“We could’ve squeezed.”
“It’s okay.”
Doesn’t seem okay. I walk a bit behind him for the rest of the hallway. At our doors, I smile and slide my key card out. “Thanks for dinner. It really was fun, even if we didn’t get our work done.”
“Was it?”
I lower my key card, blinking. He doesn’t.
“Did you have fun?” Faust continues, staring straight at me. “I can’t tell.”
“Mmhm.” My voice is barely strained, though inside, I’m panicking. That is the weirdest question I’ve ever been asked.
His head cocks to one side, jaw ticking. “Why?”
Actually, no. That’s the weirdest. “Why… did I have fun?” I laugh in disbelief. “I don’t know. I just did.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do breakfast tomorrow, then. Do the work.”
“Tomorrow—”
“Seven work for you?”
“I, yeah. Okay. Seven.”
“Good. We could make it a tradition. You and me. Breakfasts.” He swipes his key card, and the door lock whirrs mechanically. “Got a lot to learn about each other.”
There’s only a second between his door opening, the cool air, a sliver of his room peeling into view. A nicer bed, king-sized. A wall between us. Then he’s gone, and I’m still standing here, key card in hand, dazed. What just happened?
I stand like that until it hits me. Then… I grin.
Alert the freaking presses. I’m so good, I think I just inadvertently thawed the ice king’s heart.
Faust
Saturday, March 8
I looked up Cat Cromwell this morning.
Just like I thought.
Seven years ago, she didn’t exist.
Chapter 8AN ACTIVE PIECE
That next morning, Faust openshis door approximately four seconds after I knock on it. I arch a brow, way too tempted to ask if he was standing there, waiting for me. “Good morning,” I chime, wheeling in my clothing trunk and setting my own extra-large latte down on his hallway table. “I got you black coffee. Is that okay?”
Faust glances at the coffee I’m handing him like it’s an alien peace offering. “It’s fine,” he mumbles.
I’ll take that. “Do you usually take cream?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He has the audacity to look mildly surprised, though he keeps his thoughts to himself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about rich men who appear on camera often, it’s that they’ll force themselves to like black coffee. I swear they think it’s extra masculine.
“Okay, so today we’re going to trial run some images for you, if that works for you.” I sit in the white leather armchair next to the gilded coffee table and pop open my trunk. Cautiously, Faustmeanders to the other chair across from me, sits, and looks at the pile of black, gray, and blue fabric.
