What gets me weak every time about this image is how despite the fact that Jean sees Mikasa probably every single day since they were training, his reaction with regards to her does not decline, and only gets stronger as the story progresses. Sure, he wasn't the babbling teenager who fell in love at first glance anymore, but would he follow her to wherever she goes and confront a titan without second thoughts just so he could save her and be there for her? You bet he would. Would he bet his entire food on her without wasting a single breath even when people around him are unsure of the outcome? You bet he would. Would he be there to be honest with her and give her the harsh truths because he knows that's what she needs and that she can take them? You bet he would. Would he stand next to her and always keep her in his line of sight all the time even though he knows she can take good care of herself? You bet he'll do it anyway. Would he play the hard parts and look her in the eye with complete trust in her judgement, even though he's doubting himself inside? For her, he would. Get yourself someone who looks at you, cares for you, respects you, adores you, and loves you the way Jean looks, cares, respects, adores, and loves Mikasa.
MIKASA LEANING HER HEAD ON JEAN'S SHOULDER WITH THEIR BABY. I REPEAT, MIKASA LEANING HER HEAD ON JEAN'S SHOULDER WHILE HOLDING THEIR BABY. MILFKASA AND DILFJEAN. MILFKASA AND DILFJEAN.
Pieck Finger has been a sugar baby for the better part of a decade. After breaking up with her last rich boyfriend, her friend Jean Kirstein offers her the opportunity to meet and seduce one of the richest men in the world during a weekend celebration at a country club. There, however, she meets Porco Galliard, a sugar baby much like herself with plans for his own life. After they meet, however, their plans might be disrupted.
Ao3
“I heard from a little bird you got dumped,”
Pieck rolled her eyes at the sound of that voice, which had become utterly familiar after years working side by side. To be fair, he was not mistaken. The lack of the diamond bracelet gave it away; the one present she’d wanted to keep from was the one he’d taken away. Furthermore, the world of modeling was surprisingly small, and she guessed it wasn’t just the lack of diamond bracelet that had told Jean she’d been dumped by Leonard Walton.
Pieck turned to look at him, forcing herself to smile. She had to keep appearances; not for Jean -heavens knew she cared not for what he thought of her love life– she didn’t want the other models to see her distressed. They already hated her for being much smaller than the rest of them, some had gone as far as to complain to several brand managers. She did not want them to think she’d lost all pride just because of one rich bachelor.
“Mister Walton and I had different ideas of boundaries, Jeanbo, and decided to part ways,” she said, smiling at the girl that came with her shoes. Pieck tapped them against the floor, just in case one of the other models had not decided to tamper with the heels like the last time, in hopes of making her break an ankle mid-runway. She’d gotten fired from the brand the last time, and finding jobs was difficult enough with her height. “How about you? Did you manage to find your lady love in the crowd?”
Jean parted the back curtain only a millimeter, which was enough to get a glimpse of the front row of seats. It wasn’t hard for them to find her; the widowed Ackerman, gorgeous, young, dressed all in a red that accentuated the black of her hair, adorned in simple yet exquisite jewelry. “There she is.”
“Pretty as a flower, as per usual,” Pieck said. Gorgeous, and unattainable. Pieck would know, from that one party in which she’d tried to flirt with the widow. “When are you–”
“We’re not talking about her,” Jean closed the curtain, not before letting out a longing sigh. He was a romantic, and a fool, for allowing the object of his desire to be the most unattainable woman in the entire west end. “We’re talking about you and your plan to be a trophy wife.”
“Don’t talk that loud!” Pieck shoved him away. “Besides, I don’t want to be just a billionaire’s wife. I’d like to fall in love in the process and get my brand off the ground and onto magazines, thank you.”
“Ah, so you are heartbroken,” he teased.
“I’m heartbroken because Walton was my ticket to the MET this year,” Pieck sighed, folding her arms over her chest while she looked at the A listers walk down the runway; the skinny, statuesque women dominated high fashion without any difficulties. “All I wanted was that ticket to the MET. I had the perfect design in my head, as his plus one I could’ve gotten seen the way I want to.”
“Also you wanted that fancy car.” Jean pointed out.
“And the car, yes.” Pieck agreed reluctantly. It had been a pretty car, another unkept promise. If he’d only let her keep the damn bracelet, she could have sold it for a pretty profit, a profit that would’ve allowed her to live comfortably for a year or two.
“Did he at least introduce you to Anna?” Jean asked.
“He was going to, at the MET.” Pieck closed her eyes and suppressed a whimper, certain her make up was not waterproof. Eight months of putting up with constant chatter about stocks and horses wasted in Jonathan Walton. If anything was more painful than losing the bracelet that was losing Jonathan himself before the MET. “The long road will be, but I don’t know how long that will last me.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve heard our workmates,” Pieck scanned the room, feeling a shiver of unease travel her back. “They don’t think it’s fair I’m up here walking with them. It’s only a matter of time before designers get the same idea. I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
“It’s not like modeling is your main source of income,” Jean replied. Pieck knew she ought to have been offended. Mind you, she was no prostitute –not that she thought there was anything wrong with prostitution. She simply had her standards when it came to dating, and the size of people’s wallets was what mattered the most.
It was not her fault these men wanted to give her jewelry and presents, it was not her fault she agreed every time they asked her to come to Paris with them. They thought her pretty and her wit was an added bonus, and she liked their bank accounts.
She’d been reaping the fruits of her looks since the tender age of twenty, but at twenty (and twenty one, twenty two, twenty three and so on) one was not as careful with money as one should be. And so, Pieck had enjoyed the shopping and the pretty things, thinking that by the time she turned twenty-five, she would have made enough as a fashion designer to not rely on her looks and youth.
Alas, she was twenty seven now, and success was now staying on a diet for most of the year. But she wasn’t a supermodel, the type that enters the A list and stays there for good. No, she’d never been a natura. And despite that she had managed to squeeze some luxuries off some of the men she had dated, none of them had put her atop the pyramid.
Because the top of the pyramid is where you wanted to be. It was at the top of the pyramid where you no longer thought if things were a luxury or a necessity before you bought them, the people at the top of the pyramid never had to watch their fathers remain at the bottom of a wait list for a life-saving treatment, the people at the top of the pyramid never withered away and died from strange diseases.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Pieck muttered. “Walton was my last shot at the life I wanted…I don’t think I can take another man talk about the stock market.”
“What does that mean?” Jean asked.
“It means I might just move back home,” Pieck said with a disappointed sigh. “I have a friend that owns a boxing club. I might ask her to let me be a greeting lady, or maybe I’ll report the weather somewhere–”
“No, no, you’ve been working your ass off to get to where you are now,” Jean said, shaking her by the shoulder with the carelessness any good friend could have. “You can’t give up now.”
“I was supposed to be rich at twenty six; I’m middle-class at best. Do you have a rich guy with the right connections?” Pieck asked. “Or do you happen to be close friends with Anna, will you tell her that I make beautiful clothes and convince her to hire me, so I don’t have to starve myself to get a job?”
“I know where to find the guy,” Jean said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Why do you think I came looking for you the moment I heard you and Walton broke up? He’s single just now. A bit older and divorced, but–”
Pieck burrowed her frow. “Didn’t I tell you I’m tired of hearing about the stock market?”
“This guy is old money,” Jean went on. The word gave Pieck a pause. Old money, now that was a phrase she’d heard plenty. Like most everyone in their circles, Anna Darcy liked old money; she was drawn to it like bees to honey. Because old money meant connections that led to the highest spheres of society, blood as pure as water from a spring…people impossible to reach.
“Why would old money pay me any mind?” Pieck asked.
“He saw you in the Vogue issue this spring,” Jean said, putting both hands on his hips. “If I’m remembering correctly, he said you looked like an orchid, cute and delicate and all pink.”
“Wise man,” Pieck said, taking a breath as she looked back at the crowd, at the gorgeous woman sitting at the front row. “Did your lady love tell you what he said?”
“She’s not my lady love,” Jean replied, clearing his throat. “We’ve been friends for a while, and she enjoys my conversations. I-I knew her husband, Pieck, I don’t think she could ever see me as–”
“I don’t care, Jean,” Pieck would apologize for being rude later. For now, she didn’t want to hear about his love for Mikasa Ackerman, symbol of Hizuran beauty, widowed at twenty years old, now twenty five and still single. If he hadn’t made his move, that was his problem. She had bigger interests at hand. “Who’s the guy? Where is this magical, old money man that thinks I’m a water lily?”
“Orchid–”
“Whatever. Where is he?” Pieck insisted.
“His name is Willy Tybur,” Jean said. Pieck scanned her memories, realizing she’d heard the name before. The Tybur family was much more than old money; they were ancient money. Carved from the creations of king Midas’ hands, the Tybur family stood above the pyramid itself. Jean and his family stood below them, Mikasa Ackerman and the Azumabito clan stood perhaps a couple of steps below them, even Ana Darcy remained below them.
Pieck widened her eyes. “Jean, I can’t–”
“You can try,” Jean said with a shrug. “I mean, he did say you were lovely. You’re not losing anything by trying.”
“Where do I find him?” Pieck asked. “Where do you find a guy like that?”
Jean cleared his throat. “There might be a place, but it’s out of the city. And you have one shot during the weekend.”
“Speak, Kirstein, I’m listening.”
___________________
“This is a lovely shade of pink, don’t you think, darling? It would go perfect with my new hair, and those eyeshadows I brought,” the woman loved to hear herself talk. She was a newly divorcée, thirty-two; tall, red-haired and gorgeous, with freckles coating the bridge of her nose and chest…freckles she seemed to hate. Although, to be fair, she seemed to hate a thousand little details about herself. Hence the constant trips to her surgeon and dermatologist.
Porco didn’t think there was anything wrong with her. She’d been gorgeous before the divorce, she was gorgeous now. But her ex husband had drained all of her self confidence, or something like that. In truth, Porco cared little. Her insecurities gave him more room to work on.
“What do you think, Pete?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Pink? Blue?”
Shut up already.
“Both,” Porco replied, forcing himself to smile. Why had he gotten into this again?
The money, dumbass, the money. Money made people act stupidly, and he was the living proof of that. But money was also good to buy yourself a ticket out of mandatory military service, the military service that killed brothers without a care. Despite it being a peaceful time, money was good to keep yourself out of that green uniform.
“Both?” she asked.
“Gorgeous with both,” Porco walked to stand behind her, thinking Marcel would have run out of breath from laughing when he took the scarves and put them over each og her shoulders. Are you a fashion advisor? he would have asked, in between snorts. “Your gorgeous face looks perfect in both,”
The woman blushed and tilted her head, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Why don’t we go for that customized watch? The gold watch with the encrusted diamonds.”
Porco smiled. Money also bought nice things, that part he would not deny. All he had to do? Stand pretty, assure whatever woman he was dating that she was the most gorgeous woman in the room, make her ego grow by knowing she had gotten him for herself. He’d been doing it since the tender age of eighteen; almost ten years, and he was a master at it.
Of course, doing something for so long meant he had a reputation, but Porco did not care. Some of these rich ladies seemed to love the thrill of the chase; they loved knowing they’d been caught in the claws of their blond casanova.
Porco contained the urge to cringe; he didn’t plan to do this forever. He just wanted to have enough money to retire, to buy his brother’s body back from the military and bury him in a peaceful meadow, not leave him in the middle of a military burial site. He was almost at five million; once he had that, he would be able to leave the high society circles for good.
“Martha warned me about your reputation, you know,” she said as they walked back to the vehicle, clinging to his arm as if he would run away at any moment. “She said you could bite…but nobody told me you’d be this sweet.”
“Being sweet is easy around you,” Porco lied, kissing the woman’s cheek before opening the car door for her. He ran to the driver’s seat; this car was what he’d been longing for. Once she gave it to him, Porco would enjoy it and their relationship for a few more months and then he would find her with her other lover (whom he’d had knowledge of since the beginning). Once he sold the car and the watches, he would reach his five million.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Home for a little alone time,” she said, squeezing his thigh. Porco smiled back; he enjoyed this part of his relationships. Every rich lady was so eager to prove they were the best at what they did, he always ended up having the most fun. “And then, we go to the tennis tournament.”
“Tennis tournament?” Porco said, scrunching up his face. “Is that what your friends are doing to start autumn?”
“It was the Azumabito woman’s idea,” she said, shaking her head. “I swear, that poor old woman does everything she can to keep that musty husband off her niece’s head. She knows she likes sports, so she decides to open the season with a tennis tournament. Fucking ridiculous.”
“Isn’t the husband dead?” Porco asked, driving up the road to her seaside mansion.
“It’s been five years, darling,” she replied, leaning against her seat and closing her eyes. “The one good thing about this season is that mister Tybur is going to be there.”
Porco raised both eyebrows. “Willy Tybur?”
“In the flesh,” she laughed. “Single and ready to turn any woman into royalty.”
Porco didn’t like the dreamy tone of her voice. He’d spent too many months dating her to be exchanged for old money. Not now, not when he was close to those five million…but rich people smelled fear, he knew that from trial and error. So, Porco leaned back against his seat and reached out to graze her thigh. “Do you reckon the Tybur sisters are gonna be there?”
“What?” she said, turning to look at him. Porco smiled; he still had her.
“Should we ask one of them to join us?” he said, smirking at her. “You know them, don’t you? You said a while ago you wanted a threesome.”
“With another man!” she laughed, grabbing his hand to kiss it. She shook her head and pouted, a gesture so utterly childish Porco almost let out an annoyed sigh. But that would not get him his car. “I’m not letting anyone take my plaything away from me.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Porco replied. “But don’t let your plaything out of sight.”
“I won’t,” she said, kissing his hand some more. He didn’t need to be anything more than a plaything; she was the means to an end, and vice versa. Nothing more, nothing less. And Porco didn’t care; things had been like this since the first woman who had bought his ticket out of the military. He just wanted those five millions. That’s all he wanted.
_____________________
“Nicholas is a very smart young man, isn’t he?” Jean said, staring at the painting in front of him with wide eyes. The tennis tournament had been ruined by a stray cloud and while the country club’s staff put up the tent-like thing above the courts, all the rich had gathered in the art gallery. The Azumabito had a back up plan for every back up plan, it seemed, and this one involved selling the youngest’s artwork.
“My brother has always been very artistic,” Mikasa Ackerman replied. Like every occasion, she was the epitome of beauty, a sad doll carved out of marble and dressed in pale pink. “I think your sculptures are better, though.”
“Mine?” Jean cleared his throat, cheeks turning pink when he turned to look at the widow. The suave, charming man that was almost two meters tall and turned women into jelly turned into the most stupid, bumbling fool Pieck had ever seen whenever he was around his longtime friend. It was like a circus display. “I-I do some work but nothing as good as Nicholas.”
“You’re being humble on purpose,” Mikasa pointed out.
Pieck covered her mouth and snorted, drawing Jean’s attention. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Pieck said, shaking her head when she noticed Mikasa’s gaze on her. The Ackerman were pretty far up in the social pyramid, and she didn’t want her to think she was a lunatic. She’d been the one to tell Jean about what Tybur had said about her, after all. “I think I must’ve swallowed this champagne without care.”
“You need to be more careful,” Jean said, frowning.
“I know,”
“Would you like me to escort you to the bar?” Ackerman asked.
“Oh, please, no, lady, I’m enjoying the art conversation plenty,” Pieck lied. Jean had told her to remain near in case Tybur appeared; he’d brought her as his plus one, and Pieck recognized a couple of the models that hated her in the crowd. Jean was her shield, her viaduct to Ackerman, who was her transport to Tybur.
“Perhaps you should go get something to wash out the burning of your throat,” Mikasa insisted, playing with the silver bracelet around her wrist. Pieck opened her mouth to utter another excuse, but Mikasa stepped forward, standing between her and Jean. “It’ll be good for you, miss Pieck. If some of that champagne goes to your lungs, you could die.”
“Well, water won’t do much if it’s on its way to my lung, will it?” Pieck said, hoping her dark humor would bring a smile from Ackerman. But the widow was as awkward as they came, and she merely blinked, switching her focus between her and Jean until something beyond Pieck’s shoulders caught her eyes.
“Ah, William is here,” she said, letting out a sigh. Pieck turned around right away, recognizing a blond mane at the back of the room, surrounded by a crowd of assistants, bodyguards and his own entourage, which consisted of plenty of beautiful people. Willy Tybur was tall and pale; clearly older, but handsome for his years, his clothes and demeanor shouted old money.
“Mika,” Jean said. The widow turned around, a light shade of pink on her cheeks. “Can you do us the favor? You said—“
“He has a meeting with the close family friends first,” Mikasa said, stepping closer to Pieck to point discreetly at a door in the far back, showing her the layout of the club as an older sister would. “They have their drinks and talk, but not just anyone goes in. I’ll go say hi to him and mention you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to meet you. He spoke wonders of your looks, miss Pieck”
“Thank you, lady Ackerman,” Pieck said; for all the time she’d been friends with Jean, she had never thought she would do a favor for her. It was a shame the Ackerman widow didn’t seem to have interest in women, Pieck thought, or anyone else. “Should I—“
“You must come with me,” she said, nodding.
“Should I come?” Jean asked. “Just to make sure he doesn’t annoy either of you?”
Pieck rolled her eyes. Ackerman was one of the most important single women in the west end, famous for not taking any man for five years already; no matter what Tybur did, he would not steal her away from Jean.
“Please, do so, my friend, but stay at a distance,” Mikasa said, taking a hold of Pieck to lead her towards the larger doors. They cut through the crowd without issues, with Jean at a wise distance. It was one of the perks of being under Ackerman's protective shadow. Mikasa stood before the doors, flattened the nonexistent wrinkles of her dress, and the door opened for her the moment she knocked.
“Mikasa!” a bearded man said from inside. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you. Rumor says you’ve been spending an awful lot of time in this year’s runway events. Trying to make peace with Ana at last?”
“Ana’s idea of me bothers me not,” Mikasa replied calmly. “Can I come in a moment?”
Ackerman disappeared behind the doors, giving her a reassuring door before crossing the threshold. From the look on Jean’s face, Pieck guessed he would have his ear glued to the door. Kirstein was rich, but not half as rich as Mikasa and the people of her circle. No matter how much he wanted to join her in her chat with Tybur, he would not be allowed to.
Minutes stretched endlessly while Pieck waited by the door. A couple of men passed by and greeted her; all good prospects, but none as connected as Jonathan Walton had been. However, Jonathan himself was nowhere near as well positioned as the godlike Willy Tybur; he was her ticket into her dream life, the ticket to a quiet lie of designing clothes in her studio, leaving home only to attend the events of her brand and fancy dinners.
Tybur wasn’t even bad looking. No, even from afar, Pieck had seen the angles of his face, his blond, soft hair. Older than her, he might be, but not at all bad looking. A recently divorced rich man was a prey for most, however, and Pieck did not want to appear too obvious, not with the A-list models glancing her way. She couldn’t be too obvious while waiting by the door; Ackerman’s favor would only take her so far, it would not protect her from sabotage.
So, Pieck walked towards a window, under the pretense of being distracted by the club’s staff working on covering the tennis court; sometimes, it was better to pretend to be dumb than to show your full potential.
Pieck faced away from the rest of the room, in hopes no one would approach her. The Azumabito had produced a string quartet, and Pieck she her face against the window frame when they began playing a familiar song, closing her eyes momentarily while humming the lyrics.
“A music lover, huh?” someone said next to her. Ah, so Ackerman had sent him her way. It was flattering to know such an important figure had gone through the trouble of seeking for her in a crowd. Pieck only hoped not many eyes were on them.
“My father used to play violin,” she said, eyes closed still.
“My older brother too,” he said. Pieck frowned. She’d studied the magazines well. Willy Tybur had older sisters, but no older brothers; it was part of his appeal, albeit not the eldest child, he was the eldest son of one of the richest families in the world. Was he trying to gauge how much she’d looked into his family?
“Music joins us together, it seems, mister–” her words dried in her throat when she opened her eyes. Although the man in front of her was handsome, with sharp lines on his face and a perky nose, golden hair and eyes the color of honey, he was no Willy Tybur. “I’m sorry…do I know you?”
“You do not,” he said, half sitting on the window sill to look at the court. He eyed the double gates with apprehension. “They’re gonna be a while, you know.”
“I’m just looking outside,” Pieck replied with a polite smile. “I’m not–”
“A…special friend of mine has a friend inside,” he started, sipping on his glass of wine, eyes glued to the door. “She knows by fact they’ll be in there for an hour.”
“Who is this trustworthy friend?” Pieck asked, doing her best to not let her polite smile disappear; she knew people would go to great lengths to get in Tybur’s graces. Pieck was using Mikasa to get near, another one might be using the pretty blond man in front of her as a decoy, to clear the way to Tybur.
“Robin Silverstone,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. Pieck dropped her arms at her sides, eyes wide and lips parted opened. Maybe she was not an A-list model, but Pieck was well aware of the gossip in the upper circles of the west end. Robin had won half of Silverstone’s assets in the divorce, and that included her ex-husband's antique vehicle collections, which she had insisted on taking just to spite him.
But the gossip was that she was dating a former military member, a young man with charm and reputation to spare. She eyed him from head to toe, recognizing the boyish charm in his expression, a face that spoke of a fire lurking underneath a still surface. But she’d dealt with enough men to know she would unnecessarily inflate his ego if she gave away that he was, in fact, rather handsome.
Just a pair of pretty, honeyed eyes, she told herself.
“I heard Mrs. Silverstone had gotten an interesting boy to spend her time with,” Pieck chose her words carefully. In the end, he was just another person of the same bunch, a hustler, a sugar baby, armcandy. She didn’t want to offend him, but she did not want him to think she thought him better in any way. “I can see she must be amused with you.”
“Not as much as she’d have you believe,” he said, letting out a soft chuckle.
“Where is your lovely lady?” Pieck asked in an effort to ignore the shiver his laughter had sent down her back.
“She is…with another interesting guy that does not arouse any suspicion in me, or that’s what she thinks,” he took another sip of his wine, and Pieck had to bite her lower lip to not giggle.
She had been there before, bidding for a rich man’s attention while competing with another young, pretty thing. It wasn’t good for your pride, and it was terrible for the purse. Sharing your boyfriend’s bank account with others was bothersome, to say the least, and she could see the annoyance in this man’s golden eyes.
“I’m glad to know I amuse you,” he said, making her blush in embarrassment. “Where is your date, by the way?”
“I came on my own,” Pieck said, smiling. He’d seen the amusement in her face and he’d gone for the comment that he thought would pinch her pride. Even worse, he’d figured out they belonged in the same group of people. How did Pieck know? Instinct, because she could see the recognition in his face, because it took one to know one and this man wasn’t dumb. Clever men could be so annoying. “Mister Tybur had a special interest in me.”
“You’ll be waiting for a while,” he rested the back of his head against the window frame, looking at the tennis court outside. But Pieck didn’t look alongside him; no, she focused her gaze on his jaw, so perfectly defined. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Pieck Finger,” she said without qualms. There was no point in hiding her name, not when Mikasa Ackerman herself would pave the way for her to become Pieck Tybur in the near future. “You?”
“You can call me Galliard,” he said.
Pieck snorted. “That’s a last name. I told you my first name and last name.”
“I don’t think–”
“Is your first name weird?” Pieck asked with honest curiosity. Or perhaps her words did carry cheeky intent. She didn’t like clever, overly confident men. Willy Tybur would surely be like that –but Tybur was swimming in a couple of billions, this kid was a bandit just like her. “Is it something like Richard, Dick? Chad? Egsbert? Porco?”
Galliard narrowed his eyes, and this time Pieck couldn’t keep herself from giggling. “I hit the jackpot, it seems, mister Porco.”
She thought that blow to his ego would be enough to cast him away, to send him away to look for his girlfriend and allow her to breathe. She didn’t like it when men made her heart race, and this one in particular would be best to keep at a distance.
“You’re very clever, Pieck,” he said. Blood rushed to her cheeks upon hearing her name said so casually, but she held his gaze. A little blush was nothing to be embarrassed about; if anything, it made her look kinder, more approachable.
“I know, it’s one of my best assets.” she said with a tiny smile.
“Do you wanna dance?” he asked right away, setting his now empty glass on the window sill. His finger traced the edges of the glass once, the movement almost hypnotizing. Pieck forced herself to look away from his fingers dancing over the glass surface. Just a pair of pretty eyes, she repeated to herself. “We’ve got plenty of time to kill.”
“Dancing is dangerous, for people like you and I,” Pieck expected him to understand the meaning of her words. People like them weren’t free to roam and flirt with each other; their stability depended on being available to the right people. And they were not the right people for each other.
“We could dance away from everyone,” Porco suggested, focusing solely on her face. “It’ll take him an hour at least. It’s not like Tybur will come out at any moment.”
“It’s not like your lady love will be done anytime soon, huh?” Pieck asked, tilting her head sideways; his mouth curved upwards, revealing the hint of a dimple on the right side of his cheek, but his eyes remained skeptical. She was amusing to him, a way to kill time, a momentary interlude in whatever plans he had for his life.
Pieck’s smile widened before she could stop herself, which made his own smile become more sincere. He didn’t lose the skepticism in his eyes, though. No; she guessed that had been there for a long time, it was a shield that protected his true intentions, it was what added to his boyish charm.
“What do you say?” he asked, ever insistent. “We gotta kill time somehow.”
So, this was gonna be one of those things. Momentary snapshots of carelessness were dangerous for someone with a dating strategy as organized as hers, but unavoidable even if she recognized them from afar. She hadn’t had many, and rich men did take too long in their stupid meetings. Besides, she didn’t want her competition to see her waiting for Tybur alone; she didn’t want Tybur to think she was the type that was never approached by anyone at parties. And those golden eyes were the ripest honey, and Pieck perhaps was the weakest of bees.
“I’m doing this to kill time,” Pieck assured him. “It’s not going to be ‘a thing’ this weekend, alright? I’ve got my plans, and I’m sure you do too.”
“Same here,” Porco said with a shrug, offering her his hand. When Pieck took it, a shock of electricity traveled her arm.
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