His voice steals my attention back. “Aren’t we going out?”
“Now?” I swipe one cheek with the back of my hand. Still hot, and now I’ve smudged my concealer.
“Yeah.”
“Where to?”
Faust’s smiling again. At his shoes—myshoes—not me. “Dinner.”
Going to dinner with Faust was a horrible decision. It’s a dark afternoon, overcast and gray, how Paris looks in movies about doing things you shouldn’t do and really enjoying them. But the restaurant is warm and small and lit with every kind of lamp—antique hurricane lamps on the short bar top, dancing tea light lamps on the five bistro tables, a Tiffany lamp stuffed next to the register, throwing rainbows on the floor. The owner remembers Faust from the last time he was in, saying something about a rematch as he brushes crumbs from our window seat. Then he reappears with two matching white plates of parmesan-dusted french fries topped with sleekly sliced steak. “Sorry,” Faust says. “It’s what he’s known for. Does it work for you?”
I grab my napkin, pretending to not be delighted. “You should really ask if someone eats meat before you drag them to steak frites.”
“Is that a no?”
I frown silently, and he laughs. Then he holds up his hands,gesturing for me to take the first bite. Rolling my eyes I oblige, and—damn. It’s delicious, straight-to-the-circulatory-systemgood, and subtly spicy. There might be chili flakes mingling with these peppercorns. My jet lag is cleared, sent back to Australia.
“Well?” Faust says.
I dab my mouth with the napkin. “C’est bon.”
His expression hardly changes as he picks up his knife and fork, though I would’ve missed the happy wobble to his mouth if I’d blinked. “It was a calculated guess.”
“That I enjoy steak?”
“You like fries,” he says, and I pause mid-bite. When did I eat… oh. In Melbourne, with Christine and Eddie. Is that why he brought me here? Before I can ask, Faust adds, “I imagine you don’t get a chance for flavor very often. I’ve seen what Mei bulk-buys.”
That surprises a giggle out of me. “God, for real. Influencer food is so unsalted. Everyone is into savory croquembouches right now, and it’s like, guys—these are bagels. Tiny bagels glued together.”
Faust chuckles deep in his chest, then goes for his water. He’d ordered us two large, American-sized bottles, and I’ve run around Europe long enough to appreciate the gesture. “What else do you like?”
“Are we talking about food or work?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “I’m pretty normal.”
“What’s normal?”
“Clothes, music, etcetera.”
“So well-rounded.”
He waits, thumb tapping against the tabletop as he watches me eat. I smile through my french fry victim; I’ve learned not to start rambling when he goes quiet like this. And when he takes anotherbite, I feel oddly triumphant having not given in. More so when his gaze dips to my mouth, assessing me, coming up empty.
Then he looks at the shelf next to our table, where board games are stacked one on top of the other. Shogi, Go, chess. He slips the latter from the stack. “I have an idea,” he says, and I watch, half-shocked, half-confused, as he shifts our plates to make room for the unfolding board. “We’ll go question for question.” He sets up the game from memory—opposing lines of pawns, corner rooks, kings and queens in their proper places. I’m silently, deeply impressed. “You win a piece, you get to ask a question. I win a piece, and I get to ask. Rules are, we answer truthfully. Deal?”
I’m ecstatic, like any chess fiend would be. Buoyant. I casually twirl the end of my ponytail between my fingers. “I feel like we’ve been pretty truthful with each other lately.”
“?‘Clothes. Music. Etcetera.’?”
“I’m a simple woman.”
His cheek flexes. “You are compellingly complicated.”
Specks of glitter glimmer through me, gold and sharp and everywhere. And annoying, as spilled glitter often is.Compellingis not a compliment. There’s no need to react to Faust saying one semi-nice thing about me with full-body frisson.
“Fine. Deal,” I say, holding out my hand. Faust goes to take it for a handshake, and I dodge his long fingers, plucking up a white pawn and a black pawn to hide behind my back. He exhales—irritated, amused—and I grin. “Left or right?”
