Chapter 21 Promotion #2
Then, there’s his eyes. Dark, intense, close.
Green means go.
“Better?” he asks, breathier than usual.
What? Oh. His hair. He’s asking about his hair. I force myself to look away. “Yeah. Artfully messy now.”
“Thank God.” His fingers linger on me a moment longer than necessary—and if he thinks I don’t notice, he’s out of his mind. “Can’t walk up some stairs without good hair.”
Very aware of where we are now, the cameras, etcetera, I tap his shoulder playfully, then brush out the fabric. “Right. I think we’re soon. Are you ready? Feeling okay? Need more shimmying?”
He laughs. With the music in the background, and the cacophony of cameras, and roar of people and press all around us, I almost don’t hear it. “I’m good. Do you?”
“I’m but a hired hand, here to tend to your suit.”
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 scream really loudly. 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 from the 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?”
There he goes again. Faust always gets this certain tone when he starts questioning me—like, ah-ha, got you, cat-and-mouse games. Just didn’t think he’d start grilling when he should be rubbing elbows with literally the most powerful people on the planet.
“Sorry,” he says, holding out his hand. There’s a cocktail napkin in it. And… a small piece of toast. Or maybe shortbread? “Thought you might like to eat.”
Wary as ever, I eye his olive branch appetizer. “So, you saw the no-drink sign and thought, I must bring her a tiny piece of toast?”
He shoots me a half smile, smooth as waking up. “Have you eaten today?”
Faust is a kind man beneath the many, many layers of his gruff exterior. But he didn’t bring me a snack out of the goodness of his heart. Still suspicious, I take the napkin from him and examine the hors d’oeuvre. It is toast. With some sort of soft white cheese and…
Pomegranate.
My nose wrinkles as I attempt to not laugh. And I can feel Faust’s eyes on me, watching like always, watching for a single crack. “Funny,” I say, turning away from him so I can blush in peace.
There are footsteps to my right. Faust, stepping to stand beside me. “You aren’t going to eat it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Right. You said it was funny. Why’s that?”
“It’s a pomegranate seed, while you’re dressed like Hades.”
“Someone did their party research.”
“Actually, I read these things called books? They’re like Instagram captions, but bigger.”
“Do you think you’re Persephone, then?”
My eyes skip over to him, surprise skittering through my veins. But luckily, Faust is looking at the glassed exhibit in front of us. A statue of Athena stands under the single light, with her helmet on and her spear and shield in hand, draped in Paco Rabanne chain mail.
“It’s not romantic, Hades and Persephone. It’s a story of deception,” he says, and goose bumps flutter down my arms. “He tricks her into staying in his world.”
Something pulses in my stomach; my heartbeat, lower than usual.
You don’t have to trick me. “This is a whole lot of conversation for a man who should be enjoying a cocktail hour at a very expensive and thoughtfully arranged table.” When our eyes lock, I give him a placating smile.
“Don’t force me to drag you back inside. ”
“You wouldn’t. It’d hurt the suit.”
“Try me.”
Another second skids by, like the empty pop of a record player skipping a line. Faust’s full lips press together, an unreadable emotion creasing his brow. His lips part. Wait. Then close again with a frown.
“Okay, out with it, what are you—”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.” All the statues around us are quiet and watching. “I took the photos. I’ve been here. And I’ll go back out there, if you want me to. Say it, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
My mind’s a mess of a million questions. What do you mean, it? Are you flirting with me here? But none of those questions are telling him to leave.
“Or.” He takes my glass from me. “We could go.”
To his room.
To his bed.
He’s looking at me in that strange, stabilizing way of his. It holds on to me, literally, keeping my frenetic pieces from jangling apart. Makes me think that saying yes can’t be that bad if he has such good control of himself. Of me.
Deliberately slow, I lift the pomegranate toast to my mouth and take the smallest nibble. Faust watches me eat, eyes shifting between my mouth and my throat, my swallow, my eyes. He watches me like he can’t look away.
And then, we leave.