As his warm fingers wrap around mine, engulfing my hand in a slow, easy grip, Faust’s gaze lulls over my features, bobbing like a sailboat tied to a wooden dock. My eyes, my lips, my eyes again. He doesn’t say anything as he stares, that unwavering recognition sharpening beneath his wordless, assessing look. At Imogen’s advice, I’m wearing a lacey white Dôen blouse that screamswife me up, I bake sourdough bread for funand brown plaid cigarette pants. A little tradwife cosplay, a little Audrey Hepburn. Not very Stark-Benzin.
My stomach flutters as I wait for it—we’ve met. What are you doing here? Why are you acting like you weren’t just at this man’s failed wedding? You clearly don’t belong.But Faust only says, “Hi,” and somehow, I still feel like a screwdriver stuck into a wall outlet.
Oh. He doesn’t recognize me.
I’m… relieved.
The moment his grip loosens, I slip my hand free and go back to Bernard. “Mei said today was a promo day? Does that mean I get to see you both drive?”
“There’s a speed limit and the tires are terrible.” Bernard grins. “But yes. Are you a fan?”
Yes. And no. And Formula 1 was the rhythm of my childhood. Weekends, season openings, the thrill of summer, off-season blues, a complicated waltz, never the same year twice. F1 was the prayer my family used to remind ourselves that life was bigger than our small town. Even if it was just on TV. Even if we’d never see a race ourselves. It was happening somewhere out there, and believing in a sport that promised to reward true greatness felt like believing that people could even be great.
Then I grew up and learned, firsthand, how men like you treat people like me.
“I’ve seen a few races…” I say out loud, letting my mouth waver sheepishly. “I probably have a lot to learn, but I promise that won’t affect how well I dress you.”
Bernard chuckles, perfectly amused. I’d rehearsed this. Awful men with “fancy” jobs don’t want partners who understand their careers, let alone work in the same fields. They’re all looking for that impressionable ingenue who’s so, so happy to learn how big and smart and important they are, forever.
That means that for now, I don’t know anything about Formula 1.
Easy.
“Not every day I meet a new worker who hasn’t sold a kidney to wear gray,” Bernard says. “I like it. Where’d you find her, Mei?”
“Online,” she rushes in. Our eyes meet, she shoots me a look—remember, no mentioning you were referred by his ex-fiancée—then continues. “Cat’s going to be a liaison between the brands that want to work with you both, as well as your own personal stylist. This is an opportunity to share more of your images with the public and make a bigger splash. Social, traditional media, events, etcetera. Faust, we’re particularly excited to use this momentum now that you’re back on the team.”
There it is. Faust’s in and Christine’s… out? Didn’t sign? Unable to resist, I glance at Faust again as Mei talks; when she mentions possibly attending the Day Gala this season—(“big fashion party”)—he looks like he has a gun to his head. Bernard, on the other hand, is giddy to soak up the extra attention, nodding and laughing and smiling through it all. Then there’s a shout from the track, and he actually sighs—like he doesn’t want to go drive. “That’s for me. Mei, are you coming, or do I have to leave you all here?”
“Yup.” She points to me and Faust. “You two hang back here and get to know each other. Braid hair.”
Bernard looks between the three of us. “She can’t watch me?”
Silently, Mei bats her lashes in Bernard’s direction, brooking no arguments. His face reddens, and I feel like I’m being pulled with him as he scuttles off. He’s going, so I should, too. “Are you sure I can’t—”
My next two words,tag along, are lost as Mei gives me a silencing thumbs-up, then follows Bernard to the track.
Well then.
No panicking, I remind myself. I’ve been in weirder situations. Like that time in San Francisco, when I was at a Catholic baptism and realized my client was still in love with the guy she’d hired me to date. She was the mother of the child and only revealed to the entire church that my fake boyfriend was the father when she started crying, mid-infant-dunking.
“So, Faust!” I bop over to the bench behind us, putting back on my Cat Cromwell mask. Fun. Girly. A fish out of water. “Do you prefer Faust, or would you rather I call you Fausto?”Or “Lucky,” the nickname the media tried to give him back in the day? Maybe that?
“Just Faust,” he says. Then he’s sitting down, too, his helmet placed at his feet. And he doesn’t take the empty spot on the farend of the bench, either, putting feet of gray plastic space between us. No, he sits directly next to me, so close that our arms are practically brushing.
My heart begins to beat against the spiky confines of my sternum.
“Got it.” I turn my eyes forward—and am met with the sight of a gray car on the practice track, flanked by cameras. Gulping, I re-tuck my hair behind my ear. “I bet you’re not big on icebreakers, so I’ll skip them. Did the team show you my résumé?”
He hums. I think it translates roughly toyesin extremely muscular, vaguely demeaning man.
“Okay, that’s good. So, you know that I’ve been in the fashion space since I was eighteen. Across all my social media platforms, I have about thirty thousand followers, and a large number of those are people within the community itself. Designers, other influencers, brands. So I understand how to—”
“Where did you say you were from?”
My fashion-industry-connections speech screeches to a halt. I dip my hands to my lap so I can pick at my bracelet clasp. “I didn’t. But I’m from New York. Manhattan.” I don’t love reminding him of the city where we met, but this particular Cat Cromwell lie is on my résumé and—gah. Paper trail. Not a fan at the moment.
“New York,” Faust says, his tone unreadably restrained. “Really.”
