Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
PHIL
I stare at the picture Griff sent me and wonder if I’m reading too much into it. What does it mean when a man sends you a photo of his dog kissing his face? Is it supposed to make me want to drop to my knees and suck his brain out through his dick? Because that’s what’s happening.
But most likely, he’s just sending a cute pic because he knows I think his dog is sweet and we talked about her last week.
This totally fits with my semi-pathetic need to make friends, so instead of thinking about how that bare shoulder probably means he wasn’t wearing a shirt when he took the selfie, or about how incredibly sexy it is to see a man who’s not afraid of pink and/or sparkles, I send back a gushy message about how adorable Vivi is.
And then, because stupid impulses seem to be my thing lately, I follow it up with
Looks like Daddy loves getting kisses!
Ugh. I spend a split second debating whether to unsend it, but then I’d need to send something else so it wouldn’t look suspicious, and I honestly don’t trust myself to think of a safe message right now.
So instead, I decide that if Griff interprets it as anything other than perfectly innocent, that’s on him, and I put my phone down. I should be working anyway. The McLaren matriarch is coming in for a fitting this afternoon, and I want to get a bunch of stuff done before then.
“Knock knock,” Kyle says from my open doorway. “Mail call.”
“Really?” I wave him in, surprised. We hardly get any paper mail in this age of email and secure electronic document transfer, and most of it goes to Calla.
“Shockingly, yes. I brought it myself because I want to know what it is,” he says with a chuckle, handing me an envelope.
It’s plain white, the kind a birthday card might come in, and from the feel of it, I think there might be a card inside. It’s not my birthday, though, and nobody I know would send me a card in the mail.
My name and Phallacy’s address are written on the front in neat cursive, but when I flip it over, there’s no return address to give me a hint who the sender might be. Shrugging, I rip it open.
It is a card, but not a birthday one. Instead, it says CONGRATULATIONS in bold letters, with a bunch of illustrated balloons underneath.
“Did you win a prize nobody told me about?” Kyle asks.
I shake my head, mystified, and flip the card open. The same neat handwriting is inside.
Dear Phil,
I’ve been looking further into your work and discovered that you’ve had several big achievements in a short space of time. Well done! Red-carpet fashion can be very subjective, so it’s a good place for your designs.
Even if you never achieve anything more, you’ll have those memories to hold on to.
Best wishes from a new fan,
Mary
“What the heck?” Kyle asks. “That’s… It doesn’t seem like a compliment. That’s some extra-special shade.”
It only takes a minute for my memory to click, and I chuckle. “Oh, I know who this is from… kind of. She sent me an email last week to say she’d just discovered me, and even though I’m not her usual style, she thinks my designs are ‘pretty.’ It was the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
Our amazing receptionist shakes his head. “And now she felt the need to send a card to say what basically amounts to ‘good job trying’? People are so strange.”
I shrug. “Some people don’t realize their input isn’t always needed. It’s like when someone asks for a stir-fry recipe on social media and gets a bunch of comments that say, ‘I don’t eat stir-fry.’”
Kyle’s snort-laugh is a thing of beauty. “So you think this woman is the real-life equivalent of an inability to keep scrolling?”
“Pretty much. I probably shouldn’t have replied with a thank-you to her email. Now she feels like we have a connection.” I move to toss the card in the trash, but Kyle snags it from my hand.
“I’m keeping this. It’s a reminder of the arrogance of humanity. And it made me laugh.”
Chuckling, I wave him off. “Whatever you want.”
Once he’s gone, I give in to temptation and grab my phone again. Griff’s replied, and I open the message with trepidation, hoping I won’t need to apologize again.
haha yeah, I do. That kind of partly conditional love is nice.
Relief floods me—he didn’t take my message the wrong way. Then his words sink in.
*Partly* conditional? Aren’t dogs supposed to love unconditionally?
Whoever said that never met Vivi.
Just kidding. Aside from one or two things she gets mad about, the rest of the time she adores me.
Grinning, I lean back in my chair and think about my response. I’m not completely sure, since I’m so bad at it, but I think Griff might be flirting with me? Not in a “let’s find a dark corner and fuck” way, though. More like friendly flirting.
Either way, it’s fun.
I’m still in an incredibly good mood when Pamela McLaren sweeps into the fitting room several hours later, a wryly smiling Calla in her wake.
“There you are, Phil,” Pamela declares in her quietly authoritative way.
I’m not sure where else she expected me to be, but I just smile and move forward to exchange air-kisses, which I learned the hard way she prefers over a handshake.
“Hello, Pamela. It’s good to see you.” The words come easily, which is a relief but not a surprise. Pamela might know what she wants and expect to get it, but she’s not aggressive or stressful. It helps a lot that she’s been very clear about how much she likes my work.
“And you, darling. I know today is only the toile, but I’ve still been looking forward to it.”
“We have your fabric here too,” I tell her. “You’re going to love it—Calla worked miracles to get it.”
Pamela raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and I marvel again at the talent of whoever does her Botox.
There aren’t any lines where there should be lines on a person her age, but she still has great mobility in her features.
When I finish this dress for her, I’m asking for a card, just in case.
“It doesn’t surprise me that Calla is capable of miracles. I see a lot of myself in her.”
She turns and heads for the private dressing area, and Calla pretends to swoon. She’s grinning, though.
Thirty minutes later, Heidi, our head seamstress, sits back on her heels. “That’s better.”
I study the hemline again and nod. “Yes, I like that length a lot more on you, Pamela.”
The McLaren matriarch gazes into the mirror with a critical eye, turning slightly to see how the dress moves. She’s an old hand at this, and it shows.
Finally, she smiles. “Yes, this is excellent. It’s very romantic, but still age appropriate.” My thoughts must show on my face, because she chuckles. “Ah, you’re one of those people who doesn’t believe age should restrict clothing choices.”
“I want you to feel beautiful, whatever you wear,” I reply, aiming for diplomacy.
“But yes,” Calla adds, surprising me with her bluntness. We usually try to be circumspect around clients. “He is.”
Pamela smiles and looks at the mirror again. “I am, too, most of the time. But not everyone agrees, and I don’t want to give anyone attending my daughter’s wedding too much gossip fodder. They need to talk about how stunning my dress is, not that I look like mutton dressed as lamb.”
Heidi coughs to cover a laugh and gets to her feet, picking up the container of pins she’s been using. “Nobody could ever truthfully say that.”
“I like you,” Pamela tells her, then turns to Calla. “Do you make a habit of only hiring intelligent people?”
“Company policy,” my partner replies placidly. “Phil and I need to be surrounded by people we can actually talk to. It’s a moral failing.”
That makes us all laugh, and then Calla goes to get the fabric we’ll be using. When she comes back, a fold of the rich, gorgeous silk hanging loose from the bolt, Pamela’s face changes to smugly satisfied.
“Oh, yes.”
We’ve shown her several swatches of similar fabric, but this is the first time she’s seen our final choice—she’s one of those delightful couture clients who left it in our hands.
She does get final approval, which is why we have some backup options, but I knew we wouldn’t need them. Pamela’s got excellent taste.
Calla and I unfurl a few yards of the silk, and with Heidi’s help, we drape it over Pamela’s shoulder to mimic how it will fall when the dress has been constructed.
The deep rose-pink brings out the warmth in her skin tone, but the brightness of the oversize aquamarine floral print keeps it from being staid.
I fold a few inches into pleats so she can see how the bodice will sit.
“Have you chosen your jewelry yet? The neckline gives you plenty of space for most pieces, but if you have something that will need it to be deeper, we can try.” I’m hesitant to make promises about that—I could lower it maybe another half inch, but more than that would change the fit of the bodice.
If she wants to show cleavage—which she said she didn’t—I’d rather redesign than alter.
Thankfully, she shakes her head. “No, this is perfect. I was planning on diamonds, but now… Roger’s grandmother had a lovely pearl-and-aquamarine parure.
I’ve never worn any of the pieces, but this dress seems to have been made for it.
” She purses her lips. “I’d like another opinion on that.
May I send you photos so you can tell me what you think? ”
“Of course,” Calla and I say at the same time.
“But pearls sound perfect,” I add. “They almost always look good with this romantic kind of style.”
She studies herself for a moment longer, that same satisfied look on her face, and the thrill of success curls in my stomach.
This is going to lead to good things.
I’m still riding high on the wave of achievement later that evening as I sit on the living room floor, painstakingly arranging sequined appliques on the jeans I’m giving Xera for Christmas.
She might be a suit-wearing corporate baddie by day, but she still loves to bling things up when she’s not working.
Calla’s got a date with someone she wouldn’t tell me about, so it’s just me, the jeans, and the fashion disasters on TV.
“Whyyyyyy,” I whine, staring at the screen in appalled shock. Desperate for someone to commiserate with, I impulsively grab my phone and text Griff.
Why would anyone put fringe on a sheepskin jacket?
It only takes seconds for him to reply.
CRIMINAL. I want to gouge out my eyes after seeing that.
At least I don’t need to explain.
I guess we have the same taste in TV hahaha. But yeah, it’s so awful. OMG what is that?!
Vomit yellow and fuchsia should never be paired together.
My eyeeeesssss.
We keep that up for a few minutes, trading opinions—both good and bad—until something catches my eye.
See the sleeve flounces on that green top? I don’t hate that, but I would have done it different.
How?
I stare at my phone, bite my lip, then reply
It’d take too long to type it out. Can I call you?
I wait on tenterhooks for him to answer.
Sure
Butterflies fill my stomach. What if I call him and then can’t speak? I don’t think I can handle the humiliation.
Griff would understand, though. I know he would. And I’m feeling good right now—nervous, sure, but not in the way I usually am when I can’t talk.
Fuck it. I hit Call.
It barely rings before he answers. “Hello?”
My face relaxes into a smile. His voice is so much better than I remembered.
“Hi.”