Chapter 12 Scholar’s Mate #2
“They’re red,” he finally says before turning his attention to his shoes; those still way-too-new Doc Martens that have to be killing him.
Like, it’s actually unhinged that he’s wearing those around out of spite.
And I’m about to ask him why poppies being red is a relevant fact, when my mouth clamps shut.
Freckles.
My face goes more than orange. I’m beet red.
Faust’s busy retying his laces, missing my blushing.
Which is nice. If this is a new thing with me, and my body occasionally overheats because he’s my bizarro niche type of man and nice-ish and I’m never around semi-decent men—great.
Like he said, bar’s on the floor and he’s clearing it. Big deal. I don’t care.
His voice steals my attention back. “Aren’t we going out?”
“Now?” I swipe one cheek with the back of my hand. Still hot, and now I’ve smudged my concealer.
“Yeah.”
“Where to?”
Faust’s smiling again. At his shoes—my shoes—not me. “Dinner.”
Going to dinner with Faust was a horrible decision.
It’s a dark afternoon, overcast and gray, how Paris looks in movies about doing things you shouldn’t do and really enjoying them.
But the restaurant is warm and small and lit with every kind of lamp—antique hurricane lamps on the short bar top, dancing tea light lamps on the five bistro tables, a Tiffany lamp stuffed next to the register, throwing rainbows on the floor.
The owner remembers Faust from the last time he was in, saying something about a rematch as he brushes crumbs from our window seat.
Then he reappears with two matching white plates of parmesan-dusted french fries topped with sleekly sliced steak.
“Sorry,” Faust says. “It’s what he’s known for. Does it work for you?”
I grab my napkin, pretending to not be delighted. “You should really ask if someone eats meat before you drag them to steak frites.”
“Is that a no?”
I frown silently, and he laughs. Then he holds up his hands, gesturing for me to take the first bite.
Rolling my eyes I oblige, and—damn. It’s delicious, straight-to-the-circulatory-system good, and subtly spicy.
There might be chili flakes mingling with these peppercorns.
My jet lag is cleared, sent back to Australia.
“Well?” Faust says.
I dab my mouth with the napkin. “C’est bon.”
His expression hardly changes as he picks up his knife and fork, though I would’ve missed the happy wobble to his mouth if I’d blinked. “It was a calculated guess.”
“That I enjoy steak?”
“You like fries,” he says, and I pause mid-bite. When did I eat… oh. In Melbourne, with Christine and Eddie. Is that why he brought me here? Before I can ask, Faust adds, “I imagine you don’t get a chance for flavor very often. I’ve seen what Mei bulk-buys.”
That surprises a giggle out of me. “God, for real. Influencer food is so unsalted. Everyone is into savory croquembouches right now, and it’s like, guys—these are bagels. Tiny bagels glued together.”
Faust chuckles deep in his chest, then goes for his water. He’d ordered us two large, American-sized bottles, and I’ve run around Europe long enough to appreciate the gesture. “What else do you like?”
“Are we talking about food or work?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “I’m pretty normal.”
“What’s normal?”
“Clothes, music, etcetera.”
“So well-rounded.”
He waits, thumb tapping against the tabletop as he watches me eat.
I smile through my french fry victim; I’ve learned not to start rambling when he goes quiet like this.
And when he takes another bite, I feel oddly triumphant having not given in.
More so when his gaze dips to my mouth, assessing me, coming up empty.
Then he looks at the shelf next to our table, where board games are stacked one on top of the other.
Shogi, Go, chess. He slips the latter from the stack.
“I have an idea,” he says, and I watch, half-shocked, half-confused, as he shifts our plates to make room for the unfolding board.
“We’ll go question for question.” He sets up the game from memory—opposing lines of pawns, corner rooks, kings and queens in their proper places.
I’m silently, deeply impressed. “You win a piece, you get to ask a question. I win a piece, and I get to ask. Rules are, we answer truthfully. Deal?”
I’m ecstatic, like any chess fiend would be. Buoyant. I casually twirl the end of my ponytail between my fingers. “I feel like we’ve been pretty truthful with each other lately.”
“ ‘Clothes. Music. Etcetera.’ ”
“I’m a simple woman.”
His cheek flexes. “You are compellingly complicated.”
Specks of glitter glimmer through me, gold and sharp and everywhere. And annoying, as spilled glitter often is. Compelling is not a compliment. There’s no need to react to Faust saying one semi-nice thing about me with full-body frisson.
“Fine. Deal,” I say, holding out my hand. Faust goes to take it for a handshake, and I dodge his long fingers, plucking up a white pawn and a black pawn to hide behind my back. He exhales—irritated, amused—and I grin. “Left or right?”
Faust picks right. Literally. He wins white and gets to make the first move, sliding a center pawn to e4 for an utterly average King’s Pawn Opening. What a shame. I thought he was more interesting than this.
“Have you played before?” he asks, looking at the board.
I mirror him, my black pawn butted up to his white pawn. We’ve effectively cut each other off at the knees. “Never.”
“Me neither.”
“I can tell.”
In my non-Grandmastered opinion, there are three types of chess players: positional, tactical, and theoretical.
I’m a positional player who dabbles in theory, setting up my careful beginnings, planning, waiting, and then going for the kills.
Faust, I learn, is tactical—and that surprises me.
His next move is bumping out his bishop, clearly going for the Scholar’s Mate. And now I’m disappointed and insulted.
Smiling, I plop my knight in front of the pawn he would’ve swept if I hadn’t seen this lazy, beginner-headshot of a strategy coming from a mile away. “Seriously?”
His eyes gleam. “Just checking.”
“Oh, sorry, Officer, I wasn’t really stealing candy from this baby, I was just checking to see if I could.”
Predictably, he wins a piece from me first. Tactical players often do, an idiot’s gambit. Faust is smug as he sets my black pawn next to his plate.
“All right, one question.” I cross my arms, already bristling.
He has it locked and loaded. “What’s your favorite food?”
I blink. Any question, and he starts here? “Fries,” I answer, slightly embarrassed. Maybe it wasn’t the worst question.
He smiles to himself, though he doesn’t share his thoughts with me. “Does Bernard know that, or just me?”
“One question.”
“Okay. Your move.”
I go easy on him, too, when it’s time for my first question. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Classical.” Faust watches me set his captured piece down. “I like Stravinsky.”
“Oh my god, you’re such a stereotype.”
“Have you listened to Stravinsky?”
“Rude.”
“The Rite of Spring—”
“Caused a riot, I know.”
“As any song inspired by a virgin sacrifice should,” he says.
I blush. Hadn’t known that. “So many stories of girls dancing to their deaths,” he adds, and I can feel him staring at me.
“Is there any other way to meet it?” I frown. “Your move.”
In two more turns, he gets to ask, “Are you religious?”
Danger. “Not really, no. You?”
“Raised Catholic.”
“Fancy.”
“Great incense. More martyrs.”
“But the dying girls get to become saints—that’s nice.”
“The hermits, too.”
I cock my head. “Your other calling?”
He tilts his head back at me. “Not as popular these days.”
“So, you’re nonpracticing.”
“Exactly.”
I wonder if he knows that’s one of my favorite words—exactly. And I wonder for too long. Faust has an in. “Bernard’s practicing, by the way. Though that wasn’t clear from the wedding.”
Rolling my eyes, I dust one of his knights and decide to even the score. “Fine. What do you look for in a partner?”
He hesitates, and reminding him that I can also prod intrusively into his love life feels oh so good. “Honesty. Take what you do, for example,” Faust says, and my heart stops. “I bet you get shit from guys about having to lie online, to sell things.”
“I do have to be slightly private about my personal life, yes,” I say, because I’m not about to admit just how often I lie for work. Or that there are no men in my life, generally speaking. Or ask if he’s looked at my social media and, excuse me, is he following me?
“And I wouldn’t care about that. Really.
I get it,” Faust continues. “I wouldn’t care about a lot of things.
But honesty is—” He stops again, looking for the right words, eyes scanning the table.
“I want someone who wants to be seen with me. Known as mine. If anyone thought she wasn’t, that’s on them.
But I’d want that… partnership. We’d know what we have. ”
It’s a beautiful sentiment—trusting and loving and idealistic, almost old-school romantic.
The idea of two people who can let the world watch them, want them, tempt them, then always go home to each other.
I’m also highly skeptical he’s telling me the truth.
“You would be okay dating an influencer who never posts you?”
He gives me that stomach-flipping smirk. “One question.”
“You’d be okay if other men flirted with her? You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“One.”
“Faust.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Jealousy,” he says carefully, “can really turn a guy on.”