“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 routinelyfilmed dunked in an ice bath, makingveryun-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’tflusterablyhandsome. “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’tquiteas 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 sayyou. 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.”
