“It’s very…” Bernard sips his whisky, frowning. “Interesting.”
He’s flirting. I can see it from a mile away. This is a game I’ve played a thousand times before: man pokes fun at how little heknows about something that he’s deemedfemininebut is actually deeply universal, like Miyake’s desire to create clothes that are wearable but fun. Woman gently scoffs at the gulf of understanding between our sexes. The gulf is reinforced, the subject matter has been inadvertently demeaned as too unimportant for him to know about, and we all keep playing our roles.
“Interesting,” I repeat, rolling my eyes.
Bernard grins. “Is that not the right word?”
“No, no, it works.”
“Maybe I am good at clothes, huh?”
I lazily stir my fake cocktail. “Maybe.”
We talk, though in the back of my mind, I marvel at how boring this all is, and how quickly it’s working for Bernard. When we finish discussing—in detail—his second-place finish in Australia, he confesses that he’d gotten my Paris hotel whereabouts from a friend still at Stark-Benzin. “Just a mechanic, no one you’d know.”
“You’re talking to the team about me?” My voice doesn’t betray how my heart has dropped.
Bernard’s mouth twitches. “Is that okay?”
Of course. I want him thinking about me, sinking his network into this connection. Those are the residual fall-outs after a heartbreak. Friends at an old team, who know how hard and fast he jumped into this. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just—” I search for something complimentary. “Surprised.”
My shyness fuels him, though, painting his stalker-lite behavior as serious romance. “I told you, I date to marry,” he says. “I’m serious about this. As serious as you are.”
Something about the way he saysdate to marrysends a red flag waving in my gut, but I ignore it. I can manage desperation, and him rushing into relationships isn’t new information. Like his speechabout our kids’ hair color didn’t give that away. “I’m serious, too. But then I should probably tell you,” I segue, “the team is sending me back to New York for a few weeks. You won’t… forget about me, will you?”
“Of course not,” he says, all wide smile and reassurance. “Did they say why? It isn’t me, is it?”
Oh, he’d love that. Me, reprimanded for fraternizing with the enemy. God, if I was really doing this, he’d get off on making me quit Stark-Benzin to be his next abandoned bride. “No, I haven’t talked to anyone about us.” I let that word settle in, smiling coyly. “It’s something for Faust. Gala prep.”
“Oh.” Bernard’s voice has gone cold. “I see.”
Saying Faust’s name here, in a cocktail lounge, has a strange effect on my stomach. Or the space below it. I hide my hands under the table and twist my bracelet until it stops. “You aren’t jealous, are you?”
I can’t help but think of what Faust said over our chess game as Bernard shifts around for the right words.Jealousy can really turn a guy on.And then I’m thinking about asking Faust in that changing room if he’d been jealous of me going after Bernard—how angry he’d been; how he’d looked like he’d burn me up if I touched him—and I keep twisting my bracelet.
“No,” Bernard says stiffly. Then he smiles again. “I wasn’t sure if I should ask you this, but seeing as we’ll be separated for a bit… I do have this event coming up, before the race next week. It’s, well, it’s a gala, too. But you’d get to be my date.” He clears his throat. “It would be a bit more public than this, though. Maybe… really public. But no more than ol’ Faust chattering away about you on TV.”
“Public! That sounds…”
I trail off, the end of my sentence right there. Good. It sounds good. I could be done with Bernard after a few more public dates and be on my merry way. Only, if the team hears that I went on a date with Bernard—they might actually fire me. And I don’t care about that, I’m not thinking about Mei’s reaction, or Christine’s reaction, or Faust—it isn’t like this job is growing on me… I just wouldn’t get to go with Faust to the Day Gala. As his stylist. If I got fired.
I speak before I’ve thought this through. “I would love to meet you there, but I’m not sure if I’m ready for publicity yet. I’m so new at my job, and with everything that happened with you and the team—I really need this job.”
Bernard’s eyes soften. To him, I’ve just constructed the perfect, eventual, quit-your-controlling-job trap. “Of course you do. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No, don’t say that. You’re so thoughtful.” I let my brow furrow. Put on the innocent air of a girl desperate to date him, caught in a hard place. “Can I meet you at the gala? And we can do something more public in Miami, after I come back? IloveMiami.”
“Perfect.” Bernard’s eyes gleam, extra green against the red lights. “I still get to take you out first.”
After we finish our drinks, Bernard surprises me with a moonlit walk through a local garden. The cherry blossom trees are in bloom, pink and weepy and lit from below, and it’s stunningly beautiful and not at all appropriate for the heels I’m wearing. Seems to be Bernard in a nutshell: he gives me his idea of perfection, and I have the luxury of saying thank you. I make a mental note to see the cherry blossoms again before I leave, without him.
Against all odds, he makes it all the way up to my hotel roomdoorstep, too. I blame my shoes. I’m in a weakened state, my feet mutinying. “Well,” Bernard says as he leans against the wall. He sucks in one cheek, eyes what has to be Faust’s closed hotel door, then mine. “Can I…?”
I blink twice, waiting, like I don’t know what he’s implying. Maybe, if I keep blinking, this won’t happen. Or, maybe, Faust isn’t in his room, awake at this very moment, listening to a conversation outside his door. Maybe Stark-Benzin has decided to spare my mortal soul and put him on his own floor.
Bernard’s face goes a bit red, and he looks away, smiling. “What would you say to an after-dinner drink?”
Lovely. He can’t just ask me for sex like an adult, so he’s going to ply me with alcohol. I decide that Cat Cromwell, woman of the world, would probably put the pieces together then. “Oh!” I squeak. Softly. “Oh. Sorry.”
