Love By Design, page 31
His eyes are warm, molten silver.
There’s something intentional in his gaze as he watches me, like he’s trying to commit something to memory.
The chime of a doorbell echoes in the suite and I turn towards the sound, frowning.
“Room service,” August answers, reading my confusion. “I ordered us breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”
He reaches out to brush his thumb on the knot between my eyebrows before cradling the side of my face into his palm. The softness of the gesture makes my stomach flutter and I reflexively lean into his touch.
“I didn’t order too much,” He says. “I had no idea whether you’d prefer to eat in before we go out. But we can always grab food later when we’re sightseeing.”
“Sightseeing?” I blink up at him.
He nods. “Touristy spots, local places. Whatever you want to do, Tinker-Talent.”
My heart flutters with excitement at the idea of spending another day with August in Cionne.
“There’s extra towels back there.” He signals towards the bathroom. “Feel free to shower in my en-suite.”
He leans down for a moment, his grey eyes contemplating, before tucking my hair behind my ear.
“I’ll sort out breakfast.” He clears his throat before exiting the room.
I shower quickly in August’s bathroom before getting ready in my own room, my mind inundated with the events over the last 24 hours when I hear a knocking on my door.
“Come in,” I call out.
August strolls into my room, wearing a light blue linen shirt, white chinos and a pair of light brown loafers.
“I wanted to see if I needed to change,” He says.
I blink down at my own outfit, deciding on a simple beach outfit with a white corset top, a light blue pinstripe high-lo maxi skirt and some tan gladiator sandals.
Now this is just ridiculous.
“I can change if you want,” I clear my throat. “I brought other outfits.”
“No need,” He shakes his head amusingly. “We’ve already made it this far.”
He looks over me for a moment, grey eyes intentional before extending a hand towards me.
“Ready?”
Shyly, I reach out for his hand. “Ready.”
August laces his fingers through mine, before tugging me close to him and pressing his lips on the top of my head. The action is similar to yesterday but he lingers longer this time, the gesture intentional, and something stirs in my chest.
Looking up at him, I watch as the corner of his lips quirks into a soft smile.
“Allons-y, cher cœur.”
Cionne is teeming with Toussaint’s culture. The sun-kissed city is a tapestry of elegant European architecture and the allure of Mediterranean lifestyle.
After exploring the city the whole day, August and I found ourselves sitting in a quaint café, one of his favourite local spots. Tucked away in an unassuming part of the city, it’s a modest building with a wrought-iron gate adorned with trailing ivy that leads to a sun-dappled terrace. Warm hues of aged wood and exposed brick walls provide a rustic backdrop for the antique bistro tables and matching chairs that are dotted around the terrace, the air infused with a rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
August is relaxed and ridiculously radiant as he sits opposite me by the outdoor seating area, his hair practically glowing under the golden hour sun.
“I spent a lot of my summers in Cionne,” He shares. “A place to get away from it all. Not so much when I was, uh, more involved in the industry. But this place definitely has a special place in my heart.”
He doesn’t talk about his sordid reputation as the infamous playboy, skimming over it entirely. Whether it’s in the past, I’m not too sure.
Instead, August continues to share stories about his time in Toussaint, opening up about a part of his life that’s rarely talked about in the media. It feels strange to hear things from his point of view, rather than the tabloids.
August talks in a way that makes you listen. It makes sense, I suppose. Under all the stoicism is a warmth about him— a reserved softness, almost always hidden.
“C’est bon, monsieur?”
The server approaches us.
“The bill, s’ilvous plait.” August says, sliding his Black Amex card out of his wallet.
I blink, shaking my head.
“August, no.”
“It’s just coffee, Mahalia.”
“With two main meals and a shared side.” I give him a look.
“Exactly, so let me pay.”
“August.”
“Mahalia.”
“I haven’t spent a single penny on this trip.”
“Good.” He nods towards me approvingly. “You’re being smart with your money.”
“August.” I glare at him.
Glancing over at the waiter as he presses a button and gestures towards the card machine, I reach out instantly, tapping my card on top of the reader and listening to it beep.
“Merci.” I nod awkwardly.
Blinking, the waiter turns to August who only shakes his head, amused.
“C’est bon,” August comments, waving a hand dismissively. “Elle est mon petit cœur têtu.”
“Cœur?” I ask, having heard the word a few times now. “Heart?”
August clears his throat before lifting his cup of coffee to take a sip. “I said you’re stubborn-hearted.”
“Oh,” I nod before narrowing my eyes and crossing my arms. “I am not.”
He looks at me pointedly then, a small smile hiding behind the porcelain cup. “I rest my case.”
“I’m not stubborn,” I repeat. “I’m just… immovable in my convictions.”
A chuckle escapes his lips. “That’s a rather ornamented way to say ‘stubborn’.”
“I am not–”
“Stubborn.” He interrupts me teasingly, putting the cup down and looking at me in a sprightly uppity manner.
His overt playfulness is something I didn’t expect, considering I’ve grown so accustomed to his impassive attitude. Deepening my glare, I grab the Polaroid camera on the table to take a picture of him in retaliation, a flash erupting from the device.
“ARGH!”
August shouts in surprise and I draw a sharp breath as he jerks backwards, covering his eyes. My stomach twists, not realising that the flash on the camera was switched on.
“Oh my god!” I scramble over the table to reach for the hand covering his face. “I’m so sorry!”
He lets out a sharp hiss and my heart lodges itself in my throat.
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I question, holding his face as gently as I can.
His entire body tenses as I attempt to examine his closed lids and he lets out a groan.
“Should I call an ambulance?” I ask, beginning to panic. “Do you need the hospital?”
In another effort to see his eyes more clearly, I carefully grasp his head in between my palms but the back of his hand remains firmly covering his lids.
The distress I feel heightens as his eyebrows furrow and I gently intertwine my fingers with his.
“A-August.” I swallow, my voice wavering.
He stills, one eye suddenly opening as he peers over to look at me above our interlocked hands.
I pause, staring at him as he looks up at me wide-eyed and blinking and optically unharmed.
“You–!” I visibly recoil, swatting his arm before sitting back down. “That was not funny.”
The rapid beating of my heart begins to slow and I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that I didn’t send him to a focal seizure.
“Sorry,” He draws back slightly, face apologetic. “I couldn’t resist.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought I temporarily blinded you.”
The corner of his mouth curls upwards as he sits upright.
“You blind me every day, Tinker-Talent.”
My heartbeat picks up again and it most definitely has nothing to do with the little spectacle he just put on. There’s a familiar fluttering in my chest as I recall our conversation last night at the restaurant.
Brilliant and beautiful and so damn blinding.
“Not funny.” I scrunch my nose in disdain.
He turns towards me. “The hospital though, really?”
“I don’t know the severity of your condition,” I reply, huffing. “You were bedridden yesterday afternoon. Not to mention, intoxicated in the evening. I don’t know how many factors there are to consider. Migraine, alcohol, drugs. Slight discomfort or genuine pain.”
“Worried about me?” He teases.
I look at him, seriously.
“Yes.”
He blinks, gaze softening.
There’s a familiar fondness in his grey eyes— the warmest shade of molten silver.
“Photalgia,” He shares. “Light sensitivity.”
Tilting my head, I make a mental note of the condition.
“It’s mainly flashes and flickering lights,” He continues. “Glare from reflective surfaces, high-contrast lighting in certain environments, staring at bright screens for too long.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It used to,” He answers honestly. “It was a lot worse when I was a kid. Being in front of the camera when I was younger probably didn’t help, I don’t think. But it’s tolerable nowadays.”
Wearing sunglasses, working in dimly lit rooms— it makes sense.
“Don’t worry,” August teases. “Your tiny, little camera won’t disorientate me.”
He grabs my Polaroid, motioning it towards me.
“Okay, your turn. Smile.”
I narrow my eyes at him, turning my head away. “No, thank you.”
“Oh, now you’re camera shy?”
“We’re not all photogenic.” I look at him pointedly. “And literal models.”
“Ex-model,” He quips.
“As if that makes any difference.”
I glower at the lens as he points it in front of my face and takes a picture, flash erupting.
“Smile, Tinker-Talent,” He coos. “Frowning doesn’t suit you I’m afraid, come on now.”
I make an exaggeration to deepen my glare.
“There are many expressions I adore on your face but frowning isn’t one of them, sadly.” He shakes his head. “Souriez, mon cœur.”
“No,” I continue scowling at him. “I’m channelling my inner Peroxide Prince.”
At the mention of the moniker of his modelling days, August chuckles.
“You should channel this one,” He says, picking up the developing Polaroid of me. “I call it the Glitter Gremlin.”
He holds up the photo he took moments ago, me scowling at the camera with my eyebrows furrowed into a deep V and my lips pursed into a small pout.
“You are so rude!” I gasp, flipping him off.
It earns me another laugh from him, the sound of his deep, baritone chuckle distracting me momentarily.
“Stop wasting the film.” I roll my eyes at him, giggling.
“Photography 101, Tinker-Talent.” He starts. “There’s no such thing as wasted film.”
Picking up his Leica M6, he begins to take photos of me with his film camera and I retaliate by taking photos with my Polaroid.
The images pile up as we continue our photo battle, switching cameras with each other every now and again. I watch in real-time as the film photos of us begin developing, my own feelings for him mirroring the same sentiment.
Chapter 38
For the next two weeks, my routine at the studio consisted of design concepts, fabric selection and pattern making.
The trip to Toussaint was useful and I was able to determine the overall style and theme of the collection. I sketched out a dozen designs for Sebastian to look through, the silhouette being the most important part to pay homage to the previous royal attire.
Sebastian favoured working out-of-office which nobody questioned but it made communicating with him a lot more difficult.
His working practices are questionable, at best.
Pollux wasn’t joking when he said that Sebastian would ring in the ungodly hours of the night— emailing, messaging, and even calling. I found myself having to adjust my sleeping patterns, just so I don’t miss any important updates or requests from him.
I’ve just finished wrapping up for the day at the studio, saying goodbye to Estelle and Pollux on the second floor when my phone buzzes with a text.
In Paris until the end of next week.
Then flying to New York on Monday.
Should hopefully be back in London by Friday.
I’m about to reply when another text comes through.
I’ll be all yours next weekend.
The familiar fluttering in my stomach surfaces as I type my response.
Can’t wait to see you!
I send the text to August, not dwelling too deeply on it.
He’s currently working between all three cities as he wraps up his responsibilities here at Holmes, and transitions over to Grayson whilst still maintaining his commitments at Vante.
We haven’t seen each other since our trip to Toussaint and we’ve yet to have the conversation on where we stand, if we’re standing anywhere at all so I’ve been doing my best to keep my emotions levelled.
Neither of us is skirting around our newfound dynamic but we’re not exactly scrambling to put a label on anything.
I’d much rather have the conversation in person.
But with August’s balancing act between London, Paris and New York, it feels nearly impossible to discuss it with him face-to-face.
“Your deliveries are not a fun workout, Mahalia Hartt!”
Gigi’s voice echoes down the hallway as the lift doors open to the flat.
Absentmindedly, I step into the living room. Clusters of intricately designed wooden chests on timber pallets and bolts of fabrics on clapboard frames have taken up the entire floor space of the flat.
I turn to Gigi curiously. “What’s all this?”
“You tell me!” She huffs. “I’ve had to run up and down the building, orchestrating half a dozen delivery men to bring in these medieval-looking shipments in our tiny apartment.”
The logo of the Toussaint Foundry catches my attention and I blink.
“I thought it was a PR package from the monarchs in the Middle Ages,” Gigi continues to comment, pushing the boxes around to make a pathway. “Care to explain?”
“These should’ve been sent to the studio,” I reply. “Why are they–”
The sound of my phone ringing cuts me off and I quickly grab it from my pocket, seeing August’s Caller ID pop up on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Sorry for not calling sooner,” August’s voice, rushed and apologetic, filters through the line immediately. “I’ve been in back-to-back meetings all day. Conference calls are such a pain in my ass, I’ve forgotten how tight of a ship my dad runs at Vante.”
The background noise of blaring cars and French-accented chatter can be heard on his end and I instantly know he’s in Paris.
“It’s alright,” I answer. “Don’t worry, I know you’re busy.”
Walking over to a hulking mahogany chest, I blink at the label ‘EMBELLISHMENTS’ under the foundry’s logo. Out of curiosity, I open the clasp, my eyes widening at the massive compartments containing various decorative elements for garments. Embroidery beads, sequins, buttons and ribbons are all neatly arranged inside.
“—lia?” August’s voice cuts through my awe.
“I’m here,” I reply. “Sorry, there’s just…”
I open another chest, this time labelled ‘SEWING SUPPLIES’. An array of thread assortments is placed in the middle with needles, pins, chalk, fabric markers and tailor’s pencils packaged neatly around it. There’s also a dedicated section for fasteners and closures, smaller boxes containing zippers, buttons, snaps and hook-and-loop fasteners.
“You sound distracted,” August comments. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I respond. “I just– a lot of deliveries from the Toussaint Foundry came today.”
“Oh, already? That was quick.”
“So it was you? You placed the order?” I ask to clarify.
“Of course. Should I not have?”
“No, it’s fine. But the foundry accidentally sent it to my address. I have an entire living room’s worth of fabrics and sewing supplies when it should have been sent to the studio.”
“Oh, it’s not for Holmes,” August responds. “The textile supplies are for you.”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s for you.”
I stare at the various lengths and widths of fabric rolls neatly secured on cardboard bolts as well as the mahogany chests of various sizes scattered around the living room.
“To use for the samples?” I ask.
“To use however you’d like,” He answers. “Although, I did place a separate order for the regalwear collection. That should be sent to the studio.”
“Are you sure there isn’t a mix-up?” I question. “There are far too many deliveries here.”
“There shouldn’t be. I requested the foundry to dispatch your order first,” He replies. “Everything sent to your apartment is yours.”
Walking to my studio, my eyes widen at the half a dozen rolls of toile de jouy fabrics propped up against a wall, all varying in themes, motifs and colour palettes.
“August,” I gasp aloud. “I can’t afford all of this!”
“It’s alright, I’ve put it down as company expenses.”
I blanch. “You just told me it isn’t for Holmes!”
“Alright, you got me.” He sounds sheepish. “It’s under Vante.”
“You’re putting my expenses under the Parisian atelier?!” I squeak.
“Under my name, Tinker-Talent.”
Overwhelmed, I press a hand to my chest.
“August…”
Tailoring materials like the ones from Toussaint are not cheap. I didn’t even bother asking the prices for anything during the tour at both the foundry and the boutique because I simply knew that I wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“Don’t worry,” He reassures me. “Just think of it as compensation.”
