Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
GRIFF
I glance across the roof of the car at Damian as he hits the fob button to lock it and try not to be resentful as I fall into step beside him. Pretty sure I’m failing. It’s never a good thing when your boss tags along to a meeting so he can babysit you.
Oh, that’s not his official reason—his excuse for coming with me to Phallacy is that he wanted to check on a couple of client orders, including one for Kane, his boyfriend.
But we both know he could have done that over the phone and that he had no plans to visit until I mentioned my appointment during the weekly team briefing.
The only thing I can’t work out is why. He stopped babysitting me with clients and designers years ago, about six months after he hired me.
Is it because Margaret’s changing her look and he doesn’t think I’m handling it well?
The public reaction so far has been positive, and she was happy with the number of compliments she got on the press tour. So what—
“Before we get there, I want to give you a heads-up,” he says, and my bitter thoughts screech to a halt.
“A heads-up?”
“Yeah.” He glances sideways at me. “Calla—she’s one of the owners and the company director—will warn you when we arrive, so consider this your pre-warning.”
Warn me? “I don’t understand.”
“It’s about Phil Marchand.”
“He’s the co-owner and head designer, right?
” Designers can be weird sometimes, and unfortunately, the really talented ones get away with shit that’s not okay.
Is this Phil guy abusive? Violent? He’s not likely to try any bullshit with me—my size intimidates a lot of bullies without me ever having to even open my mouth. Damian knows that.
Fuck, is he homophobic?
“Yeah, that’s him. Don’t upset him, Griff.”
It takes me a second to realize Damian isn’t replying to my thoughts, and another second to get over being offended. He thinks I’d upset someone I just met? Deliberately?
“Why would I upset him?” My tone is stiff, but I can’t help it.
“I’m not saying you would,” he assures me in the same voice I’ve heard him use with difficult clients. Today isn’t great for my ego. “Phil doesn’t talk much, especially to strangers. I’m just saying, don’t upset him.”
I swallow down my instinctive response and instead say, “Got it.” Seriously, though?
Be fucking for real. This Phil guy is obviously one of those egotistical dickheads who thinks it adds artistic mystique to their reputation if they have “quirks.” Doesn’t talk much?
Probably to show how much better he thinks he is than the rest of us.
We reach the building and head up to the third floor, where Phallacy’s offices are.
As we step out of the elevator, I see a reception desk with a burly older guy sitting behind it, a sofa, and closed double doors set into a wall.
That’s it, the whole “public” part of their office.
Not surprising for an up-and-coming brand—security is key, and since they would only have a small team at this stage, there isn’t a need for a big office to separate the staff who don’t have security clearance to see the design parts of the business.
At a guess, I’d say they’re all still job sharing.
Except for the guy smiling at us from behind the desk, who’s probably security.
“Welcome back to Phallacy, Damian,” he says warmly. “Who are you here to see? Nobody told me to expect you.”
“Thank you, Kyle, but I’m just tagging along today. This is my colleague, Griff Pevensy. He has an appointment with Calla and Phil.”
The smile is turned on me. “Welcome to Phallacy, Mr. Pevensy. If I can get you both to sign in here”—he pushes a clipboard toward us—“I’ll let Calla know you’re here. Could I get you anything to drink?”
I take back my earlier assessment that he’s the security guard when he’s clearly an experienced receptionist. Shame on me for making assumptions. “Please call me Griff. And no, thank you on the drink. I’m good.” I pick up the pen and sign in, then hand it to Damian.
“Same for me. Still enjoying the job?” my boss asks as Kyle hangs up the phone, and his smile amps up noticeably.
“Best one I’ve ever had,” he enthuses. “Phil promised to teach me how to use the 3D modelling software.”
I clench my teeth to stop myself from snorting derisively. I doubt that promise is ever going to be kept, not unless Douchebag Phil can work out a way to exploit Kyle by doing so. I’ve met designers like him before. I know exactly how this story goes.
Damian and I stay by the desk, chatting with Kyle, for less than two minutes before one of the doors opens and a brunette woman in ripped relaxed-fit jeans, biker boots, and a wide-necked, slouchy patchwork top comes out. My radar goes on high alert at the sight of that top.
I want it.
“Damian! This is a nice surprise.” The woman holds out her hand and, when Damian takes it, leans up to kiss both his cheeks.
Then she turns to me, her smile a tiny bit more reserved and professional.
“You must be Griff Pevensy. I’m Calla Gardner.
” She offers me her hand, too, but even before I take it, I know I’m not going to get kisses.
It’s not that she’s giving me unwelcoming vibes, just that it’s clear Damian has reached a different level of acquaintanceship, and I respect that.
“It’s good to meet you,” I say, and leave it at that. Margaret might want a Phallacy gown, but I’m still not sold on them.
That top, though… The jeans are just from the Gap, though she’s doctored them to fit better, and the boots can be bought at any Harley store, but that top…
“Is that a Phallacy design?” The words escape me before I can stop them, my chin jerking toward her torso.
She glances down, then smiles. “I guess, unofficially.”
I wait for her to explain, but she seems to be done with that topic and is already turning toward the doors. She taps a fob to the security panel. Dammit.
“Did you tag along for funsies, or is there something special I can help you with?” she asks Damian as she holds a door open for us.
“A bit of both,” he admits. “I wanted to check on the shirts you’re doing for Kane—I know you said the bronze would be perfect, but I’m still not convinced. But I’m also nosy about this new direction Griff’s taking Margaret.”
Calla laughs, and I silently thank Damian for saying he’s nosy and not that he’s checking up on me. Although… is he telling the truth? Or did he come because he doesn’t trust me not to upset his boyfriend’s precious favorite designer?
Neither is encouraging for me nor my career.
“The bronze shirt is done, and it looks incredible. You can take it with you today—after you apologize for doubting me,” she teases.
“And believe me, we’re all nosy about what Griff’s got planned for Margaret.
Her wardrobe for the tour over the summer was delicious.
” She aims that last word at me with a smile, and I smile back, nodding my thanks.
I did do a fucking amazing job, especially given the time constraints.
Damian asks another question about Kane’s wardrobe, and I take advantage of the distraction to look around the main part of the atelier.
It’s mostly one massive room, though there are some doors at the far end—probably offices for Calla and Phil, or maybe secure storage for completed designs.
Surprisingly, it’s wider than I thought it would be—I guess the reception area is walled in to allow more space here.
Two big banks of windows let in plenty of light, and the setup is similar to what I’ve seen a million times before: a big cutting table, a few machine stations, and desks.
Not to mention racks with bolts of fabric and trim.
There are half a dozen people busy working, though a couple of them glance curiously in our direction.
One, a very young woman—an intern, maybe—seems disappointed after looking at us.
Maybe she was hoping we’d be someone famous.
“Sorry, Griff,” Calla says, turning to me. “Damian and I have completely hijacked your appointment.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Talking about clothes is one of my favorite things. Plus, now I want to see the bronze shirt.” I really do. Damian styled it a few weeks back based on the design sketches, but he asked me and Adam for opinions because he wasn’t sold on it even then.
“It’s my destiny to be doubted about fabric,” she jokes. “Come on, I’ll show you around, and we can see the shirt.”
She turns to the right, leading us toward a bank of windows, and I see that my guess was correct—there’s another door in the wall that was behind reception, this one leading to a giant wardrobe of sorts.
“This is where we keep completed garments,” Calla explains, confirming my thoughts.
“On the other side of reception is the fitting room for clients, where we take measurements and do fittings. It’s a little fancier than this.
” She heads with unerring certainty for a specific rack and flips through the hangers, removing three shirts.
One is in a stunning bronze raw silk, one a dark blue linen so fine, it could almost be tissue, and one a white polished cotton.
I can see at a glance that they’re all well-made—which I’d expect from a luxury brand—but the bronze one is sensational.
“Damn,” I blurt even as Damian says, “You were right.”
Calla grins. “Music to my ears. I keep telling people I’m never wrong about this stuff, but Phil’s the only one who believes me. And I’m pretty sure even he doubts me sometimes.”
“If he does, he’s wrong.” I mentally slap myself. While I can’t deny she was right about this, I’m pretty sure I mostly said that just to hate on this Phil guy, who I still haven’t met. Which makes me petty and childish.
Though based on everything I’ve heard and learned about him so far, I’m probably right.
“Aw, thank you, Griff. You’re my new favorite stylist. Come on back to the main floor, and I’ll have Deeanne wrap these up while we keep on.”
We obediently follow, and Damian says to me, “I think I need to change styling for that shirt.”
I think about it as Calla talks to the young woman we disappointed. “Cut back the accessories?”
He nods. “Yeah. That fabric doesn’t need any distractions. Maybe just a skinny tie.”
“Did you see the one Adam has on his desk? That would look good.” It’s an earthy dark brown shot through with olive and bronze tones.
Calla comes back while Damian is putting a note in his phone, and she takes us around the rest of the workroom. The fitting room is suitably plush and comfortable, and we meet their head seamstress and their pattern cutter.
“We’ve had a lot of growth this past year that’s allowed us to expand,” Calla says frankly, leading us toward the offices at the back.
“A lot of that is thanks to Damian and Kane, plus a really strong showing last awards season. We’ve gone from being me and Phil with a couple of part-timers to being able to give our team the hours and recognition they deserve. ”
The words slip out. “You’re still getting established, though.”
Damian quirks a brow but doesn’t look annoyed. It’s not a secret that I prefer to dress my clients in designers that are entrenched in the fashion world.
“We are,” Calla agrees. “That’s why I was surprised to hear from you. I hope you give Phallacy the chance to prove that we’re capable of meeting the high standard you have for your clients even though we’re still new.”
I’m still processing the fact that she thinks she needs to win my approval to get Margaret’s commission when she continues, “That aside, I don’t know if Damian mentioned that Phallacy won’t work with anyone who doesn’t show Phil the utmost respect.”
I blink. The utmost respect? Am I supposed to genuflect? “It came up.”
Her smile returns. “Good. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.” She turns and knocks on the closest door, then opens it and ushers us inside. “Phil, come and meet Griff Pevensy.”
Across the room, a man puts down a pair of scissors and turns to face us.
He’s wearing jeans and a shirt, nothing extraordinary, but they fit in a way that screams custom tailoring.
The overhead light gleams off red hair and highlights the freckles on his otherwise creamy skin, and there’s a small, wary smile on his face.
I hate him.
I hate him for probably being an asshole.
I hate him for probably exploiting his staff.
But most of all, I hate him because it takes only one glance for a hot wave of attraction to rise in my chest.
Fuck.