Love By Design

Chapter 37

There’s a dreamlike state to my surroundings as my eyelids flutter open, the morning light filtering into the room in a soft haze.

My body is oddly tender, an unfamiliar ache rooting itself in my bones.

With a quiet yawn, I stretch languidly on the bed, the thick material of the duvet covers sleek against my bare skin. There’s still a noticeable warmth in the sheets and I hum in content, basking in the cosiness around me despite the gentle throbbing all over my body.

Inhaling deeply, I bury my face into the silken pillows, murmuring in appreciation at the rich scent of sandalwood and bergamot as a slow breath escapes me.

I pause.

Sandalwood and bergamot.

Immediately, I shoot up.

This isn’t my bed.

An acute soreness accompanies my harsh movement and the tingles I often feel on the tips of my fingers are everywhere now.

The sound of the shower hums in the background, the rush of water nothing but white noise as my eyes survey the room and I take in my surroundings properly this time. Despite the identical layout, glaring details confirm that it isn’t my room— August’s suitcase by the door, his weekender bag next to the wardrobe, his clothes draped over the sofa.

My eyes catch his grey sweatpants on the floor by the bed and a warm flush crawls its way up to my neck, the events of last night washing over me in torrent flashbacks.

We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.

My cheeks burn even hotter.

His playboy image and reputation should not be underestimated, we did everything regardless of comfort and it was sensational.

Another startling realisation hits me.

I scramble for my phone without delay, finding it on the bedside table next to August’s, and quickly scroll through my contacts.

“Hello?” Gigi’s voice, muffled and sluggish, promptly picks up.

“Gigi,” I breathe.

Her groan sounds over the phone.

“It’s 5 AM on a Bank Holiday Monday, Mahalia Hartt,” She says. “You better have a good reason for interrupting my beauty sleep.”

I glance at the clock on the wall and wince, forgetting that Toussaint is a few hours ahead of England.

“Sorry, it’s just…” I trail off, unsure how to approach the topic. “I’m in August’s room…”

The line goes still for a while and part of me thinks she’s disconnected the call until the sound of her voice breaks the silence again.

“Oh my god!” Her loud gasp is audible over the phone, sounding more awake now. “Did you just lose your virginity to August Vante?”

I blush, the delicate discomfort between my legs a confirmation.

“Well…”

The shower turning off prompts me to turn my head towards the bathroom.

“Gigi, I have to go,” I say quickly. “He just finished showering and—”

“Mahalia Hartt!”

“I’ll speak to you later, love you, bye!”

I quickly hang up just in time as the door opens. August emerges from the bathroom, freshly out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his torso. It hangs low on his hips and leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination, not when I already experienced the reality of what’s underneath it last night.

“You’re awake.”

There’s a softness to his voice as he acknowledges me.

“Good morning,” I greet him quietly.

A silence settles between us, neither awkward nor uncomfortable, just a quiet lull blanketing over the events of last night.

Holding my breath, I pull the bedsheets a little higher over my chest as I observe August closely for any subtle signs of unease, or worse, regret.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, gently.

A twinge of nervousness coils in the pit of my stomach.

How do people navigate the morning after?

“Good, yes.” I swallow, clearing my throat. “You?”

Something flickers in his eyes as he watches me from the doorway of the bathroom and I try not to fidget under his gaze.

“You look like you want to bolt out of my room,” He chuckles, the sound a soft rumbling from his chest.

“No,” I squeak, visibly flinching at my nervousness.

August walks towards me, settling himself on the edge of the bed.

“Did I–uh,” He pauses, concern colouring his expression. “Did I hurt you?”

I blush, feeling the tenderness everywhere. “I-I’m fine.”

His eyes are warm, molten silver.

There’s something intentional in his gaze as he watches me, like he’s trying to commit something to memory.

The chime of a doorbell echoes in the suite and I turn towards the sound, frowning.

“Room service,” August answers, reading my confusion. “I ordered us breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”

He reaches out to brush his thumb on the knot between my eyebrows before cradling the side of my face into his palm. The softness of the gesture makes my stomach flutter and I reflexively lean into his touch.

“I didn’t order too much,” He says. “I had no idea whether you’d prefer to eat in before we go out. But we can always grab food later when we’re sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing?” I blink up at him.

He nods. “Touristy spots, local places. Whatever you want to do, Tinker-Talent.”

My heart flutters with excitement at the idea of spending another day with August in Cionne.

“There’s extra towels back there.” He signals towards the bathroom. “Feel free to shower in my en-suite.”

He leans down for a moment, his grey eyes contemplating, before tucking my hair behind my ear.

“I’ll sort out breakfast.” He clears his throat before exiting the room.

I shower quickly in August’s bathroom before getting ready in my own room, my mind inundated with the events over the last 24 hours when I hear a knocking on my door.

“Come in,” I call out.

August strolls into my room, wearing a light blue linen shirt, white chinos and a pair of light brown loafers.

“I wanted to see if I needed to change,” He says.

I blink down at my own outfit, deciding on a simple beach outfit with a white corset top, a light blue pinstripe high-lo maxi skirt and some tan gladiator sandals.

Now this is just ridiculous.

“I can change if you want,” I clear my throat. “I brought other outfits.”

“No need,” He shakes his head amusingly. “We’ve already made it this far.”

He looks over me for a moment, grey eyes intentional before extending a hand towards me.

“Ready?”

Shyly, I reach out for his hand. “Ready.”

August laces his fingers through mine, before tugging me close to him and pressing his lips on the top of my head. The action is similar to yesterday but he lingers longer this time, the gesture intentional, and something stirs in my chest.

Looking up at him, I watch as the corner of his lips quirks into a soft smile.

“Allons-y, cher c?ur.”

Cionne is teeming with Toussaint’s culture. The sun-kissed city is a tapestry of elegant European architecture and the allure of Mediterranean lifestyle.

After exploring the city the whole day, August and I found ourselves sitting in a quaint café, one of his favourite local spots. Tucked away in an unassuming part of the city, it’s a modest building with a wrought-iron gate adorned with trailing ivy that leads to a sun-dappled terrace. Warm hues of aged wood and exposed brick walls provide a rustic backdrop for the antique bistro tables and matching chairs that are dotted around the terrace, the air infused with a rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

August is relaxed and ridiculously radiant as he sits opposite me by the outdoor seating area, his hair practically glowing under the golden hour sun.

“I spent a lot of my summers in Cionne,” He shares. “A place to get away from it all. Not so much when I was, uh, more involved in the industry. But this place definitely has a special place in my heart.”

He doesn’t talk about his sordid reputation as the infamous playboy, skimming over it entirely. Whether it’s in the past, I’m not too sure.

Instead, August continues to share stories about his time in Toussaint, opening up about a part of his life that’s rarely talked about in the media. It feels strange to hear things from his point of view, rather than the tabloids.

August talks in a way that makes you listen. It makes sense, I suppose. Under all the stoicism is a warmth about him— a reserved softness, almost always hidden.

“C’est bon, monsieur?”

The server approaches us.

“The bill, s’ilvous plait.” August says, sliding his Black Amex card out of his wallet.

I blink, shaking my head.

“August, no.”

“It’s just coffee, Mahalia.”

“With two main meals and a shared side.” I give him a look.

“Exactly, so let me pay.”

“August.”

“Mahalia.”

“I haven’t spent a single penny on this trip.”

“Good.” He nods towards me approvingly. “You’re being smart with your money.”

“August.” I glare at him.

Glancing over at the waiter as he presses a button and gestures towards the card machine, I reach out instantly, tapping my card on top of the reader and listening to it beep.

“Merci.” I nod awkwardly.

Blinking, the waiter turns to August who only shakes his head, amused.

“C’est bon,” August comments, waving a hand dismissively. “Elle est mon petit c?ur têtu.”

“C?ur?” I ask, having heard the word a few times now. “Heart?”

August clears his throat before lifting his cup of coffee to take a sip. “I said you’re stubborn-hearted.”

“Oh,” I nod before narrowing my eyes and crossing my arms. “I am not.”

He looks at me pointedly then, a small smile hiding behind the porcelain cup. “I rest my case.”

“I’m not stubborn,” I repeat. “I’m just… immovable in my convictions.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “That’s a rather ornamented way to say ‘stubborn’.”

“I am not–”

“Stubborn.” He interrupts me teasingly, putting the cup down and looking at me in a sprightly uppity manner.

His overt playfulness is something I didn’t expect, considering I’ve grown so accustomed to his impassive attitude. Deepening my glare, I grab the Polaroid camera on the table to take a picture of him in retaliation, a flash erupting from the device.

“ARGH!”

August shouts in surprise and I draw a sharp breath as he jerks backwards, covering his eyes. My stomach twists, not realising that the flash on the camera was switched on.

“Oh my god!” I scramble over the table to reach for the hand covering his face. “I’m so sorry!”

He lets out a sharp hiss and my heart lodges itself in my throat.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I question, holding his face as gently as I can.

His entire body tenses as I attempt to examine his closed lids and he lets out a groan.

“Should I call an ambulance?” I ask, beginning to panic. “Do you need the hospital?”

In another effort to see his eyes more clearly, I carefully grasp his head in between my palms but the back of his hand remains firmly covering his lids.

The distress I feel heightens as his eyebrows furrow and I gently intertwine my fingers with his.

“A-August.” I swallow, my voice wavering.

He stills, one eye suddenly opening as he peers over to look at me above our interlocked hands.

I pause, staring at him as he looks up at me wide-eyed and blinking and optically unharmed.

“You–!” I visibly recoil, swatting his arm before sitting back down. “That was not funny.”

The rapid beating of my heart begins to slow and I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that I didn’t send him to a focal seizure.

“Sorry,” He draws back slightly, face apologetic. “I couldn’t resist.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought I temporarily blinded you.”

The corner of his mouth curls upwards as he sits upright.

“You blind me every day, Tinker-Talent.”

My heartbeat picks up again and it most definitely has nothing to do with the little spectacle he just put on. There’s a familiar fluttering in my chest as I recall our conversation last night at the restaurant.

Brilliant and beautiful and so damn blinding.

“Not funny.” I scrunch my nose in disdain.

He turns towards me. “The hospital though, really?”

“I don’t know the severity of your condition,” I reply, huffing. “You were bedridden yesterday afternoon. Not to mention, intoxicated in the evening. I don’t know how many factors there are to consider. Migraine, alcohol, drugs. Slight discomfort or genuine pain.”

“Worried about me?” He teases.

I look at him, seriously.

“Yes.”

He blinks, gaze softening.

There’s a familiar fondness in his grey eyes— the warmest shade of molten silver.

“Photalgia,” He shares. “Light sensitivity.”

Tilting my head, I make a mental note of the condition.

“It’s mainly flashes and flickering lights,” He continues. “Glare from reflective surfaces, high-contrast lighting in certain environments, staring at bright screens for too long.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It used to,” He answers honestly. “It was a lot worse when I was a kid. Being in front of the camera when I was younger probably didn’t help, I don’t think. But it’s tolerable nowadays.”

Wearing sunglasses, working in dimly lit rooms— it makes sense.

“Don’t worry,” August teases. “Your tiny, little camera won’t disorientate me.”

He grabs my Polaroid, motioning it towards me.

“Okay, your turn. Smile.”

I narrow my eyes at him, turning my head away. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, now you’re camera shy?”

“We’re not all photogenic.” I look at him pointedly. “And literal models.”

“Ex-model,” He quips.

“As if that makes any difference.”

I glower at the lens as he points it in front of my face and takes a picture, flash erupting.

“Smile, Tinker-Talent,” He coos. “Frowning doesn’t suit you I’m afraid, come on now.”

I make an exaggeration to deepen my glare.

“There are many expressions I adore on your face but frowning isn’t one of them, sadly.” He shakes his head. “Souriez, mon c?ur.”

“No,” I continue scowling at him. “I’m channelling my inner Peroxide Prince.”

At the mention of the moniker of his modelling days, August chuckles.

“You should channel this one,” He says, picking up the developing Polaroid of me. “I call it the Glitter Gremlin.”

He holds up the photo he took moments ago, me scowling at the camera with my eyebrows furrowed into a deep V and my lips pursed into a small pout.

“You are so rude!” I gasp, flipping him off.

It earns me another laugh from him, the sound of his deep, baritone chuckle distracting me momentarily.

“Stop wasting the film.” I roll my eyes at him, giggling.

“Photography 101, Tinker-Talent.” He starts. “There’s no such thing as wasted film.”

Picking up his Leica M6, he begins to take photos of me with his film camera and I retaliate by taking photos with my Polaroid.

The images pile up as we continue our photo battle, switching cameras with each other every now and again. I watch in real-time as the film photos of us begin developing, my own feelings for him mirroring the same sentiment.