Chapter 8 An Active Piece
That next morning, Faust opens his door approximately four seconds after I knock on it.
I arch a brow, way too tempted to ask if he was standing there, waiting for me.
“Good morning,” I chime, wheeling in my clothing trunk and setting my own extra-large latte down on his hallway table. “I got you black coffee. Is that okay?”
Faust glances at the coffee I’m handing him like it’s an alien peace offering. “It’s fine,” he mumbles.
I’ll take that. “Do you usually take cream?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He has the audacity to look mildly surprised, though he keeps his thoughts to himself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about rich men who appear on camera often, it’s that they’ll force themselves to like black coffee. I swear they think it’s extra masculine.
“Okay, so today we’re going to trial run some images for you, if that works for you.” I sit in the white leather armchair next to the gilded coffee table and pop open my trunk. Cautiously, Faust meanders to the other chair across from me, sits, and looks at the pile of black, gray, and blue fabric.
“That’s all for me?” he asks, wary. “When did you put this together?”
“Last night.” Couldn’t sleep. Never can, but whatever.
I’d raided Mei’s traveling closet, then taken the company credit card shopping—dangerous move, leaving that with me.
Had I been slightly too excited about winning over Faust?
Maybe. Also, very excited about finally getting my hands on clothes? More likely.
I pull out the first contender: shiny new Doc Marten Oxfords, a quilted blue-and-beige Bode button-down, and selvedge denim jeans that I’m certain he’ll hate. They have character, and that usually scares non–fashion people. “Want to try these on?”
Faust’s jaw twitches. He’s in khaki shorts and a Stark-Benzin shirt that’s a size too big. “Now?”
“Unless you’d rather tell Mei that you’re sticking to team polos.”
I’d also mapped out how today would go. Faust would try on my outfits, Faust-style, quiet and gruff and “what’s with these pockets.
” I’d keep breaking through his icy exterior, with my jokes and charm and black coffee.
Then when the time comes, I can leverage being one of the few people Faust likes to ensnare Bernard further, Challengers-style.
Well, maybe not exactly like that, but close.
As far as I can tell, Faust’s circle is small. One could call him shy.
So I’m very surprised when he stands and goes to pull off his shirt, the muscles in his thick thighs and forearms rippling beneath dustings of dark hair.
“Oh!” I’m red. And hot. And, fuck. “Feel free to use your bathroom.”
He pauses, as if his toned abdomen isn’t already fully on display. “I’m cool with it if you are.”
Of course he is. He’s a man, and Formula 1 drivers’ race suits don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and he’s probably routinely filmed dunked in an ice bath, making very un-sexual faces.
And—okay. Cat Cromwell would be fine with this, on a base level.
The real me should be, too. I changed around hundreds of men when I was a model, and some of them were presumably heterosexual and/or into women.
What’s different about Faust? I’m not experienced in the traditional sense of the word, but I’m not usually this…
easily flustered by men and their stomachs.
“Yeah, we’ll need to…” I wave between us, words failing. “I’ll be dressing you, so. Have at it.”
He makes a muffled sound before turning away. And I might be mistaken, since he’s now facing the television, but that almost-nonexistent smirk might be gracing me with its presence again.
I avert my eyes from the curve of his long, wide back.
Then there’s the click of his shorts unbuttoning.
“So?” I force out. “Thoughts? Yay? Nay? Love? Hate?”
“Hold on.”
I hold, happily, and maybe that’s what’s so unusual?
Faust isn’t my usual man. I don’t have to plan every single word I say around him, or overly try to impress him, so conversing with him is a bit outside my wheelhouse.
Honestly, Faust would probably be thrilled if he found out what I’m planning for Bernard, too—which is an odd thought. Unimportant.
“What do you think?” he says.
My eyes flick back onto his body. And… fine.
Despite the years of F1 stress etched onto his face, Faust is still handsome when he’s quiet like this.
And yes, he’s usually quiet, but he has a faraway quality to him sometimes, like he’s a hundred miles away.
Distant, yet calculated. Assumably, that’s the byproduct of being a racing driver.
Even now, with his shoulders sloped, hands in his pockets, dark brown eyes on me, he seems like he has one foot in the future already.
But he isn’t flusterably handsome. “Not bad,” I mumble. “But it’s more about what you think. Do you like it?”
Faust rubs the back of his neck as I circle him. “It isn’t really…” He clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
I smile, kind of happy I’m on the other side of him, so he can’t notice. “Do you feel like yourself?”
“Not really.”
“Do you like that?”
“Uh—no opinion there.”
Thoughtlessly, I tweak the fabric between his shoulders, and he jumps a little.
My smile widens. So, he isn’t quite as laissez-faire about this as I thought.
Maybe he doesn’t like having his back toward me?
I step around him, pretending to fix his collar to bring us back face-to-face.
“What do you think Faust the Formula 1 driver would wear?”
Although I’m deeply tempted not to, I keep my eyes on his shirt. I do see his quick breath, though. His Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“I think I’d wear something a little less…”
He peters off because I’m shaking my head.
“I didn’t say you. I said Faust the F1 driver.
I need you to start thinking of yourself like a character, like you’re in a cartoon show and you only get one outfit.
Are you the spunky next-door neighbor? The sensitive artist in tie-dye? The cool kid with sunglasses?”
He snorts. “Not that one.”
I risk a glance up—only to see a smile there and get kicked in the stomach with the sudden, swift urge to look away. “I feel like you could pull off sunglasses.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry, I meant Faust, not you.”
“Right.”
We both agree that designer denim probably isn’t Faust. After that, we switch to shades of gray, and I monologue about how it’s perfect for obvious branding reasons as well as complementing his general demeanor.
“Now this, I dare say, is chic,” I announce when he’s in extra-dark-wash jeans and a white T-shirt.
Thick heavyweight cotton, a special overnight order from Japan. Exceedingly cool.
“What?” he deadpans, staring at himself in a full-length mirror.
I can’t help it. “Sorry, do you hate compliments, too? Or just positivity in general?”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Ha.”
“And you wonder why you’re always in gray.”
“What is…” He really suffers here. “ ‘Chic’ about jeans and a shirt?”
“Come on, you’ve seen The Bear.”
“The what?”
“James Dean? Anthony Bourdain?”
He looks at me skeptically, still not comprehending the deep T-shirt lore I’m passing along. “Not following.”
“Okay.” I try to figure out how to word this in a way that makes sense to a man who’s obviously never thought about what he wears, without going full Devil Wears Prada cerulean sweater. “So, chic is like… ‘who cares.’ It’s stylish without trying, or looking like you’re trying.”
His brows lift, a silent question. Explain?
I toy with the ends of my hair, wishing I had my fidget spinner.
“Thoughts are chic. Personal style is chic. Being called a freak by a stranger—chic. French girl style isn’t chic because they’re French girls.
Same with Copenhagen or wherever. It’s because they’re doing stuff first, or think they are.
We hear about trends from them. It’s the ‘next frontier’ of it all.
So then—” I hold up my hands, pointer fingers up, and our arms almost brush.
But he doesn’t move. He’s listening, and it does something weird to me; it makes me talk more.
“Take French out of the equation. Or girl. Because people get so fixated on thinking that fashion is something that belongs to other people. Like, a girl at a gas station in the middle of Alabama? In low-rise jeans and a beaded ‘honk if you love me’ shirt? Oh my God. She’s hers.
Her story, her narrative, inside before it’s out.
No one told her what to wear. She used her mind.
That’s chic. But capitalism can’t sell yourself to you, so they try to sell you trends, cycling through each one faster than the last. Chipped nail polish is in; no wait, princess hands; no wait, long nails.
No wait, old money blonde, quiet luxury brunette, anything-but-you.
Don’t think. Just listen. That’s what’s chic.
Ignoring that noise. The most stylish person in a room—any room—is the person who can tell you the story behind what she’s wearing.
Oh.” I cover my mouth. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, but there isn’t any judgment in his tone. More like, the lightest touch of wonder. “You… actually like clothes.”
“I do.” I tilt my head. “Is that surprising?”
A corner of his mouth pulls in. “Why do you like them?”
“It’s, um. Well.” I don’t know how to reply. I haven’t had to think about why clothing in years. “I like the rules, I guess.”
“Hm.” Translated: Go on.