“It works,” Mei agrees. “She’s American, so Ralph Lauren, Gap, L.L.Bean. Her fans will be younger, too, so easier on the wallet.”
“Then what about something young, too? Not that I don’t love a Boat and Tote, but like…” I snap my fingers as I think. “Coach, Crocs, I don’t know. American, but uber-trendy, so it’s a little tongue-in-cheek. Get her that Coach Birkin and some shoe charms. Oh! And Nike, oh my god. Or New Balances. Or Vans, but no checkerboard.”
Momentarily, Mei’s pen tapping pauses. Then she scribbles down everything I listed. “That’s good.”
“Thank you.” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too widely. Can’t scare her off.
Mei sets the pen down when she’s done.No checkerboardis underlined three times. “Okay, now what about Faust?”
My smile drops away.
I haven’t seen Faust since our not-dinner. I’d been there for twenty more minutes, finishing my after-dinner coffee, definitely not staring daggers at him, and he hadn’t looked my way a single time. Not that I’m still angry about being iced out. Clearly, his phone and plate of pot roast had been deeply engaging.
Asshole.
Frowning, Mei looks at me from over the rim of her glasses. “That’s what you’re doing today, then. Faust’s free this afternoon and evening.”
Incredible. I’d been planning on hatching my Bernard plan tonight. Faust has leveled up to ruining my day by proxy. “Yay,” I say, as convincingly excited as possible under such conditions.
The hotel Stark-Benzin has rented out is hosting a block party, and as Mei walks me to the elevators, I hear the chatter of workers buzzing around the closed-down street, setting up shop outside. At least if I can’t sleep after an afternoon of simmering silence, I might be able to pop down for a bit of late-night DJ dancing in the dark, where I can sweat out the anxiety that’s looping around my stomach like a necktie, slinking shut.
“Check your email,” Mei says as the elevator doors close. My phone pings before they reopen. Mei’s sent me a list of the brands Faust currently wears, along with snapshots of last season’s outfits: a sea of black jeans and team polo shirts. Imagine a funeral at an automobile factory, then make it more boring.
Molding him into a fashion icon that makes sense with his personality (see: off-putting), while generating online buzz and, hopefully, behind-the-scenes cash flow… tricky.
Faust’s room info is at the bottom of the email, but I skip it for now, deciding on a whim to change first. Bernard issomewherein Melbourne. And if Faust’s idea of bonding is silently funeral-marching in the Australian sun, then I want to be appropriately cute if we bump into my target. Ugh. I bet Faust is one of those people who likes heat. I bet he goes to saunasfor fun. Already annoyed, I drop my bag in my room’s swanky leather chair, survey the beautifulsetup—luxurious hotels never get less impressive—and change into a white dress.
“Are you casually bridal enough?” I hum to myself in the mirror, turning to tweak the long poet sleeves of my lacy knee-length sundress. It’s one of those spit-take-expensive Zimmermann dresses, so flouncy and floral and feminine that you can’t really hate that it costs the same as a month’s rent.
I have other options. Moody black shorts, tiny black shirts. A wispy polyester dress that all the other influencers are wearing this week. Low-rise Prada work pants and a pinstripe office siren blouse. Whichever version of Cat Cromwell that Bernard wants, he’ll get. The fun fashion girl. The late-night partier. The secretly sad working woman, longing to quit her job.Please, oh please, save me from having to make my own money! Turn this wayward influencer into your shiniest trophy wife!
Zimmermann works for all of the above, so I settle on the dress and head out the door.
Or I would, if I didn’t bump right into a human wall of muscle and—yup—black fabric.
In the tiny-hallway chaos, my nose somehow smashes against Faust’s shoulder and I yelp, my fingers flying up to my face before we’re even inches apart. “Fuck,” Faust exhales, steadying me by my shoulders as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Cat. Sorry.”
“Am I bleeding?” I blurt out. “I feel like I’m bleeding.”
And this dress is white, and dry-clean-only. Worry darts over Faust’s face. “Here—can I?” His fingers hover by my chin, like he’s thinking about turning my face to inspect for damage before thinking better of it. His hand drops. His throat bobs. “No. You’re not.”
I don’t stop pinching my nose. “Is it bad? Like, is it red?”
He shakes his head. Then, a full second later, tacks on, “Red-ish.”
Damn it.My eyes are watering, too. I flick away the tears before my mascara is completely trashed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come charging out. Did I hurt you?”
He gives me a look like that’s the most ridiculous question in the world—my nose injuring his professional-grade shoulder muscle—and I suppress an eye roll. “What? I could’ve.”
“Mm.”
My eyes narrow, but I let it drop. Probably shouldn’t insist on my ability to maim my talent. “What are you doing down here, anyway?” I ask.
His eyes narrow back. In this lighting, this close, his eyes are almost black. “That’s my room.”
I look over my shoulder at the tall brown door only a couple of feet to the right of mine. My room is number 243. His would be 244.
And there are no other rooms at this end of the hall.
