“Oh, the healthcare thing?” He sounds bored. Fuckingbored. “A few years. Do you know them?”
I do. Lockland Public was the name on each letter piled high on Grandma’s table, before all the crisp white papers were swept into a garbage bag and left on the curb. In fact, I know so much about them. Lockland Public is a publicly traded insurance company, and they say that makes them more accountable to real people—more caring.With a human touch.They also say they’re based in North Carolina, but their current CEO’s private jet is in Cannes more often than not. I’ve seen pictures of the sixty-something-year-old guy partying on a yacht with women younger than his daughters.
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re great. Put on this whole gala.”
Tickets cost an arm and a leg.“Wow.”
“Right? I’ve never been the face of a brand before—and they’re making big moves in luxury sports medicine. Really good with investors. Big returns. That kind of thing.”
I swallow, the acid in my throat sweet like ibuprofen. The cheap,sugar-coated kind. “Isn’t the point of health insurance to pay the people who pay for it?”
“God, you’re adorable.” He laughs, squeezing me closer. “People like giving them their money, really. Don’t know why, but that’s not for us to figure out.”
We sway back around. I stare out at the shadow people seated at their tables and wish, hard enough to break a birthday candle, for him to appear. Faust. Now is when I need that anchoring stare. An irritating smirk that reminds me that I’m powerful enough to play this game. I want him to be here, watching me, and that alone is a terrifying thought.
“Are you interested in working with brands—as a couple?” Bernard’s breath is warm on my cheek. “I’m sure they would be interested.”
“Lockland Public?”
“Yes, trust me.” He chuckles. “Everyone will want to pay for a piece of you.”
White envelopes on a table. Grandma sitting for her matching tattoo, a rabbit on her wrist. Maisie begging me to just meet with the high-risk specialists—we share all the same genes. Ballet on Christmas, Mom stepping behind a long velvet curtain. Those are my pieces, and no one wants them except me. If I don’t remember them, who will?
“I know you said we were just friends tonight, but I need to ask, officially.” Bernard pulls me closer. I can’t stop staring at the banner, now tucked behind two illuminated bouquets. “I’m a very lucky man. My family, well… let’s just say, I’ve always gotten what I’ve wanted in life. But this feels like something I’ve been looking for. And I hope it isn’t too soon to ask, but—will you be my girlfriend, Ms. Cromwell?”
I’m dreaming again. That has to be it. The son of a billionaire dynasty is asking me out, here, at a charity gala lining the pockets of the company I hate the most, and I’m whispering in my tiniest,happiest voice,of course. And then there’s his hand around my wrist and a soft tug that pulls me into his chest, and I don’t notice that Bernard’s going for a kiss until his lips graze my cheek and I still can’t stop looking at those three words. A human touch. Here it is. The face of Lockland Public.
My first kiss in who knows how long can’t be with him.
“Sorry,” I exhale, stepping back. Pulse pounding, I trace where his stubble pricked my skin, light enough to burn. “I, I can’t.”
Bernard’s eyes narrow on my fingers. He smiles with great effort. “Right. I forgot. That was too serious, wasn’t it?”
“No. It wasn’t—”
“I didn’t mean exclusive, Cat. You can see other men.”
Fuck, this is so bad. People are staring, trying to decipher what just happened between Bernard Baudelaire and his little date, and he’s back-pedaling, and I should’ve just let him kiss me. But the thought makes my stomach churn, and then I’m saying, “Excuse me,” and then I’m outside, on a balcony overlooking Suzuka, needing fresh air to calm the dizzying whirlpool that’s dragging me under.
Beyond the railing, the city is nothing more than dark towers studded with thousands of golden windows. There isn’t any music playing out here, either. It’s quiet. But I can’t catch my breath; I lean to rest my hands on my thighs, the best I can do in this waist-hugging dress. Should’ve worn my Issey. Pleats would be so nice right now.
When the door opens, I’m still staring at the pale gray concrete floor.
It shuts as I try to straighten up, my vision swimming with black fuzz. “Hey.” A hand finds my lower back, my center of gravity, and presses in, balancing me. “It’s me. Take a breath.”
He’s here.
I don’t need eyes to recognize Faust’s deep, quiet voice. If Iwasn’t about to lose it, I might be embarrassed that he found me like this—I probably will be, later. But I lean into his hand, and his wide palm is the only reason my lungs are stable enough to work. His fingertips bracing me against a collapse.
He knew I’d be here, at this horrible party, as that horrible man’s date, and he came. He’s here.
Tears burn my eyes at how relieved I feel. “Sorry, fuck. I’m so sorry. I’m not…” I wave a placating hand in front of myself. See? I can wiggle my fingers! “I’m okay, actually. Looks way worse than it is.”
“You need to sit down.” He does not sound placated.
“I’m good. I’ll be dancing again in like two minutes.”
