Like a summer storm out of nowhere, my brain clouds with visions of Renata and Rowan and Maisie and Inspector Paws—who’s probably not a cop, in-universe, but certainly would snitch me out to cartoon doggy jail. Okay. No. I’m good. So, I might’ve under-baked my Stark-Benzin research, as in, I need to googlethe company first thing in the morning, every morning, just in case anything newsworthy pops up. And yes, Stark-Benzin is even more intense behind the scenes, and I’m jumping in as a stylist for an international sports company that hates color. That’s fine. I might’ve been excited at first about this job… but it’s not why I’m in Surrey, really.
I’m here forBernard. I’m a failed Bechdel test. Stark-Benzin’s brand-new Human Resources disaster. And I’m going to really, really enjoy smashing his heart to pieces.
Footsteps sound behind me, Mei’s sure-footed sneakers and another set I don’t recognize. Dragging in a deep breath, I rearrange the perfectly loose Olsen Twins waves framing my face and close my eyes. Imagine a curtain about to flutter up. Tell myself the same thing I always do before the play begins.
I’m Cat Cromwell, a totally normal fashion girl, and I’m about to meet the love of my life.
“Cat?” Mei says, and I turn around with a thunderclap of a smile.
A pair of dark eyes blink back at me and—that’s odd. I’m pretty sure the internet had said that Bernard’s eyes were green.
And they are, probably.
Because this… isn’t Bernard Baudelaire standing next to Mei. Or Christine Fay.
In my lucky red Carel heels, the man only has a centimeter on me, tops. He’s in a gray Stark-Benzin racing suit, a sleek black helmet stowed under his arms, as nondescript as a Formula 1 racing driver can be. But I can’t look away from his eyes, faintly sad and altogether too concerned. And my heart thumps, once, as I realizewhyI can’t stop looking at him.
Right as his expression flips from uninterested blankness to full-on recognition.
“Faust, this is Cat Cromwell. She’s going to be helping you dress better,” Mei says, totally flat. “Cat, this is our lead driver, Faust.”
Also known as the man from Bernard’s wedding. Who I spoke to. Who was once, briefly, the wallpaper on my phone. Who the internet said would not be here.
Chapter 5FRENCH DEFENSE
There is no other option. Swallowing one hundred live butterflies, I flop my hand out in his direction. “Hi! I’m—”
“Sorry, sorry!”
You know how in action movies, the music turns down a notch right before the good stuff starts? That’s how quiet the air goes as another man in a gray racing suit bounds up to us, vaguely out of breath, copper hair tussled, freckled cheeks flushed. The pink brings out the green in his eyes; they’re the same color as mine but paler, like the underside of a maple leaf. Flipped before the storm comes.
There’s a patch on his racing suit, too, that isn’t on Faust’s. White with small black text.
Lockland Public. Healthcare with a human touch.
“Told the crew I needed fifteen,” he says. “Bernard Baudelaire. You’re Cat, is it?”
I give myself one moment to exhale out my adrenaline. The absurdity of this situation. The calamity at spotting that company’s name, again. Realizing that I’d been right to worry about Christine,only not for the reasons I’d suspected. Then I’m turning my outstretched hand to Bernard, laser-focused, and letting my world drop to the size of his smile.Love of my life. Fail the Bechdel test.“Yes, hi, Bernard. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Bernard smiles wider as we shake hands. “Pleasure’s all mine.”
Easy in. So many jokes I can make here. But as Bernard keeps our handshake going, this weird feeling snakes down my spine—just like it had in that damn alleyway. Goose bumps. I’m being watched. Duct-taping my own smile in place, I glance toward Faust, telling myself that he won’t be staring at me. Definitely. He won’t remember me. He can’t be the first person to ever recognize me from another job, so he won’t be staring at me. Only… hello.
Yes.
Faust is staring at me.
I blink, then look back at Bernard, who’s still smiling. “So, is today your first day?” he asks cheerily.
I beam, grateful to have a distraction from Faust’s weirdly intense brown eyes. Maybe this is just how he is in person? More stoic and severe and cooly dominant than he’d appeared when nabbing trophy after trophy. Honestly, I shouldn’t even be having such a physical reaction to seeing the most famous Stark-Benzin driver of all time back on the Stark-Benzin team. The last I’d heard from Dad, Faust had been poached to drive for some cheesy American energy drink company that used his hotness-to-talent-to-stoic-masculinity ratio to make millions in beverage sales—but things change. Drivers swap teams. Forks are found back in their proper drawers. Clearly.
“Yeah, and it’s been awesome,” I tell Bernard. “Thank you so much for letting me work with you both this season.”
“Don’t thank me.” Bernard laughs, even as his charmed smilescreamsyou’re welcome. “This is Faust, by the way. Bit shyer than me, aren’t you?”
Weirdly, Bernard says this more to me than Faust, though Faust nods and steps forward anyway, and I get the impression that this is their song and dance. Bernard’s the talker, Faust’s the listener. And the slightly taller man doesn’t say anything as he holds his hand out to me, only watches, waiting.
But a good cat burglar doesn’t panic when a door opens while her hand’s stuck inside a cracked safe. She gets ahead of it. “Hi, Faust, I’m Cat,” I say, taking his hand. “Lovely to meet you.” For the first time. Ever.
