Celine considered ignoring him. She felt embarrassed for studiously returning to the old house daily, not to finish the design for Monsieur Baudelaire, not to finish her birthday dress either, but to wait expectantly and see if Bastien would show up. Spending every day with him for six weeks straight had made her dependent on him. And Celine hated that.
“It’s not for the competition,” she allowed, regardless. The pin-drop quiet that settled over them made her skin crawl. It was more difficult to ignore than Bastien. “My mother and I ran into Coco a while ago—it’s a long story. I have to sew a gown for my birthday now.”
Bastien cleared his throat, his fingers clumsily brushing against her skin again. “It doesn’t look like your style, either.” From the mirror, she saw him scowl at the high waist line.
“Yes, well…” Celine didn’t want to share too much with him on this, but she assumed he already knew. “I can’t exactly dress like aflapper. Jacques will propose that night, and my mother wants everything to be perfect.”
“In that case,” he grunted, “you might want to wear something that doesn’t resemble a safe lock. Or a habit. I can hardly see your feet.”
Celine waited until the last button went in and turned to face him.
“It’s too long,” Bastien supplied, looking up at her with deceivingly clear eyes.
He resembled a saint in supplication so much that Celine had half a mind to slap him again. The resentment she had nursed since the night of the party rushed back in waves. Then her lips split into a smile.
She could use this as an opportunity to get back at him—herturn to play. All these days, besides missing Bastien and hating herself for wanting to see him again, Celine had been brewing ways to get back at him. Clearly, Bastien Ménard was not oneto self-reproach. He wouldn’t come to her, guilt-stricken, to ask for forgiveness and refrain from repeating the same mistake. He only knew how to settle the score—she had seen him do so enough times with Jacques. And Celine was tired of his antics. She wanted a little revenge of her own. She wanted to toy back, with his life, his head, his heart, too, if she could reach it.
So she pinched the pleats of her dress and lifted it, so that it hung below her knees. “Is this length better, then?”
Still kneeling, Bastien lifted a brow. “I doubt you want my opinion on that.”
“Your mother was a designer,” Celine said calmly. “You have a good eye for fashion, I won’t deny it. So?”
He shook his head.
She lifted it to her knees. “How about this?”
Bastien considered her with a flat expression. Then shook his head again.
Celine lifted the dress higher.
Finally, his lips cracked into a confused smile. “What are you doing?”
“Me?” Celine shrugged. “Nothing.”
Slowly bringing himself to his full height, Bastien towered over her. “Is that so? I thought you were angry with me. Now you’re flirting?”
“You’re not the only one who gets to be fickle.” Still holding the pleats of her dress, Celine walked to her desk and sat on the edge so that the elegant length of her legs was on full display. “Isn’t this what you were begging to do the night of the party, anyway?”
“Begging is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Isn’t it?” she pressed.
“I was drunk. I don’t exactly—”
“You made a quip about Jacques not knowing how to touch me. You saidyouwould teach me a few things instead.”
Bastien cocked his head to the side. “So…” he mused, “Jacques’s not a good lover?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not a good lover then?”
Celine lifted a shoulder innocently, causing the sleeve of her dress to slip and reveal the curve of her collarbone. “You will have to find out.”
She waited for his retort.
Nothing. He made no move towards her.
