Correct, I blink back.
He smiles.
Once we’re parked and ushered out, cameras whirring around us, Alice helps us navigate to the holding area. Duct-tape marks cover the carpet, and tall, temporary walls hide us and the other waiting guests from view. “Remember, Faust, you’re going to walk up the stairs. Cat, you’re going to walk behind him in case he needs any help with his clothes. This is pretty normal here—it’s a fashion-focused event, so they like us to feature the people on the team, not just the celebs.” Without warning, she reaches out and fluffs Faust’s hair. He lets out a surprised grunt. “Perfect. So handsome.”
My eyes stray to the long, white, carpeted steps leading to the famous white door. That’s the goal. Get to the door. There are just one million photographers between here and there, and their photos are being instantly uploaded to every news site across the world. No big deal. I’m barely here in my own black suit, the go-to outfit for celebrity stylists. Just nice enough to be photographed in the background.
I take a deep breath and shimmy my shoulders.
Faust eyes me. “What are you doing?”
I don’t stop shimmying. “Getting out my nervous energy.”
“Is that possible?”
“In general, or for me?”
“For you.”
I shoot him a mock frown. “In general, yes, it’s good to shimmy before you perform. Haven’t you ever seenHigh School Musical?”
He shoots me a glare. “Cat.”
Giggling, I reach for his shoulders, careful to not touch any of the embroidery lest I pop a thread. I push his right shoulder back, then his left. “There you go! I used to do this before I walked runways. It helps. Don’t you have pre-race techniques?”
He’s looking at my nose. Or my lips. Maybe he just doesn’t want to look at my eyes when we’re this close? “Used to play chess.”
“Ha-ha.”
He frowns. “I’m serious.”
“I’d think a checkerboard wargame motif wouldn’t be relaxing that close to a race.”
“Everything’s checkerboard in F1. No escaping it.”
“Why is it a checkered flag at the end of a race, anyway?”
“Wargame motifs.”
I side-eye him and he smiles. I don’t know where Alice wandered off to. Probably to find hair pomade. She kind of screwed up Faust’s bangs when she was messing with them. One of the brown waves is sticking up at a tragically weird angle. “Hold on a sec,” I say, reaching up to un-fluff the piece.
Without realizing it, I must’ve set my hand fully on Faust’s shoulder to steady myself—high-pressure environment and all that. But I notice our closeness when his hand goes to my waist. My heart stops at the touch of his fingers, how connected he feels when he grips me through the many layers of fabric.
Then, there’s his eyes. Dark, intense, close.
Green means go.
“Better?” he asks, breathier than usual.
What? Oh. His hair. He’s asking about his hair. I force myself to look away. “Yeah. Artfully messy now.”
“Thank God.” His fingers linger on me a moment longer thannecessary—and if he thinks I don’t notice, he’s out of his mind. “Can’t walk up some stairs without good hair.”
Very aware of where we are now, the cameras, etcetera, I tap his shoulder playfully, then brush out the fabric. “Right. I think we’re soon. Are you ready? Feeling okay? Need more shimmying?”
He laughs. With the music in the background, and the cacophony of cameras, and roar of people and press all around us, I almost don’t hear it. “I’m good. Do you?”
“I’m but a hired hand, here to tend to your suit.”
