He splayed his palms innocently. “I was only kidding about the women of low morals. They will probably put you in a cell full of pillows and cake—”
“Thank you,” she cut him off.
“What for?”
“For not judging any of my choices, especially those concerning the competition. And,” she fidgeted with the hem of her dress, “thank you for being a friend.”
The room remained quite dim; the mannequins and the sewing machines blurred shapes in the vicinity, hardly existing. Celine was wholly absorbed in the slight twinkle in Bastien’s eye. She hadn’t realised how close they were sitting until he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Anytime,” Bastien said sweetly. “You too…” he trailed off, and just as his words did, so did his gaze, landing on her lips. “Thank you. For…for thatfriends…thing.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Celine murmured.
His lips curled upwards. “Like what?”
“Like you mean something else.”
“Maybe I—”
A car honked outside and something snapped. They both stiffened, and, as if coming out from a daze, Celine noticed how dark it was behind the newspaper-covered windows. Fuzzy dots of light shone on the other side—the lights of the other establishments. It was evening already.
Celine straightened up immediately. She scrambled to her feet, brushing off a few sequins that had clung to her dress. “It’s getting late. You should drive me home.”
Bastien tilted his head, puzzled. He checked his wrist watch. “It’s barely six.”
“And it will be seven when we arrive.” Celine bit down on her tongue. “Jacques—he will be waiting to take me out,” she lied, ignoring the urge to scratch her wrist. Ignoring the impulse that pressed at her to stay longer—indefinitely if she could. Ignoring that look of pure disappointment on Bastien’s face. Because the more time she spent with Bastien, the faster their relationship was beginning to change. They had finally become friends. They were going to become partners. Celine couldn’t do that if she started wishing they were something else.
Visibly reluctant, Bastien rose as well. “Alright, then. I’ll drive you back.”
• • •
Three faint lights were illuminating the LeBeau residence when Bastien pulled up before the cul-de-sac.
“Walk me inside?” Celine said, faintly aware of what she was asking. The entire drive she had joined Bastien’s daydreams about what their studio would look like, even laughing at his crude suggestions instead of rolling her eyes at his debatable taste. A strange elation had overcome her and it had left her feeling all drunk and light-headed.
Bastien didn’t question her request and turned off the engine when the vehicle was inside the driveway. Her parents wouldn’t see anyways. The light in the living room was so faint, it could only indicate her father was reading by the floor lamp, possibly already asleep, and her mother rarely bothered herself with what was happening outside. That was Francine’s job.
Stepping out, Bastien opened the door for her. Motorcars rushing on the other side of the cul-de-sac filled the silence of the driveway. A balmy breeze rustled the jasmine bushes that flanked each side of the house, coaxing a few white petals to break off and litter the pavement. One of the cherry pits he had thrown at her window glinted right where Celine had chucked it back at him.
Bastien’s expression was that of amusement when she glanced at him over her shoulder. She assumed it was directed at the cherry pit, until she saw where his attention had landed. He was peering up at her bedroom’s window, faintly lit, following a shadow that passed behind the curtain. Clearly feminine.
“Jacques isn’t really waiting for you, is he?” he asked.
Celine cursed herself under her breath.
“Yes he is,” she insisted. And as much as she tried to resist this time, her fingers found her wrist.
“Liar,” he said, taking her hand before her nails could graze her skin. “I might not be on such friendly terms with my brother, but I am close enough to him to know he is not that keen on dresses.” His hand slid up to the pale, sensitive part of her wrist, his thumb swiped gently over it. For a moment she feared he would ask her why she lied, why she wanted to leave early. But he only chided her about the scratches. “You will rip your skin off if you keep at it. Don’t worry,” Bastien assured. “It’s not a noticeable quirk.”
And yet, he had noticed.
“What, you’ve just been staring at me?” Celine huffed. She didn’t like it that he could tell when she was lying now.
“Staring is a strong word—I’m not a creep, baby vamp. Admiring sounds nicer, no?”
Celine rolled her eyes, but she made no move to retrieve her hand and Bastien didn’t let go either. He continued to trace his thumb over the faint scratches, so slow she could barely feel him if it weren’t for the unfamiliar, yet pleasant tingle that travelled up her arm at his touch.
“I’ll see you for the next challenge then,” Bastien uttered, still looking at her hand. “Unless you need me earlier for the fitting.”
