A rich, miserable man.
Before he can say anything else, I force my legs to get with the program, taking a step toward him. He leans back, brows shootinghigher in surprise. “I have to do your hair,” I remind him through gritted teeth.
Frowning, he watches my fingers drift to his temple until he can’t anymore, then shifts his eyes to me. I ignore it. That look. A foot away from me and far too close. Stomach churning, I skim my fingertips over the dark wave he’s awkwardly pushed back, coarse yet soft, working it into a better angle. Why does even touching him make me feel less oriented?
“No hair gel?” he asks softly, almost teasing.
Anger flares beneath my skin and I suck in one cheek, needing the pain. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Helmet.”
“Right.” His gaze drifts over my skin. “Doesn’t make sense to do this before I race.”
I don’t bother explaining that millions of eyeballs will be on him during his few minutes of screentime, or how many women would trade their souls for hair like his, thick and shiny and such a rich espresso brown that it’d probably talk with a put-on transatlantic accent. I’m sure Stark-Benzin has shampoo sponsorships lined up.This one easy trick gives you Faust’s gravity-defying hair!
With a deep breath, I tuck the last loose strand up with the others, then step around him. “What are you—?” he starts.
I run a finger over the back of his neck, relishing in the way his shoulders stiffen.
“Almost done.”
His skin has the lightest sheen of sweat, warm with a hint of… something. Cologne? He smells earthy, woodsy. It reminds me of the forests I used to wander back home, after the rain, when the trees were a silent hug all around me. I pinch the loose waves at thenape of his neck, ignoring the objectively nice smell. And the tattoo almost hidden beneath his hair, a small horseshoe in all black. And when his chest lifts with a long, deep breath and he says, “Cat,” with his back still toward me, I ignore that, too.
He’s only quiet for another moment. “You’re mad, aren’t you? That I said it on TV.”
It. My anger scatters into panicked sparks. No, no, no.
“My name?” I keep my tone light, uncaring. “It isn’t what Mei wanted, no.”
“And what doyouwant?”
“I want to keep my job.”
“What job?”
“This job.” My fingers drop to his shoulders without realizing it. “The one I’m doing at this very moment?”
“Just stop,” he snaps, finally turning around to face me, frustration glowing from his unyielding eyes. “I remember you, Cat. From Bernard’s wedding. Who could forget you?”
Time slows. My stomach plummets. I hear the sound of something heavy pounding—my heart, I realize moments later, a kick-drum reverberating in my empty head. He didn’t just say what I think he did. This isn’t, itcan’tbe happening. But he’s looking at me like he’s waiting, and I’m not waking up, and this isn’t another bad dream between bouts of insomnia.
Faust remembers me.
Then his deep voice loops back around my ankles, pulling me off-balance. “Tell me I’m right,” he says—and my pulse grinds to a standstill.
“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” He laughs darkly. “Then why are you here? After his wedding. After he quits.”
“I just didn’t—”
“And then I see you with him? What’s going on?”
Pain stings between my lips. I’m biting my lip so hard, I think I just broke skin. I don’t know what to say to any of it. How to get myself out of this situation closing around me, sinking my life, all my hard work.
“He’s nice,” I whisper. One last shot in the dark. “It’s nothing.”
