I’ve been staring at Faust’s arm for the past minute and a half. And yeah, he noticed. Huffing, I recross my legs so I’m leaning toward the car window. “Nothing.”
Thank you, over-the-counter sleep aid. Thank you, lucky red Carels.
We make it down the winding cobblestone pathway without anyone twisting an ankle or falling into a street photographer. I follow loosely behind Christine, who’s tagging behind Faust, who’s letting Eddie lead the charge. Antient had eschewed the Carrousel du Louvre this year and is hosting their show in a cavernous warehouse on the outskirts of the city—the drama. I do love it. Antient is an example of my favorite parts of French fashion: founded in the sixties by an eccentric couturier, over-the-top like a hand-rolled cigarette, articulate and critical yet soft, with a lot of love to give. Social media fumbles and imperfect bag launches don’t get them down; there’s always a shoulder wiggle and another Aperol Spritz, and they’re back, because they mean this. The pale purple trench coats and tweed Bermuda shorts and bowl cuts, the chunky loafers and day-collar chokers and bowling bags, it really is life and deathwhen it’s how you live your life. The only way you know how to express yourself. They love fashion. It shows.
We go to the front entry point, I talk with security. Faust pretends to be exceedingly interested in the warehouse’s front brickwork while I pull up Mei’s emails for Antient’s people. When I’m cleared, I catch up to him with a full-on scowl. “You still have to go do photos. You aren’t getting out of it by hanging around me.”
He gives me a very bow-wow look. Hangdog, in his black-on-black-on-black ensemble. I’d outdone myself with Faust. It’s those street photos of Mads Mikkelsen smoking outside Milan Fashion Week, with a shorter black coat over a black button-down and black trousers and black shoes. Leather loafers. Thought he’d appreciate a switch-up from his spite Docs. And every shade of blackmatches.
I give him my bestdon’t startstare and turn him around to the interior pap walk.
While I stand guard with the other stylists and assistants, off to the side of the moody warehouse room, I observe Faust struggle gracefully through his photo call. He’s nice to the camera people. Smiling when he has to, presumably understanding that they’re not the people to blame for his current torture. He looks over when someone goes to fetch Christine for a team shot—and I find myself smiling when our eyes meet.
Are you dying yet?I mouth with very exaggerated hand gestures.
Surprise makes him look younger, almost boyish. And I watch in fascination as his mouth blossoms into a full, real, unbelievable smile, just for me.
No, sorry, he mouths, less exaggerated. And it’s almost, slightly nice. Proof that I was just exhausted and paranoid when I thought he was onto me.
Then we sit down for the show.
Christine and Eddie are a few rows back. Faust is front row. And my seat is right next to his. As in, our legs are touching. I’m in all black clothing, too, the stylist’s wardrobe. No one will notice but him. I sit up straight anyway, cross my legs at the knee, trying to take up less space. Each movement presses our bodies closer together. The side of my thigh, the side of his. My hand brushing his shoulder.
“Can you relax?” Faust mutters.
I shoot him a glare. His legs are crossed, arms crossed, a fortress of a man. “You first.”
There’s music overhead, light chatter behind us. Nevertheless, Faust’s breathing is audible. He starts to lean away from me, one long leg shuffling behind the other, then he pauses. Maybe he’s noticed that there’s nowhere for him to go, strangers boxing us in on either side. The lights dim, once, warning that the show’s starting soon, and he runs his palm down his thigh. Like he’s nervous about something.
And… that’s new.
Thoughtlessly, I press my leg against his. Just a brush. An experiment.
He lets out a shallow, deeply unhappy, very surprised breath. “Cat.”
“Sorry, just relaxing.” Not true. I’m completely rigid, my heart beating in my chest, my thighs, where we’re touching. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
From the corner of his eye, I catch him steepling his hands over his lap.
“Mmhm.”
Even his pretentious humming sounds strained, and I’d like to bottle the sound so I can sip on it for the rest of my life. The greatFausto Ferreira Sanchez, so cool-headed, so impassive, in palpable pain because of my legs? This level of stun-gun flirtation isn’t something I’ve done before—using my body like the short-range weapon I know it can be. But God, it feels good to take some of my power back after how much he’s messed with my head. A tiny, invisible, defensible helping of revenge.
The lights dim one more time, a final call for us to take our seats, and I sway closer to him. Cupping my hand over his ear, I murmur, “I hope you enjoy the show.”
His shoulders stiffen, one hand jerking to his knee.
I bite back a smile.That’smore like it.
I’m enjoying the steady pulse of satisfaction when the lights above the warehouse fall for the final time, and fingers wrap around my wrist.
It happens the moment the lights are out. A thick, warm grip, circling and holding my wrist like a handcuff. My lashes flutter, hand instinctively jerking away only to find that I can’t—and my mouth goes dry as I realize it’s Faust. Faust is holding my hand. Faust is holding me captive.
The lights fade back up and thumping disco music tumbles out of the ceiling, speakers hidden away in the shadows, and I’m already angling to meet Faust’s amused brown eyes as the first model hits the runway. I can’t speak. Speaking would bring more attention to us. We’re front row at a fashion week, arguably one of the single most photographed rows of folding chairs on planet Earth, and slapping him across his smug face would hand him the points for this round.
Because we’re still playing his game.
My eyes dip to his plush lips as he silently mouths,Just relaxing.
