Only Ever You (Changing Seasons #1)

1. Faye

1

FAYE

11 Years Ago

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Faye hissed like her feet were on fire with each brisk step through the convoluted corridors of her student union building.

This wasn’t how she’d wanted to start her first year of university at all. Late . Already anxious enough to have moved out of her mum’s house and be as alone as someone could be in a shared flat full of eighteen-year-olds she hadn’t met before a week ago.

Grey clouds had darkened the lazy purple sky with every minute it’d taken her to speed-walk through central London; half a slice of gone-cold toast in her hand that she’d snatched in a rush from an unattended plate in her shared kitchen. That wasn’t her finest moment, but needs must.

She hadn’t yet mastered the Underground during rush hour, so she’d legged it here, leaving her breathless as she climbed up three staircases – lost as well as late. Tote bag full of supplies rattling on her shoulder. At least three wrong turns were made before she found the room number that the enthusiastic “welcome” email on her phone said to attend .

Panting, she wafted her old, paint-splattered t-shirt, letting cool air touch her heated skin, then slid into the already bustling room. The wide circle of easels were alive with the sounds of paint brushes tapping in water pots and chatter as a speaker somewhere played the current radio one-hit wonder.

If she ever wanted to live out a bohemian dream, then here was where Faye would start.

She glanced around to try and find a spare easel among the circle of twenty or so. The session had clearly only just started, with the number of people still on their feet collecting supplies from cupboards and filling old mugs with water from the sink. Between their bodies, she spotted the one stool that seemed to be free; reserved for her by her signature on a sign-up sheet.

Dodging between a young woman carrying a canvas that was practically the size of her and someone else balancing a stack of oil paints upon a sketchbook, Faye beelined for the open seat. She lowered her tote to the linoleum floor, surveyed the high stool, easel, and table set-up, and decided on what to start with first.

The half-eaten stale toast sticking to her fingers had gone partially forgotten, and Faye bit down with a slightly-stale crunch that was like trying to rip tar with her teeth.

Water. She needed water for her gouache paints.

Stepping backwards out of her station without much thought as she took another bite, she spun on her heel and collided face to?—

“Mh— owww … ” Her restricted air supply was suddenly stodgy with nuts.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

Faye opened her eyes to find half of her vision obscured by a crust of toast smushed between her palm and her face, and the other half filled with the love of her life.

She didn’t intend to gape up at the man whose wide, blue-green eyes made her pulse double. It just happened. He was worth gaping over; pale but tanned – the result of a continental holiday. Slightly plump cheeks as if he enjoyed smiling, and his dark hair was a little too short around his ears, clearly a fresh cut.

Choking on her lack of air, Faye ripped the toast off of her face, leaving half of the brown butter behind.

The brows belonging to the man whose shoulder she’d kindly just spun right into – which wasn’t surprising given how broad they were under his clean, grey t-shirt – lowered as he grimaced. He had the athleticism to be the captain of at least three different varsity teams. Maybe four ...

“Well, this is embarrassing.” And even worse? The damn peanut butter stuck to the roof of Faye’s mouth as she said so. This wasn’t elegant at all.

Hands hovered on either side of her shoulders. “You haven’t hurt anything, have you?”

“Just my pride,” she replied, brushing crumbs from the tip of her nose as she dropped the last of the inedible toast in the bin beside her table.

Mr Varsity chuckled, and by god it was a beautiful sound. “I’m sorry. You’ve got a little ...” He drew a circle in the air around his mouth and nose, the universal signal for “there’s something on your face,” which was just what Faye wanted when first meeting someone. Especially a man.

Mortified, she slapped her skin where he’d pointed at the corner of his lips. He shook his head and gestured something which read “the other side” as he breathed a low laugh.

Faye’s fingers swiped over something stodgy and thick and ...

Deciding to explore of its own free will, her tongue swept out, and by the time she’d tasted the clump of peanut butter by her mouth it was too late to retract her steps out of the room and pretend that she hadn’t just licked herself in front of this lacrosse captain. Maybe he was on the swim team? Definitely a gym goer given those shoulders that could almost burst from his t-shirt.

The corners of Mr Varsity’s mouth tightened in a smile. Their eyes had stayed on one another’s whilst she’d stuck her tongue out at him like a mature eighteen-year-old. And yet, he withheld his chuckle in the quiet sound of short puffs of air as if trying to save her from her own embarrassment.

“Could you maybe ... forget I just did that?” she asked despite the flames of said embarrassment creeping up her cheeks, battling with her instant crush.

He – she really needed to know his name – nodded with the trace of a smirk. “I will if you’ll tell me your name?”

Faye wouldn’t know it for another few years, but that one single question would be the start of something that changed her life forever.

She went right back to not being able to breathe. If she touched her cheeks, then she’d feel how hot they’d become in the last minute of being face to face with the person she would undoubtedly develop unrequited affection for for the entirety of her undergraduate degree. If she ever saw him again, that is.

“Aha ...” She laughed out her nerves. “I’m Faye.”

“Sébastien.” His name came out with an Anglo-French accented tilt as he held out a hand which was more charcoal than skin. “Call me ‘Bash’. Everyone does.”

Bash . She liked it. His grip wasn’t too loose as her own hand touched his. The sensation of skin to skin contact fizzled up her arm and down her spine, then it was all that Faye could focus on as the shells of her ears went warm.

What if my hand was clammy, she thought too late. She hadn’t wiped off her palm on her jeans beforehand.

Bash took two steps to his side and pulled out the high stool at the station next to hers. Faye did her best to stop ogling him but she wasn’t strong enough, especially when he perched and propped one foot on the base of his easel in an entirely too inviting stance for the eyes.

“I’m sorry about the?—”

“I should’ve been looking where?— ”

They both broke off and chuckled at their simultaneous apologies.

The level of such darn cuteness as Bash’s eyes closed for a second was not good at all for the way Faye’s cheeks ached as she tried not to smile too widely.

Bash took the plunge to continue first. “Would you let me buy you a drink to apologise?”

Those attentive eyes of his made her gulp and Faye did her best to not fumble with her words. “You’ve done enough apologising.” And really, honestly, covering half of her face in peanut butter had been her own fault.

“You still have some ...” Bash was on his feet again and ripping kitchen towel off of a roll on his table before Faye could do anything about it. She sucked in a breath – which was a bad idea, because it filled her lungs with his woodland spiced scent – as he stepped up incredibly close. “Would you like me to get it?”

Not trusting her words, she nodded.

Bash steadied her chin with two fingers and pressed a folded edge of the paper towel beside her mouth. Her heart beat as if she were legging it through London again, her skin tingling where he lightly touched her. He made eye contact for barely a second and her knees (and some place considerably higher) went weak.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said as he gently swiped peanut butter from her skin, making every syllable sound so light and easy.

“It’s my first time— year. I’m in my first year. I just started university.” Was that too much rambling?

His toothy smile that was inches from her eyes transformed Bash’s features. “I got what you meant.” Then he flashed what Faye was sure was a smirk. “You’re the year below me, then.”

And it was the only way she was below him. How unfortunate.

Bash took one last delicate, yet purposeful, swipe then drew back, and Faye’s chin missed the touch of his fingers. Fiddling with tying knots in her fingers, she thanked him, and when he smiled at her again, there was no going back.

For two hours, they chatted effortlessly, and the more Faye discovered about him, the more she hoped she could gather the courage to bring up his offer for a drink and somehow spin it into asking him out on a date.

She’d never taken that initiative before – never been the one to ask first in her limited experience. But the chances of their paths crossing outside of this room were up in the air, and at the very least she wanted to see Bash again. Have dinner, maybe? Any of the copious date locations London offered would make her happy.

She stole glances at his work. He didn’t work from a photograph like she did, and his sketch was a sort of illusion – movement in linear form. A faceless figure lunging as if reaching for something just too far away.

There was an honesty in Bash’s eyes that made her feel as though he hadn’t continued talking to her because he’d felt sorry for the shoulder check, and something about him made her believe he wasn’t a jockish tool.

His fingers were delicate when he brought charcoal to his page, angled his head, and swept short lines in an arc around the figure he created.

Tools weren’t that tender, were they?

She found out that he’d started studying architecture but didn’t like the maths, so had transferred to interior design this year. His mother’s family was French, which explained his name. Every other minute he fiddled with how his shirt fitted him around his waist. More importantly, he was funny. Faye didn’t know how many times that she’d laughed in two hours, and she lost herself in painting the individual delights from a photograph she’d taken over the summer of pastries in a Parisian window – twisting and turning her mouth until she was satisfied with the page.

In turn, Bash learned that she was studying business with the hope of graduating and still pursuing something creative, that baking was her most favourite hobby, and that her parents had been divorced for her entire life.

By the time the president of the society announced it was time to wrap up and leave, she’d failed to work up her courage on the propositioning front. But right as Faye tucked her sketchpad, brushes, and palettes into her tote – and despite her shaking nerves – she decided to go for it.

Ask him out.

You can do it.

She’d ask to see him tomorrow night at this cosy little bar she knew of not far from her student accommodation, but Bash levered up from where he’d crouched with his backpack at a startling speed and spoke first.

“You know, you never answered me about that drink offer,” he said, pushing back the waves of his hair that fell into his forehead. “A few of us usually go out after the session; find a pub somewhere.” He looked directly at her as Faye’s heart stumbled. “You’re welcome to join us.”

The left-field offer made her feet freeze to the spot and her fingers grip the handles of her tote. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting, but it was close enough. Perhaps then, if he gave her the right signal, she could muster enough courage and ask him for a repeat tomorrow night. Alone .

She rubbed her palm against her jeans, asking, “Won’t the others mind?” While he hitched his backpack onto his shoulders one strap at a time.

“They won’t. And I’m the one inviting you, anyway.” Bash smiled victoriously before she’d even agreed, and Faye’s mouth fought against the biggest smile she’d had all day.

It was nice to feel chosen.

“Okay then.” She could’ve bounced with nervous excitement.

On their way out, she made sure to tell the society’s president that she’d like to come back again next week, before following Bash through the door. Those stools had been deceiving, because her brain registered for the first time how tall he was, or more rather, her own lack of vertical aptitude. He pushed open the door into the hallway for her where other student groups filtered out of adjacent rooms.

“There you are!” A young woman bounced towards them and flung herself at Bash. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he circled her slim waist, and in that second Faye’s heart and hope curled up and tucked itself back within its cave.

Of course Bash would have someone. He was kind, very genuine in their two hours together, and had made her laugh. All things that drew her to him. So why would he be single?

“You could’ve told me the room had changed,” the redhead said playfully right before smacking her lips to Bash’s. He returned her kiss and nobody else in their gathering group of pub-goers seemed to care for the publicness of their affection.

Feeling like she stood too close, Faye shuffled back, clutching her tote to her body like a shield.

When their lips finally unlocked, Bash’s head spun her way, dots of red on his cheeks. “Faye this is Kiera. Kiera this is Faye.” He twisted back to his girlfriend, or hookup, or whoever Kiera was to him. “Faye just joined ‘ArtSoc’. She’s coming with us to the pub.”

Kiera gave her a small wave with perfectly French-tipped nails, wearing the blue and white stripes of the varsity uniform. “Hi.”

“Hi,” was all Faye could politely manage in return through her disappointment.

They walked on, and she gave the couple their distance, only for Bash to keep on spinning the conversation towards her. He probably just felt sorry that she knew no one else. He was the first person she’d met outside of those in her flat who seemed to actually want to be her friend. He’d laughed at her pitiful, flustered attempts at jokes and told her where to go for the best pastries in town on a student’s budget – a secret he apparently didn’t share all that often.

He’d treated her as a friend and right then, in a new city, completely alone, she needed to find those.

So Faye wasn’t going to let one girlfriend mean that she’d let Bash’s friendship go.