Really, though. Japan?
xo Bernard
I take a deep breath and get hit with the roses’ faint vanilla scent. I hadn’t texted him back quickly enough, and he sent me up… roses. Scented roses. And how did he know where I’m staying? Theoretically, he could’ve stalked Stark-Benzin’s socials for the fashion week event, and Christine might’ve posted something.I think Bernard’s going forPretty Womanbillionaire-who-knows-everything-about-you intrigue, but God, he’s so creepy.
“Mr. Baudelaire wanted to know if you had a message back to him?” the worker asks politely.
With all the crackling energy of an engine turning over, Faust’s gaze shifts, tracking my hands as I hug the bouquet close. Then our eyes meet. He’s waiting for me to speak first. His cheek is bowed again, but he’s waiting for me to take the lead.
“Thank you,” I tell the delivery man. It isn’t his fault this is a nuclear bomb situation. “You can tell Mr. Baudelaire that this was… very sweet.”
Faust exhales the tiniest, almost inaudible breath of a laugh.
“Sorry, we were just going to dinner!” I beam, then I’m grabbing Faust’s arm and yanking him toward the cracked door to his hotel room. He is not ruining this for me, and I don’t have the time or energy to handle my key card deciding it doesn’t want to work again. And then we’re in his room. Me. And Faust. In a large Parisian studio with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Alone.
We’re both pin-drop quiet. Only when I hear footsteps on the other side of the closed door, do I drop the bouquet on the long console table flanking the entryway and let my tense shoulders relax.
Faust meanders behind me, his arms still crossed. There’s a smirk on his face that wasn’t there before. “Roses.”
“Don’t.”
“I wouldn’t getyouroses.”
“And why not? What would you get me?”
Faust goes to the mini fridge, grabs a pale green drink and cracks the lid. Something citrus flavored, maybe. “Tell me if I’m wrong first,” he says without looking my way.
Heat spreads across the bridge of my nose. “They’re… not my favorite.”
With most of him turned toward the fridge, I only see his half smile in profile, one corner of his mouth and his crinkled eyes. “Mmhm.”
“They’re just kind of—” I should not be saying this, fuck. “Basic.”
“I know.”
“But it was really sweet of him, and I love them.”
“Sure. What’s your favorite?”
“Cheater, it’s your turn. What would you get me?”
Straightening up, he takes a swig of the drink, though not before offering it to me. I decline. “Poppies.”
“Like… fromThe Wizard of Oz?”
He sets his drink down and goes to the sink. There are two glasses next to an old steel tea kettle, and he runs one under the faucet before holding it my way. “Yes. Drink.”
I take it, frowning. I don’t think I’m thirsty until I take a polite sip—then it’s like my body remembers I was on a plane for a very long time, and I finish it off. Faust watches for a moment, an indecipherable expression on his face, and I can’t tell if he wants me to ask why poppies or if he wants me to drop the conversation or if I care what he wants, even a little bit. I think I do, slightly. Maybe I should find an amorous Parisian. This is dangerous.
“They’re red,” he finally says before turning his attention to his shoes; those still way-too-new Doc Martens that have to be killing him. Like, it’s actually unhinged that he’s wearing those around out of spite. And I’m about to ask him why poppies being red is a relevant fact, when my mouth clamps shut.
Freckles.
My face goes more than orange. I’m beet red.
Faust’s busy retying his laces, missing my blushing. Which is nice. If this is a new thing with me, and my body occasionally overheats because he’s my bizarro niche type of man and nice-ish and I’m never around semi-decent men—great. Like he said, bar’s on the floor and he’s clearing it. Big deal. I don’t care.
