Chapter 19 French Boy
\-Celeste-
I felt stupid. But I had no regrets.
I sat in front of the vanity desk, putting on the last coat of mascara as memories from last night replayed in my mind, his hands on me, the rough intensity, the way he had taken control. I was scared to admit that, even though I ached all over, a part of me had enjoyed it.
What next? Will this happen again? I wondered.
My thoughts were interrupted by a call from Denise. At first, I let it sit and ring, but by the third ring, I was forced to answer the phone.
"Good morning, Celeste." She drawled with excitement. The next question hit me without warning, "How was your night?" It was so innocent, and yet, I forgot how to answer.
After a few seconds, she responded for me, and told me about hers. "David Hayes and I talked throughout the night," she giggled like a love-struck teenager.
"Good for you, I mean, it's not every day a handsome stranger just waltzes into your workplace," I told her.
"Yeah, about that. That's why I called. David has a big job for us, and by that, I mean, The Met Gala big-"
"The Met?"
"Not the Met," Denise laughed, "it's a metaphor. Fae Winters is having a charity fundraiser for something-anyway, Mr. Hayes is coordinating the event, and he wants us to handle the dessert catering."
"As in the Fae Winters?"
"Yes, Celeste, world-famous Fashion Designer, Fae Winters, whom you simply adore." She emphasized, "I just know you sometimes forget you're a big name, you're the Ashford Heiress."
How could I forget, when that name only brought me pain and sorrow.
I stifled a laugh. "Thanks for the reminder."
"Yeah, right. So, I booked you an appointment with David by 12p.m. He wants to go over the specifics with you.... Mm, judging by the time, you have at least an hour to get here before he does,"
I nodded like I thought she could see me. "Yes, once again, thank you. I'll see you in an hour."
After that, I did the last bit of my make-up as quickly as I could. The sooner I got out of here, the sooner I'd take my mind off Lucien.
Fuck him for disappearing like a coward.
I had just arrived near the entrance of the shop when someone called out my name. I froze, afraid to even turn because I thought they'd be a reporter-even though I knew their turf was strictly across the street.
Finally, the caller reached me with a warm smile. Thankfully, it was the man from yesterday, David Hayes.
"For a moment there, I thought you were purposely ignoring me." He began smoothly.
I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, my apologies, Mr Hayes. I was so afraid that I'd been caught by one of those zombies." His brows furrowed in confusion. "The reporters; that's what Denise calls them." I quickly added.
"Oh!" he nodded with a small laugh, like he'd only just gotten the joke. "That's one way to put it, that's magnifique." He murmured the last part like it had suddenly piqued him.
Maybe Denise was finally going to get her love story?
As we reached the entrance, he rushed forward, holding the door open for me. "After you, mademoiselle," he gestured.
"Why, thank you, monsieur." I grinned, walking in.
From behind, I could hear the clicking of shutters, and words that blended into an incomprehensible hum, but I couldn't care less.
The shop had fewer customers today, two, three girls clustered at a corner, making the space seem almost empty.
"So...the French," I teased lightly as we walked in. "Is that just for show or is it a thing?"
His lips curved. "Actually, my mother was French. Married an American. My full name is David Dubois Hayes."
I arched a brow. "Ooh, fancy. That explains a lot. So, you grew up there?"
"Born here, and raised there," he replied, hurrying beside me.
Just then, Denise came out of the kitchen, her face bright with an excitement she couldn't contain when she saw David. She bit her lips, raising her hand in a curt wave. "Hi."
He blinked and smiled, "Hi."
For a moment, it seemed they had forgotten I was right in between them. I grinned, turning to David, "Oh, I hate to ruin the moment, but Denise tells me we have a lot to discuss."
"Ah, yes, right." He murmured, finally taking his eyes off Denise. "Do you mind if we sat right here?" he gestured at an empty table in the middle of the shop.
It was an odd request, but how could I say no to a client?
"Sure. Let me just get some things from the office. Denise, come with me."
Denise followed, barely holding back a squeal.
I chuckled, nearly rolling my eyes. "Okay, get a grip." I told her, scooping up my binder and planner. They were still so new I hadn't thought I'd need them this soon, but the day had finally come.
"Get a grip? Have you seen those eyes, Celeste? Billie Eilish literally wrote-"
"And those same eyes are etched on my face," I shot back. It had only hit me this morning that his eyes and mine were the same.
"Correct, but you're not David Hayes."
"Mm... Actually, it's David Dubois Hayes."
"French boy, huh?" She gave a light shudder, lips quirking. "Me likes."
I laughed, returning to where David sat. Somehow, he seemed unbothered by the clamoring and muffled screams of reporters from outside, across the street.
He leaned back, flipping his leather folio with a practiced precision and an almost serious expression, like he hadn't just been flirting with Denise.
"So, I'm sure your assistant has already briefed you about this meeting," he began in a professional tone. "The host is Fae Winters But beyond the name, everything else stays strictly private. We don't want leaks before the press release. The fundraiser is scheduled for the last Saturday of this month, an evening event, at the Whitmore Hotel ballroom."
He tapped his pen against the page, in that I-don't-mix-pleasure-with-work kind of way.
"The cause is education. Fae's foundation is sponsoring scholarships for underprivileged girls who want to enter design. This means the guest list will be heavy with press, donors, and industry figures. Nothing splashy, but very visible."
"That's really noble." I nodded, hands on my lap as I listened.
"Yes, she's really something." He smiled. "The theme is A Winter's Bloom. Think elegance, winter palettes, but softened by touches of warmth." He looked up, catching the confusion in my face. "From you, we'll need one showpiece cake, something artistic, and five or six bite-sized desserts for circulation. Think macarons, tartlets, petits fours, maybe something seasonal like spiced financiers or éclairs. Everything should plate neatly and photograph well."
He scribbled another note. "Tastings will be with me first, then Ms. Winters. Guest count is just under three hundred, so plan for two hundred fifty plated servings plus backup. The cake should cover at least one hundred."
I exhaled, already doing silent math in my head.
He finally closed the folio. "That's the overview. The timeline's tight, but manageable if we move fast. Can you deliver?"
For a moment I didn't answer. Because I was too overwhelmed to. My hands twisted in my lap, betraying me.
He narrowed his eyes. "You've gone quiet. Something wrong?"
I swallowed. "It's just that this is a lot, honestly. My shop only opened a couple of months ago. I only have two part-time assistants.
We haven't even officially launched yet." The words tumbled out as fast as they could. "This is my first real job. And it feels... huge."
Suddenly, the professional expression disappeared, replaced by something softer. He set his pen down and leaned forward. "You
know Fae Winters could have gone with Sugar & Slate, or Maison Douce, they've catered half the fashion galas this season. But she
didn't. She picked you."
The sound of those names only made my chest tighten. "Why me?"
"Because she asked for raw. Something that doesn't taste like it was made in a boardroom." He bluntly replied. "That's you, Celeste. Don't sell yourself short."
I let out a shaky laugh, the nerves were starting to calm. "You make it sound like I'm about to change the world with fondant and buttercream."
He grinned, eyes shining. "Stranger things have happened. I know it's a big job. But that's the point. Don't hold back just because you're new. Sometimes that's what makes you stand out." Then gave me a small smile. "How about lunch? My treat."
"Wouldn't you rather have it with Denise?" I asked.
"Maybe," he shrugged, "but then I wouldn't get to talk business."
Just then, Denise appeared with a tray, setting down a plate of cake. "Cake's on the house."
He smiled with a thank you that seemed too eager, then when she was gone, he continued. "So, what do you say?"
I hesitated before blurting out that I was married, even though the words felt alien to me.
He nodded with understanding. "I agree with your concerns... How about tonight? You should come to this event." he said,
slipping an invite across the table. "It's the best way to see how things are really done."
Before I could answer, the noise outside grew louder. I looked at the window to see two black cars stopping at the curb. At the
moment, the reporters rushed forward, cameras flashing, like their restraint had finally broken off as men in dark suits held them back in the middle of the street.
My breath caught when the back door opened and Grandmother stepped out, dressed perfectly, her pearls shining. I let out a small sigh. Of course.
The bell over the door chimed, and suddenly the shop felt too small, too quiet. She swept in, flanked by two guards.
"I want everyone out of here, except Celeste." She said casually, like she owned the place.
Customers scattered, Denise wasn't spared either. Even David rose, offering a polite nod before gathering his folder. My jaw clenched in annoyance at what she was doing. This place was my sweat and blood, and yet, she acted like she was entitled to it.
As David walked past her, I noticed a quick flicker of recognition on her face. Her eyes narrowed, studying him like a puzzle she almost solved. Then she shook her head, waving her hands dismissively as she smiled coolly. "Probably just one of the poor children I donated to in the past."
My cheeks burned. "He's a potential client, Grandmother!" I blurted in exasperation, rising to my feet.
"Mm." She didn't bother looking back at David, who simply tilted his head and slipped out the door.
She didn't respond. Instead, she glided to the table, and took a seat, resting her arms calmly. Finally, her eyes met mine.
"Sit down, Celeste. I have a proposition for you."