VERA

_

HERE'S THE RUNDOWN.

It took a ton of explaining, a ton of Timothée yelling at Sam for dozing off, a ton of Avery making snarky remarks, and a ton of sitting awkwardly on the couch as I was told that I'd have to learn how to seduce someone. Sam said he had utmost faith in me, but I could see it in Timothée and Avery's eyes that they were skeptical.

So was I.

However, the need of pulling off this heist was far too great for the boys, so they reassured me of the plan and their faith in me.

             Step #1. The group will orchestrate an operation at Corne D'Abondance, which is the restaurant Timothée's Uncle will be dining in (to go over gala plans). Sam will resume his position as diversion—a 'knocked over pot of soup' if anything went wrong—, Avery would be in the getaway car if said problem occurred, Timothée would be disguised as a waiter in the kitchen with an earpiece to talk me through the process, and I would be the one eavesdropping at the table next to the Uncle as he divulged in his party details.

             Step #2. I will enlist the three rules of Seduction. This will decrease suspicion of my true intentions, and will perceive me as less of a threat to whatever group the Uncle is keeping in his company. ("Use that oaf's misogyny against him," Timothée sneered).

             Step #3. I will snoop on the conversation, and gather any details I can get. The more we know about the party, the easier it will be to figure out how to get in. Ticket? Back door? It's based on whatever happens. Once we're satisfied with the intel, I'll make a quick escape out the door where Avery will be waiting with the car. Timmy and Sam will follow suit.

If we can pull this small con off, the heist will be green lighted. If not, we'll have to find another way to get into the party—and suffer Timothée's wrath of disappointment. To avoid this, I needed to learn how to seduce a rich man.

Something I'm not entirely good at.

This is why I found myself back in the 'book club' a few days later, getting pushed around a room by Sam as he tried to fix my posture. Avery was scrolling through Pinterest for outfit ideas, and Timothée was reading the rough draft of my first finished chapter—yes, I managed to finish Chapter One! It took a lot of complaining and motivational speeches from Timmy, but I got it done.

"So, tell me then," I said to the curly-haired boy, narrowing my eyes, "how do I seduce a rich man?"

Timothée looked up from the binder in his lap, cocking a brow. "How would I know? I haven't tried to."

"I thought you'd be teaching me."

"No, Vera, Sam's teaching you," he said, flipping another page of my manuscript, "now stop bothering me while I edit your first chapter."

I sent him a glare, but I felt a little warm inside at his words. He seemed to be hooked on whatever words I'd jotted down, because his eyes were glued to the words in front of them while he read it out under his breath. I wondered what he was thinking. If he hated it, I'm not sure what I'd do, but I didn't like how dependent I was on his criticism.

I wanted to impress him.

If that was something possible to achieve.

"Stop getting distracted," Sam said, slapping my wrist, "I'm trying to help you out here."

I bit my lip anxiously. "Sorry."

"Like the basics of being a thief, there's a basic to seduction," the blond explained, yanking my shoulder back to stand me straighter, "it's to be an onion."

"An onion?"

"You have to charm your target, but make sure you do it in layers," he explained, "start out with the first layer—make them catch you looking—then the second, make them catch you talking about them. The third is to approach them, and fourth is to leave the conversation quickly so that you stay in their mind for the rest of the day."

I opened my mouth to respond, but I was caught off guard by Avery, who was crouched on the chair, still scrolling in search of a dress I'd wear for the first con.

"You should be familiar with those though," he said, double tapping his screen, "Timothée used them on you."

I winced. "He did?"

"Naturally, they're the basics of seduction."

I opened my mouth to question it (or deny it), but my memories pieced it all together for me.

             First layer: Make them catch you looking.

He lifted his fingers up to the side of his black sunglasses, sliding them slowly down the bridge of his nose and revealing the bright glint of his eyes. Which were staring right into mine.

             Second: Make them catch you talking about them.

As I reached under the dishwasher, I heard the sound of the boy's voice continue talking to Bella."Ah," he said, "quelqu'un de nouveau?"—someone new?

             Third: Approach them.

He had asked me a question. Just a simple, one-word question, but I was hesitant to open my mouth. I didn't know him. He didn't know me. Yet, the inquisitive smirk on his face was inviting me to speak.

             And Last: Leave quickly.

And just as quickly as we had met, he began to leave.

They were right, Timothée did use those tricks on me when we first met. And they worked. He managed to draw me in effortlessly, all while I didn't suspect a thing, and somehow landed myself in the middle of a heist as well.

"I can't tell if I should be offended or impressed," I exhaled, breaking my posture, "maybe both."

"Definitely impressed," Sam grinned, yanking my shoulders back again, "and besides, you managed to get Timothée to become your friend in the process, so you already did some seducing on your own."

"What?"

"He spent four weeks talking to you, Vera," Avery yawned, setting down his phone, "he purposely took his time with you, for whatever reason that boy had."

"I'm sitting right here," Timothée said, scowling, but still not looking up from his papers, "and yes, Vera, you did take longer to draw in."

"Any reason for that?" I smirked.

He looked up, holding up the editing pen in his hand, and twirling it around with his fingers. "Pity?"

Definitely offended now.

"Piss off, Chalamet," Avery laughed, before turning towards me, "he won't admit anything, so don't bother."

"Still sitting right here," Timothée remarked.

"Then go sit somewhere else," Sam cut in, taking his hands off my shoulders so he could point towards the door, "your commentary is not needed at this present moment, because we are trying to teach your girlfriend how to hold posture worthy of seducing a rich man."

My mouth fell open at Sam's retort, and I felt my cheeks flush as I whipped my head to see if Timothée would react. Sam said 'girlfriend' in front of him—I heard it clearly—and this time the boy was in the room.

Setting down the binder beside him, Timothée slowly stood up from the couch, sliding the pen behind the crook of his ear. It disappeared behind the table of curls in his hair. He approached Sam and I, his expression completely unreadable and blank. Stopping in front of the blond, I noticed something tugging on his lips (a smirk? A frown?). He made it impossible to know.

"She's not my girlfriend, Brontté," he said, before casting an amused look down at me, "but if she was, I wouldn't let her go seducing rich men, would I?"

I was speechless.

But Avery wasn't.

"Ladies, gents, and fellow friends," he said, reclining deeper into his chair, "it seems 'possessive Timothée' has arrived onto the scene."

"It's not possessive if she's not mine," the man shot back, before heading towards the door. He twisted the handle sharply, but stopped himself, letting out a soft chuckle. He turned his head. "And she's not."

As he stepped into the hallway, he let go of the door knob, letting it come to a clicking close behind him. The room was silent—not even Sam dared to make a snarky remark—primarily because we were mourning the loss of my pride.

I'd been rejected for the second time, and it still hurt just as much as the first.

I wasn't sure why I cared, since I swore I'd push aside my feelings for the sake of a book, but I could see it in his eyes. He meant what he said. I wasn't his. If anything, I was just a friend who agreed to help him with the one thing he really did care about.

And it wasn't me.

"So," Avery's voice broke through the silence, holding up an image on his phone screen, "thoughts on a blue dress?"

I glanced at the ground. "Sure."

But I didn't feel sure of anything anymore. He kept up with his promise to show me what storybook love was like, waiting outside my work, explaining it thoroughly as he walked me to the university, but when we were in the presence of others, he put up a wall of disassociation from me. He messed with my mind constantly.

And I wanted to mess back.

➢

I HAD ENOUGH OF HIS GAMES.

If he wanted to play around with me, he needed to play fair—all of this backwards behavior was making me annoyed, and it had to stop—or I'd have to play dirty. Which, given the fact that he didn't seem to stop anytime soon, means that I will.

He pretended like my feelings towards him were irrelevant, but I had a hunch he secretly loved it. Loved the attention. Loved the knowledge that I was wrapped around his finger, and whatever else could boost his already stuffed ego.

I just needed to get him to admit it.

"Be an onion," I repeated to myself, "start with the first layer."

Make them catch you looking. It was simple. I rolled out my own version of the plan, blatantly staring at him from across the room while he edited my chapter, and glancing away as soon as he looked up. He would catch my eye for long enough to assume I'd been watching.

When he left the room to retrieve something else, I waited until I heard his footsteps returning before I started the second layer. Make them catch you talking about them. I quickly pestered Sam and Avery about random things concerning Timothée, and made sure to snap my mouth shut when the door creaked open. It was a subtle, yet obvious way to scream 'WE WERE JUST TALKING ABOUT YOU' to the boy who just walked in.

My plan of seduction was working, because as soon as I finished learning posture and side-glances with Sam, Timothée seemed more than welcome to 'go over' the first chapter with me back at his apartment. From there I'd roll out the third and fourth from there on. Easy as pie.

"Something to drink?" Timothée asked, tossing his keys onto his dresser, "non-alcoholic, I'd assume?"

I simply nodded my head, lingering by the mint walls of his room as I watched him retrieve two small glasses of water. Through the thin walls I could hear him humming to himself as he poured the refreshments out of a glass jug, seemingly unaware that I'd lain my trap and held it open for him to fall through.

I wondered if he felt this proud when he pulled the same tricks on me.

"Vera," he said, dangling the glass in front of my face.

I took it loosely from his hand, nodding a thank you. I was careful not to say anything just yet, because I didn't want him thinking I was talking to him as a friend. He needed to sense the change in environment.

Falling onto his bed, he let his back hit the headboard, watching me from across the room as he took a sip of his drink.

"Lost your tongue?" He smirked to himself, "you're quieter than usual."

Got him—he sensed it.

"Just thinking," I said.

"About?"

"Doesn't concern you." I murmured, letting my eyes run around the room until I stopped on the familiar white dresser beside me. The cabinet he often sorted through was slightly ajar, and I had a glimmer of an idea. Setting my glass on the surface top, I reached over and grasped the metal handles, tugging it open until I caught sight of what I wanted. The toothpick box. Picking it up, I glanced back at the staring boy. "Do you mind?"

Timothée looked confused for a second, his eyes going back and forth between the small yellow box and my smug expression.

"Yes, actually," he frowned, "I do mind."

"Pity," I echoed.

And then I flicked open the booth, pulling out a toothpick and sliding it between my lips without so much as a glance in the boy's direction. I knew he was shocked. Going against his wishes was something I hadn't dared to do so brazenly, but I wasn't here to be naive anymore—I wanted something from him, and if pressing all of his buttons got it, I'd wouldn't hesitate.

"Vera, what are you doing?" I heard him say, adjusting his seat on the mattress.

I returned to my spot on the wall, waving my hand at him. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like you just stole one of my toothpicks."

"Did I? You must be rubbing off on me."

That earned me a scoff, and the next thing I knew, Timothée was off the bed, pacing in front of me with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. I didn't flinch, not even as he stopped a few inches away from my face, narrowing his glare as he reached up and tugged the toothpick out of my mouth, tossing it onto the dresser without looking away.

"Don't push boundaries," he said, lowering his voice, "and don't take my things."

I smiled innocently. "What boundaries?"

"You know what boundaries, Vera."

"No, I don't think I do," I pouted, leaning off the wall to get in his face, "mind refreshing my memory?"

This time Timothée was the one to flinch, jutting his head back slightly when I inched nearer. He wasn't used to me being forward. In truth, I rarely was, but I was when I needed to be—like when I was trying to get him to admit that he was a player who enjoyed messing with my feelings.

"What are you doing?" He muttered under his breath.

"Pushing boundaries."

I felt like breaking through over a month of unresolved tension, and just ending it right here and now. It was a fire burning through my skin as I started into his olive eyes, taunting him to make the first move. He was playing my game now. I'd rigged the cards in my favor, and watching him spiral hopelessly was something I found to be rather enjoyable. I'd always admired him for having an ace up his sleeve, but now I realize we were never playing cards—we were playing each other.

"Your move, Timothée," I whispered, nudging my face closer to his.

We were closer than we'd ever been before, and it was scary. I could see the tiny freckles running along his cheekbones like scattered constellations, and the specks of light filtering onto his eyelashes from the window across the room. He truly was pretty, no matter how tainted his personality.

It was fire against fire in the room, and if we carried this on for any longer, I feared we'd burn the whole house down. Since the moment he shook my hand in that bakery, I was put on a timer—ticking, ticking, and ticking away to an unsure end—and each time he stomped on my heart, he failed to extinguish the flames. I was done with his defiance, and I wanted him to either accept the possibilities of us, or stop pretending they were ever there. Ticking, ticking, ticking...

"Don't be a fool, Vera," he finally said.

And it was those words that set off the bomb.

It didn't take another second for me to grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him towards the wall and shoving him against it. He could have easily deflected it, but I caught him off guard. He wasn't expecting this. Not even I was, but something inside of me snapped with overflowing anger. Pressing my forearm against his chest, I kept him pinned to the wall, my teeth gritted as I held him down.

"You need to stop screwing with me, Chalamet," I hissed, "because if anything, it's making you seem like the fool."

Tick, tick, boom.

"If you want nothing to do with me, then say it, because you can't keep parading around me with the knowledge that I do hold feelings for you," I spat out, my eyes clouding over with malice, "although I'll gladly end them if you want me to."

He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"And in case you need a reminder, you were the one who picked me to help you get your inheritance back," I hissed, "so you better start respecting me, my book, and the risks I'm taking for you, or you can find someone else to take my place."

I wanted to keep yelling at him, just to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes as he watched me let my emotions run free. I'd been held back around him—watching my words, watching our distance, and letting him walk all over me—but now I was pushing the boundaries. Pushing the norms. He just needed to push back.

"So answer me right now," I said, pressing my arm deeper against his chest, "do you want me to stay or not?"

I expected him to do nothing, or say nothing, because I wasn't sure what he'd even say. He was right. I didn't know him. Not this new side of him anyways, and it was killing me that he could always hold that over me no matter what I did.

So it caught me off guard when he smiled.

"Four mistakes," he said softly, cocking his head to the side, "almost five, but definitely four."

I frowned. "Stop changing the subject."

"The subjects are the same."

Before I could fathom a response, he wrapped his free arm around my back, yanking me closer to him and flipping us over. I felt the solid structure of the wall against my shoulder blades, and I realized we'd switched positions. Now he was the one with the upper hand.

"First mistake," he said, smiling through his words, "you were using the rules of seduction, right? Well you managed to pull the first two off correctly, but you fumbled on the third."

He knew my plan this whole time?

"Third is to approach your target," he continued, "you kept your distance the entire time, until I was the one who approached you."

I wanted to kick him.

He didn't care. "Then you made the mistake of choosing to pin me to the wall. If you left after yelling so admirably at me, I'd have no choice but to run after you, but you stayed."

I moved my arm to push him away, but hechluckled, swatting my hand away and holding me closer to the wall. His hair was tangled and messy from the altercation, and I could barely see the green irises that were ridiculing me so closely.

"Third mistake?" He added, "you tried to seduce the man who wrote the rules to seduction. If I wanted it to work on me, I'd give myself willingly."

"And the fourth?" I spat out, fighting against his grip, "let me guess. Choosing someone as high and mighty as you as my target?"

"No," he grinned, "you had a run-on sentence on paragraph five in your first chapter. Six commas, a little sloppy."

I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

"And to answer your question, I hold you in the highest respect when it comes to people I surround myself with. You weren't an easy person to rope in, Vera, I admire you for that," he said, before pausing and letting me go. I nearly toppled over with the unexpected release of force. "And I'm sorry for leading you on, but let me assure you that I would be infinitely more happy if you stayed."

Gritting my teeth, I caught myself. "You only say that because I can help you get something you want."

"No, Vera, that's not why."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you. I've stopped trying to fool you the second you said yes to the deal. I mean it this time." There was a pause between his words, where he lifted his hand up to his gaze, eyeing it closely. I almost gasped when I saw him finger the glass ring he always wore, sliding it off his fourth finger and dropping it into his palm. He held it out to me. "Take this to trust me. Complete transparency from now on."

Transparency.

From the boy who loved glass, and who always kept his distance. This felt like an honor of some sort, but I was weary to think of him so highly anymore. Taking the ring from his hand, I slid it onto my thumb, the band too large to stay put on any of my other fingers.

It felt cool against my skin, heavy even, but my mind betrayed me into thinking it felt perfect there. Meant to be there. It was a foolish thought, but somehow it made me feel proud being a fool—temporary solitude in ignorance.

I watched as Timothée took a step back, reaching for his bag that had fallen askew on the floor by the dresser. Unclasping the locks, he pulled out a familiar black binder, holding it out of me.

"I made the edits," he said, nodding his head, "take this home, do the revisions, and bring me your second chapter tomorrow."

I took it. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," he said, turning towards the window, "it's only part of the deal."

Those words confirmed the question I had been asking this whole time. Do you want me to stay or not? He wanted me to stay, yes, but only because of a promise. He made no promise to me, he made a promise to my book, just as I had made a promise to his plan. The only difference is that I promised myself to him too.

Tick, tick, tick...

Snap.