His laugh drops away, smile growing serious. “I mean it. Do you need anything?”
Typically, before I do something that terrifies me, I like to forget it’s happening. Focusing on the terrifying thing makes it seem realer. Scarier. I prepare myself, then go through the motions, mentally checked out.
Him turning the tables on me doesn’t let me check out.
My throat’s dry. My heart might ricochet out of my chest if one more photographer leaves their flash on. I wish I was actually attending this party instead of relegated to background-suit-stair help. I wonder if Alice leaving us alone was some sort of psychological test, and she’s watching from behind one of the plastic boxwood bushes, waiting to see if Faust makes a run for it.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I push his arm gently, turning him around to face the stairs of doom. “Remember, if you suddenly forget how to walk, just grab my arm and screamreallyloudly. No one will notice you tripped.”
“Because of the screaming?”
“Because of the screaming.”
My phone begins vibrating with notifications once we hit the doors into the museum. I manage to silence it when we’re inside without anyone noticing the contraband, though not before seeing that it was just my little sister Samantha’s texts. One of the few people not on Do Not Disturb tonight.
YOU’RE AT THE DAY GALA??????????
“Who’s that?”
Right. Still here with Faust. Still doing my fake job, which is actually important to me tonight. “Just family checking in. Sorry.” I put my phone away. “Now, let me escort you to your seat, good sir, and then I’ll be off.”
I don’t need to be around for the cocktail hour. Technically, I only have to stay on the grounds in case Faust has a wardrobe emergency, though I can’t imagine what he could do in a suit to merit my help. We follow the flow of traffic, celebrities in fascinating gowns—and men in plain black suits. Faust looks like a god among them, and I’m not being biased at all.
I let my hand brush against his. No phones. No cameras.
“Thank you again for, um, wearing this.”
“Well.” His fingers brush mine. “You asked so nicely.”
I’m not going to kiss him here, with so many people around.
But I might, later.
“Sure you don’t want to come in?” he says when we’re at the hall. Inside, fashion royalty sits at tables. And it’s beautiful. Genuinely, actually beautiful. The lighting is dramatic, golds and silvers, and the rest is white. From the tablecloths to the walls, like we’re in a pantheon. The only other colors come from the greenery; sweeping garlands of feathery laurel leaves and dusty eucalyptus hang fromthe ceiling, emerald bouquets topped with pops of narcissus yellow and bloodred poppies strewn across tabletops.
I think back to that day in Paris and feel my face warming. “I have to go look at some clothes.”
I’d always heard that the museum would let gala guests wander through the Fashion Archive’s collection early, though I’d never imagined getting the chance to do just that myself. Faust can wait. This can’t.
The museum’s layout is disorienting, the walls white, the lighting dim. Marble statues stretch out toward the ceiling, Achilles standing tall, Venus twisting to look over her shoulder. A stroke of genius, the museum curators have dressed the statues in the clothes; I recognize Versace’s safety-pin dress and a gold-feathered pantsuit from McQueen’s Givenchy collection, the one inspired by Jason and the Argonauts.
Alone, I take a sip of my virgin espresso martini—really, just an espresso in a fancy glass—and study the detailing. Up close, the feathers swooped over the pantsuit’s shoulder look more like leaves, crisped gold from autumn against the stark white fabric. I wonder if they’re made out of leather. It looks like it, but then how did they manage to—
“Hey.”
I almost drop my martini; a crime on multiple fronts.
Behind me is none other than Faust. And in the darker gallery lighting, away from the swarming photographers and the adrenaline that got me through that staircase, he looks… better. Impossibly. I hadn’t had time to truly admire how well the suit fits him with only a few stitches here and there. The lacy embroidery accents his broad shoulders. He hasn’t sweat off his hairstyling, and that just isn’t fair. Men get one touch of pomade and suddenly, their hair is perfect?
I lift my glass in hello. “You’re supposed to be in the cocktail hour.”
He mirrors the gesture with his capped bottle of water. “And you aren’t supposed to have an open drink in here.”
My eyes narrow. “No one said that to me.”
“Pretty sure it was on that sign by the door.”
I’d make another joke, but the idea of accidentally spilling coffee on archival fashion makes me slightly nauseous. I down my drink. Faust’s brows lift as I swallow. “Not one to break a rule?”
