“Me?” He considered the lighter he was twirling between his fingers and promptly gave it a sharp flick. Immediately, smoke curled in the air from the glowing tip of the cigarette. “I am waiting, per your request, so I can try on my first piece. Where’s the issue?”
“The issue,” she snapped and pointed at his cigarette, “isthat. You cannot smoke in here.”
“And why not?”
“Because I have rolls of fabric that will take on the smell. Including my clothes.”
Bastien held her stare, and defiantly took a long drag from the cigarette. He blew a heart shaped smoke ring her way. “Open a window then.”
Celine narrowed her eyes. In three, quick strides, she snatched the cigarette out of his fingers and flung it into his cup of coffee. It went out with a weak fizzle.
“Too bad,” she said blandly. “You will have to stop smoking until the competition is over.”
Bastien was ready to object, but she cut in quickly. “As I told you before, I have tons of fabrics here. I cannot have them smelling like cigarettes. Plus, Jacques doesn’t smoke, so I won’t be able to tell my mother I was with him for most of the day. Or explain tohimwhy I smell like a bordello.”
“Veteran liar, aren’t you?”
“It’s not lying, it’s…self-preservation,” she corrected quickly, confiscating the flask Bastien was pulling out of his jacket. “And no drinking either. You will have to walk down a catwalk during every round presenting my designs. I’d rather you didn’t wobble.”
“For someone who sneaks around a lot, you sure are dull.”
“I am not sneaking around for fun. This isn’t a game. Not thatyouwould understand.”
“Make me understand, then.”
Celine took a good look at him, attempting to measure his seriousness. When she found nothing but frank curiosity in his face, she said, “I’ve dreamt of becoming a designer since I was six, when Francine took me out for our afternoon stroll and I stood in front of a boutique’s display for two hours, staring in awe at…one of your mother’s designs, actually. And ever since, I have tried everything in my power to make that dream come true. Francine tells me the manager had to come out to pry me off his storefront and yell at me for getting fingerprints all over it.”
There had been no tutors, no guides she could have followed towards learning. There had been only books on sewing she’d had Francine purchase secretly, and swapping the dust jackets so her mother wouldn’t find out. Her whole life had been hidden under her bed, behind the dressers, in the far end of her drawers. Celine had even tried prying open the floorboards so she could stuff her sewing kit inside. This was the furthest she had gone to making her dreams known to someone else.
“Do you understand now?”
Taking his cigarette case out again, Bastien placed it into her palm. “You should know then, that I look best in maroon, sapphire, violet, and pink. Yellow washes me out and frankly, I don’t care that much for green. So don’t let your evil side take over when you make my gowns.” He pointed at the case, “I want that back once we’re done.”
An earnest smile touched her lips. “Merci, Bastien. But I have to ask, do you mind showing a bit of skin? Most of my designs tend to be a little…”
“Are you seriously askingmethat?”
“I do not know what you do in private”—she held up a finger in the air—“nor do I care to find out, but I won’t dress you up in something you’re not comfortable wearing.”
“Worry not, darling. I’m not particularly conservative.”
“Good. Now, arms out,” Celine ordered, pulling out a measuring tape from the basket of supplies Francine had left on the floor. “I need to measure you.”
“Now, now, where’s the magic word?”
“Arms up or I will find another model.”
Bastien sneered at her order, but obeyed nonetheless.
“Good boy.” Timidly, Celine extended her arms around his torso to bring her measuring tape to the front. She avoided his eyes as she moved on to his shoulders next. She was grateful for his lithe frame, it would make styling the gowns easier. Grateful, still, that she didn’t have to style pants for him. “What about you?” she asked, trying to alleviate the awkward silence.
“Hmm?”
“Were you ever interested in your mother’s work?” She still couldn’t believe he was Adalene Reneau’s son.
“Only when I was younger,” Bastien confessed. “She would always take me along to her studio.”
What a dream, Celine thought. Then she ventured, “Do you miss her?”
