And I’m even less certain as Faust walks over to me. It isn’t a far distance, a couple of feet at the moment, but I notice every single one of them, his long footsteps quiet on the plush hotel carpet. Once he’s here, right here, in front of me, he licks his lips—a little dry, I need to get him lip balm—and asks, “Can I try?”
“Try what?”
“Figuring you out.”
I have no idea what he means by that. I guess, critique my fashion back? Deem me preppier than intended? I roll my tongue in my mouth, for once, stumped. “Sure?”
“Gotta learn somehow,” he says, his voice low and soft, and then—he’s touching my hair. The very tip of it I was playing with moments ago. My weight shifts to the backs of my feet, shying away on instinct, but I realize he’s just going tit for tat with the touching. I have been adjusting his clothes all morning. I didn’t warn him, either.
And he gets that look in his eyes again, like he’s somewhere else, somewhere that requires all his thoughts. “Blonde,” he finally mutters, and then he’s gently placing the humidity-waved lock down on my shoulder and moving on. He points at my cheeks, sort of; it’s a half-hearted point, thumb running over his half-curved pointer finger, as if he doesn’t want to outright point at me.
I watch thoughts pull his mind around. Brown eyes close enough to see the mini tug-of-war happening.
He licks his lips again. “Freckles.”
A ridiculous, nervous giggle bubbles up my throat. “I thought you were going to do my clothes.”
He doesn’t laugh. “I’ll get there.” His tone is surprisingly authoritative. “Doing the real stuff first.” His half point moves to my mouth. “No lipstick today.”
More warmth tingles behind my skin. Am I embarrassed? By aman? Never. “Went on a jog when I woke up,” I say, despite never once offering anyone an explanation of my makeup choices before this very moment.
“Mm.”
Ten more seconds drag by, and I almost work up the nerve totell him that he’s bombed this sartorial lesson, when he lets his hand drop—at last. It’s like stepping out of a gust of wind; I only notice how tense I was after his attention has softened.
“That’s all,” he says, crossing his arms. “The rest is your character. You’re fake.”
Cold air slithers down my throat. “What does that mean?”
“Cat,” he murmurs. “You know what it means.”
The way his mouth shapes the wordCatmakes an unnamable emotion fizzle low in my stomach. It isn’t a feeling I’m used to. It’s like he understands me, clocks the subtle and not-so-subtle manipulations, and refuses to take the bait. It’s strangely exciting, to have him see my maneuvering, then maneuver back. And also, I might throw up.
I let my hands drop to my hips, smiling like he’s kidding. All jokes here! Me and my really funny friend Faust! “Is this some weird anti-makeup rant?”
Faust’s lips twitch from the possible temptation to smile. “No.”
“Just say it! This isn’t fair.”
“It isn’t? If I tell you how you aren’t pulling this off as well as you think you are, will you change those things? Because that’ll only make it more obvious.”
“Pullingwhatoff? That is so—”
“Rude?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Untrue?”
“Rude. Yes. Very rude.” I’m not turning red. Blushing while angry is a flaw I’ve outgrown at the age of twenty-nine. “Calling women ‘fake’ is very 2010s of you.”
Now he’s smiling. “You’re good at that.”
Again, he’s side-stepped my bait, and my stomach sinks slightly. “Do I have to ask what I’m good at or are you going to just tell me?”
“Avoiding questions,” he says, with a grin that does catastrophicthings to my heart. It drops like I’m cartwheeling, and my foot just got caught on the pummel horse, and here comes the squishy rubber ground.
I haven’t even gone on my date with Bernard yet and Faust is already insinuating… something. And worse—I’m blushing because of it.
“Okay. I’m leaving,” I say in a rush. “Clearly, you woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”
“Am I wrong?”
