That call ends. But he’s on the phone again, seconds later. “Hello. Yeah, thanks for calling.”
His tone is rigidly detached, endlessly stern. That’s Bernard, no doubt about it.
“Mm. Right.” He pauses, maybe listening to Bernard explain himself. It’s a long pause. “This is risking her job. Yes—no, I know she told you that. She’s here. We’re going to Miami this afternoon.”
A longer pause.
“That was your decision.”
There are footsteps, and Faust rounds the corner of the kitchenette, looking at me. He’s still on the phone, listening, but he nods at me. Clearly checking in.
I hold up the saddest thumbs-up.
He nods again, looking relieved. “Right, we both agree there,” Faust tells Bernard. “Mm. No—stop. I’m not asking, Bernard. Scale it back, or I’m going to tell the other drivers that you’re taking advantage of a female employee. No, see, it doesn’t matter if you’re seeing her. You are in a position of power, and you overstepped her boundary.” He falls quiet, gaze shifting to the ground. Bernard must be asking him a question.
Faust’s eyes widen.
Then he says, “No.”
They don’t talk much longer than that. When Faust hangs up, he lets out a long, frustrated sigh, his cheek bouncing as he looks at his phone again. “He says he’ll post that he’d tagged you by mistake. Should work well enough.”
“Faust. Thank you.”
I start to get up, but he walks over to me before I can, his serious expression softening. He kneels in front of my chair again, gathering my hands in his like he can protect them and me and us and this.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Nothing, really. We all have that group chat—”
“The drivers?”
“Mm. And I told him on there to call me. They can guess the rest.” He glances at me. “Do you want to see it?”
“That’s okay.” While the concept of Faust throwing down a gauntlet on my behalf in the Formula 1 group chat does make my heart do embarrassing things, I’m distracted by the phone call. “What did he ask you, though?”
His brow furrows.
“He asked you something that made you look kind of, um, upset.”
His brow lifts. Then it really doesn’t. Trying to look unbothered doesn’t work on him. “He asked if I was interested in you.” Faust taps my knuckles with his fingers, looking away. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. Only reason he could think of that I’d try to protect you.”
Right. So, there are other reasons.
And he’d looked so shocked that Bernard had assumed that.
And he saidno.
Faust doesn’t like to lie.
He clears his throat. “Why? Would you have wanted me to say something else?”
“No. That was good. He’d—he’d probably do something even more ridiculous if he thought you were going to ask me out. So, thank you.” I squeeze his fingers, and his eyes shift back to me. “Thank you.”
A small smile curves his lips.
And that’s when I decide that maybe this is okay, giving in. Setting myself up for inevitable heartbreak, and knowing it doesn’t mean anything more to Faust. If I’m going to break my rules for anyone, I can break them for a man that feels like a safe harbor after decades lost at sea. Because that’s the catch with a lighthouse and solid ground—the fog doesn’t go anywhere, the oceans don’t calm.
But you can rest for a little while, knowing that he’s firm beneath your feet.
