Page 2 of Only Ever You

Faye wouldn’t know it for another few years, but that one single question would be the start of something that changed her life forever.

She went right back to not being able to breathe. If she touched her cheeks, then she’d feel how hot they’d become in the last minute of being face to face with the person she would undoubtedly develop unrequited affection for for the entirety of her undergraduate degree. If she ever saw him again, that is.

“Aha ...” She laughed out her nerves. “I’m Faye.”

“Sébastien.” His name came out with an Anglo-French accented tilt as he held out a hand which was more charcoal than skin. “Call me ‘Bash’. Everyone does.”

Bash. She liked it. His grip wasn’t too loose as her own hand touched his. The sensation of skin to skin contact fizzled up her arm and down her spine, then it was all that Faye could focus on as the shells of her ears went warm.

What if my hand was clammy,she thought too late. She hadn’t wiped off her palm on her jeans beforehand.

Bash took two steps to his side and pulled out the high stool at the station next to hers. Faye did her best to stop ogling him but she wasn’t strong enough, especially when he perched and propped one foot on the base of his easel in an entirely too inviting stance for the eyes.

“I’m sorry about the?—”

“I should’ve been looking where?—”

They both broke off and chuckled at their simultaneous apologies.

The level of such darn cuteness as Bash’s eyes closed for a second was not good at all for the way Faye’s cheeks ached as she tried not to smile too widely.

Bash took the plunge to continue first. “Would you let me buy you a drink to apologise?”

Those attentive eyes of his made her gulp and Faye did her best to not fumble with her words. “You’ve done enough apologising.” And really, honestly, covering half of her face in peanut butter had been her own fault.

“You still have some ...” Bash was on his feet again and ripping kitchen towel off of a roll on his table before Faye could do anything about it. She sucked in a breath – which was a bad idea, because it filled her lungs with his woodland spiced scent – as he stepped up incredibly close. “Would you like me to get it?”

Not trusting her words, she nodded.

Bash steadied her chin with two fingers and pressed a folded edge of the paper towel beside her mouth. Her heart beat as if she were legging it through London again, her skin tingling where he lightly touched her. He made eye contact for barely a second and her knees (and some place considerably higher) went weak.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said as he gently swiped peanut butter from her skin, making every syllable sound so light and easy.

“It’s my first time—year.I’m in my first year. I just started university.” Was that too much rambling?

His toothy smile that was inches from her eyes transformed Bash’s features. “I got what you meant.” Then he flashed what Faye was sure was a smirk. “You’re the year below me, then.”

And it was theonlyway she was below him. How unfortunate.

Bash took one last delicate, yet purposeful, swipe then drew back, and Faye’s chin missed the touch of his fingers. Fiddling withtying knots in her fingers, she thanked him, and when he smiled at her again, there was no going back.

For two hours, they chatted effortlessly, and the more Faye discovered about him, the more she hoped she could gather the courage to bring up his offer for a drink and somehow spin it into asking him out on a date.

She’d never taken that initiative before – never been the one to ask first in her limited experience. But the chances of their paths crossing outside of this room were up in the air, and at the very least she wanted to see Bash again. Have dinner, maybe? Any of the copious date locations London offered would make her happy.

She stole glances at his work. He didn’t work from a photograph like she did, and his sketch was a sort of illusion – movement in linear form. A faceless figure lunging as if reaching for something just too far away.

There was an honesty in Bash’s eyes that made her feel as though he hadn’t continued talking to her because he’d felt sorry for the shoulder check, and something about him made her believe he wasn’t a jockish tool.

His fingers were delicate when he brought charcoal to his page, angled his head, and swept short lines in an arc around the figure he created.

Toolsweren’t that tender, were they?

She found out that he’d started studying architecture but didn’t like the maths, so had transferred to interior design this year. His mother’s family was French, which explained his name. Every other minute he fiddled with how his shirt fitted him around his waist. More importantly, he was funny. Faye didn’t know how many times that she’d laughed in two hours, and she lost herself in painting the individual delights from a photograph she’d taken over the summer of pastries in a Parisian window – twisting and turning her mouth until she was satisfied with the page.

In turn, Bash learned that she was studying business with thehope of graduating and still pursuing something creative, that baking was her most favourite hobby, and that her parents had been divorced for her entire life.

By the time the president of the society announced it was time to wrap up and leave, she’d failed to work up her courage on the propositioning front. But right as Faye tucked her sketchpad, brushes, and palettes into her tote – and despite her shaking nerves – she decided to go for it.

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