I went back to Boston."
"She's gorgeous," Jules said, which was both obvious and somehow inadequate. Elena wasn't just pretty—she was arresting, the kind of person who made you look twice and keep looking because there was something almost otherworldly about her. "Like, really gorgeous. And she just... fell on you?"
"Technically, she thought I was a flotation device. Got knocked over by a wave, panicked, grabbed the nearest stable object. Which happened to be me." I couldn't keep the smile off my face. "Then she sort of... mounted me. Like I was a pommel horse."
Antoine choked on his drink. "She mounted you."
"Not like that." Though the memory of her thighs clamped around my neck, her hands fisted in my hair, was definitely going to feature in some interesting dreams. "Pure survival instinct. She was terrified—genuinely panicking. When we got to shore, she wouldn't let go. Just clung to me like I was the only solid thing in the universe."
"And you found this charming," Jules said, amused.
"I found it real." I paused, trying to find the right words. "She wasn't performing or pretending. She was just scared, then embarrassed, then—I don't know. Sweet. Funny. Made jokes about labeling me as 'not a life raft' and apologized seventeen times for kneeing me."
I pulled up a competition video—Elena bending and twisting in ways that seemed to defy physics, a ribbon spiraling around her like she was conducting an orchestra made of silk and gravity. The comments were in French and Russian, filled with praise: "Queen of artistry," "Most flexible athlete in the world," "She makes it look effortless but you can see the POWER."
"Jesus," Antoine muttered, watching her execute some spinning leap with her leg past her head. "How is that even possible?"
"Years of training. Her coach has her doing balance work in the ocean to improve core stability. That's why she was out there."
"She's dedicated," Jules observed, which was putting it mildly. Every article I'd found mentioned her intense schedule, her perfectionism, her focus. Some older pieces referenced a difficult childhood in Bulgaria, a demanding mother, but most coverage was about her technical brilliance and Olympic potential.
"She's also apparently very busy. I asked about coffee and she said she'd have to check her calendar. Her calendar. Like she's a CEO."
"She kind of is," Antoine pointed out. "CEO of her own body, her own career. Gymnasts at that level don't have time for normal people shit." He studied me with that analytical look. "So why do you want to date someone who's going to have zero time for you?"
Fair question. I didn't have a good answer. Or rather, I had one that didn't make rational sense. There was just something about Elena—the way she'd looked at me on that beach, not with practiced flirtation but with genuine curiosity and cautious hope, like she was testing out the possibility of connection and wasn't quite sure if she was allowed. The way she'd laughed at my joke about assault being an icebreaker, surprised and delighted, as if laughter was something she had to remember how to do.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I just want to know her. See if that moment was a fluke or if she's actually that interesting when she's not in panic mode."
"You want to chase the mysterious gymnastics prodigy hidden away in your uncle's house," Jules said, grinning. "The one who doesn't come to parties or post thirst traps. I get it. It's the challenge."
"It's not about the challenge." Though there was probably some truth there. I'd dated plenty of girls who were easy to read, easy to impress, easy to get bored with. Elena felt different—complicated in a way that made me want to unravel her, to understand what was happening behind those huge amber eyes.
"Sure it's not," Antoine said, smiling. "Just be careful. Uncle-niece dynamics can get weird, even without blood relation. And Étienne Beaumont isn't exactly known for being warm and fuzzy about people getting close to his family."
I waved that off, though I'd thought about it. Étienne and I weren't particularly close—technically my mother's cousin, adjacent circles—but I knew his reputation. Cold, controlled, brilliant at business and terrible at emotional vulnerability. The idea of him as guardian to someone like Elena seemed almost absurd; she was all feeling and instinct and barely contained energy, while he was... not that.
"I'm not trying to steal his ward. I just want to get to know her. Help with her coursework—she's in the same International Relations program I finished. Show her there's more to Paris than training halls and the Beaumont mansion."
"Maybe mount her the way she mounted you," Jules added, and I threw a napkin at his face.
"You're disgusting."
"I'm practical. She's twenty, you're twenty-three, you're both adults, she gave you her number. What's the harm?"
What was the harm? I turned that over as the conversation shifted to other topics. What was the harm in pursuing someone who'd literally dropped into my life, who'd looked at me like I was a person rather than a Delacroix or a trust fund?
Maybe she needed someone who treated her like a normal twenty-year-old instead of a fragile prodigy. Maybe I could be that person.
"I'm going to ask her out," I announced.
Jules raised his glass. "To Maxime's latest terrible idea. May it end better than the last one."
"The last one wasn't that bad."
"The last one threw your clothes off her balcony," Antoine reminded me. "We could see your boxers in her neighbor's tree for a week."
"Okay, fine. May it end better than that."
We drank, and I felt that familiar rush before a good wave, before anything promising to be interesting even if difficult. Elena was going to be difficult. She'd require patience and care and probably a lot of rescheduled plans. She'd make me work for every smile, every laugh, every moment of her carefully guarded attention.
And God help me, I couldn't wait.