“You shouldn’t have to force yourself into thinking you love someone you clearly don’t,” Bastien added, and tugged her fingers away from her teeth. “And you don’t have to say yes to me either, if you think you are going to be happier doing something else. I won’t force the decision on you. The choice is entirely yours, Celine.”
She wished hewouldconvince her. She wished he would go back to his manipulative ways—then it might have been easier. Then she could blame the decision on him. But Celine couldn’t deny what was in her heart. All she had ever wanted was to be a fashion designer. That’s what she had been labouring in secret for eight exhausting weeks. They were in the top four. They were so close to getting their prize. And for the first time, Celine wasn’t dreaming alone.
“Regardless,” Bastien said. “If Jacques loves you, then he will support you on this.”
I’d rather see you happy than win.That’s what Jacques had told her.
“I hope you are right,” Celine said with a sigh. “Because I really want people to wearmycreations, not just a pair of stockings they saw me wear once and had to have them in their collection. Not to mention,” she twisted her lips, “they were really itchy stockings. I saw four girls scratching inconspicuously after the article inLa Vie Parisiennecame out.”
Bastien chuckled at that. “They will love your creations, Celine,” he said.
“Another inkling you have?”
He nodded. “Look, as I said, you don’t have to decide right away. Let’s see if we win first.”
“What about your plans to fix stuff?”
“That can wait too. It’s not like I have the money to start right away.” At least his excitement hadn’t taken over logic entirely. “But since we’re on the topic, you deserve to work on something worthy of your talent. What is the model of your dream sewing machine?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
He lifted a brow. “Don’t you?”
Celine levelled him an exact replica of his teasing glance. “Maybe. But you know, Bastien, I don’t share that tidbit with just anyone.”
“And here I was, thinking we were friends.” He pressed a hand to his heart as if it was hurting. “Tell me what it will take. A secret for a secret? Getting you another cake? Do I need to joust someone?”
Celine laughed in earnest as she tried her luck. “I wouldn’t mind knowing one of your secrets.”
“Not the cake?” he asked surprised.
“Not this time. Now spill.”
“Alright,” Bastien said, as he cleared his throat, preparing for a confession. “Not all the things those rumours say about me are true. Sometimes I lie…and simply pretend to be the personthey think I am.” He was quiet before he added, “Most times, I don’t even go to cabarets and burlesque shows. I just spend the night sitting by the Seine, drinking in the city.”
Peaceful, Celine thought.But lonely, too.
But she did not want to wound him by saying so, and instead, she teased, “So you being a great kisser might be a total lie?”
“Hey, now,” he warned. “I saidsomethings. That one happens to be very true, Celine, a fact you already know. Though I wouldn’t mind refreshing your memory.”
“It is fresh enough, Bastien.” She studied his face, catching the slightest glimpse of thoughtfulness lurking beneath his smirk. “Why?” she prompted. “Why do you lie? I doubt you do it to appear more interesting.”
“I couldn’t care less about being interesting,” he said. “I do it to show Grandfather what it’s like to be a useless socialite. And…to rid myself of responsibilities—of that feeling that I might disappoint someone. It leaves no one any room to create fanciful expectations about me.”
“So you want people to assume the worst about you?”
“It’s easier that way. I get to be selfish that way. I get to live my life.”
Celine should have guessed rebellion stood behind it. She could see the logic in his words, despite the flaws in execution, but she had never expected Bastien to worry this much about what others thought of him.
“Is this enough to tell me that machine model now?”
Grinning, she told him. They discussed the means of getting it—the machine being a recent, expensive model that could almost rival Bastien’s car—and the only compromise they could reach was this: Celine flicking his nose and protesting, “No, Bastien, we are not stealing a sewing machine and making a run for it,” and Bastien rolling his eyes and reassuring, “We will notend up in prison, baby vamp. And if we do, I promise, you will make great friends with the other women of low morals.”
He went on prattling after that, making more illicit plans, while Celine watched him silently, thinking she could really get used to him longterm. Dusk was looming outside, becoming more and more prominent the longer they spent sitting on the floor, talking. The lights overhead had become brighter, or at least as bright as the old bulbs could go. She could see them like this up here, after-hours, when the rush of the day had calmed down and it was just the two of them: Celine designing and Bastien keeping her company with his random conversations.
“Bas,” she called, mainly to shut him up, but his name must have come out harsher than she had intended.
