Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PHIL
I toss my phone aside and flop back on the couch to stare at the ceiling.
My mouth wants to smile—is smiling—but my brain is being its usual buzzkill self.
Griff might be convinced that Daria will like the jeans, and yeah, he’s right that showing them to her is the only way to know for sure, which is why I’ll get Calla to set it up, but the anxious part of me is convinced he’s wrong.
So I’m going to think about something else.
That’s the only trick I’ve got to lessen the physical impact of anxiety: distract myself.
Don’t let my brain focus on the thing that’s making me anxious.
Instead, I’ll focus on how much Xera is going to love these jeans, on how much fun I’ve been having chatting with Griff, on how damn good it felt to actually talk to him tonight.
To hear that voice in my ear, to laugh at what he said, to feel like I’ve made a friend…
and to feel that tingle inside as I wonder if maybe we could be more than friends.
I mentally replay parts of our conversation.
I was flirting—probably badly, since I don’t get that much practice—and I think he was too.
Like when he said he’d make sure to switch to his second language more often, and his voice got just a little growly…
. The memory of it makes me shiver, and my cock goes half hard.
What would it be like to have him make that sound in my ear?
While he was touching me? Or while I was touching him?
Breathing slightly unsteady, I spit into my palm, close my eyes, and slide my hand into my sweatpants.
This is probably a breach of friendship etiquette, but just this one time, I’m going to be reckless.
I close my hand around my dick, and I hear that growly sound again, and I pretend it’s Griff’s hand wrapped around me, squeezing just enough to feel good.
To make me fully hard. His hand that slides up the length and works the head, making me gasp.
Behind my closed lids, I imagine him leaning over me, his face intense as he murmurs all the hot, dirty things he plans to do to me, busily jerking me the whole time.
He bends his head and lays a trail of kisses down my neck, pausing to scrape his teeth over my collarbone, and a moan bursts from my throat.
“Yeah,” he says, gravel in his voice. “Give me those sounds. Louder.”
The next moan takes me by surprise, and imaginary Griff chuckles. “Love that I do this to you,” he says roughly. “Love watching you all twisted up because of me.”
My balls are tight, breath catching in my chest, and he says, “Come for me.”
When I finally open my eyes, still feeling a little shaky, and wipe my hand on my pants, I know two things for sure.
I need to go clean up before Calla gets back.
And I definitely want more than friendship with Griff Pevensy. I want him. All of him.
But… does he want me too? Or am I deluding myself?
“This is a side of you I haven’t seen in a while,” Butch observes three days later, slouching on the sofa with her feet on the coffee table. “I’m not sure what to think of it.”
“He’s been like this all week,” Calla tells her. “It’s disturbing. Especially since there are details missing from his story.”
I stop pacing to give them both the full benefit of a glare, but it doesn’t have the desired impact, since neither of them are looking at me right now.
Instead, they’re both focused on the wine Calla’s pouring.
I can’t snap at them, because today’s been completely nonverbal.
My anxiety was bad enough that I holed up in my office with the door locked and my noise-cancelling headphones on to block out all traces of the outside world.
It’s a little better now, but not as much as I hoped.
That’s what prompted this unplanned visit to Butch and Xera’s place—Calla thought it might help my anxiety to address the source, since quiet alone time didn’t help.
Of course, she thinks I’m anxious about Daria’s visit to the workroom in two days.
Which I am, but that’s not all of it. I don’t know why I haven’t told her the rest. Maybe because I don’t want her to think I’m that pathetic guy who gets a crush on someone he’s met once, talked to once, and texted a few times (okay, every day for the past week).
There’s also a tiny part of me that worries she might think Griff’s out of my league.
I don’t see myself as a troll or anything, but I’m not…
that smart, if I believe my best friend would consider anyone too good for me.
Sometimes low self-esteem drowns out intelligence. I’m just lucky I didn’t accidentally tell Calla what I was thinking.
“What do you mean, details missing?” Butch demands. “You said you needed pictures of Xera’s jeans to show a prospective client because Phil was freaked out about the sketches not being enough. What other details are there?”
If I could talk right now, this is when I’d change the subject. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do but stand—
Oh, wait.
I grab a couple of throw pillows from the armchair beside me and toss them at their heads. They both see them coming and duck, but it serves the purpose of distracting them.
“What the hell, Phil?” Calla throws it back at me. “Rude.”
“I nearly spilled my wine,” Butch chimes in. “How would you feel if I’d gotten red wine on my clothes, huh?”
All three of us look at what she’s wearing—paint-splattered sweatpants and an equally paint-splattered ancient tee with the sleeves ripped out. I pull out my phone and text her.
The clothes and I would be happy if red wine ended their miserable existence.
She reads the message, hides a grin, and pretends to be offended. “I’ll have you know these look just like a very expensive designer outfit—”
“Girl, no,” Calla cuts in. “I love you, but trust me on this.”
They’re both still laughing when Xera comes in, her arms full of jeans. “I think this is all of them.” She dumps them on the armchair. “What are we laughing about?”
“Butch’s clothes.” Calla gets up and comes to help me sort through the jeans.
Xera eyes her wife. “Clothes? You mean trash that hasn’t been thrown out yet.”
“Ouch.” Butch sniffs. “Just for that, you get no wine.”
“Hand it over, Belinda, or I’ll call my mom and tell her you want her to take over as your manager.”
I’ve never seen Butch move as fast as she does pouring Xera a glass of wine. Note to self: The combination of real name and mother-in-law threats is a great motivator.
“Bad day?” Calla asks, and Xera shrugs.
“Nothing wine, pizza, good company, and the story behind this visit can’t fix.”
Dammit. So much for my distraction.
Calla holds up a pair of jeans, studying the artful paint spatter—deliberately done by me, not a hazard of Butch’s job—and says, “It’s pretty much what I told Butch on the phone.
We have this new client who’s coming in for a fitting, and her stylist asked Phil to put together a lookbook of jeans for her to go through as well. ”
Butch frowns. “You’ve got a couple of pairs in the latest collection, right? And since when do you and Phil not take pictures of everything he makes, even if it doesn’t go into a collection?”
“We’ve got pictures of all Xera’s jeans,” Calla confirms. “But Phil’s still anxious about this visit, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to get more.”
“Want me to put them on?” Xera asks, and I hug her.
She’s my new favorite. “Aw. Love you, too, Phil.” She pats my back with one hand and sips her wine over my shoulder.
Then she steps out of my arms, hands me her glass, and strips off her lounge pants.
“So you’re going to add my signature jeans to one of your collections?
” She grabs the pair on top of the pile and steps into them as Butch flips on all the overhead lights and tries to decide where the best spot for photos would be.
I shake my head, but Calla answers for us both. “No, these would be a one-off. The stylist requested it when he saw… Huh. Phil. Darling Phil. Honey, baby, sweetie.”
“Uh-oh,” Butch murmurs, and I take a prudent step away from my bestie, holding the wineglass in front of me like a shield.
Her eyes narrow. “How exactly did Griff see the pair of jeans you’re making for Xera?”
Xera looks up. “You’re making me another pair? I love you!”
I glare at Calla. Way to ruin the surprise. She glares back, completely unremorseful.
“Not the important part, babe,” Butch points out.
Xera nods, then rounds on me with an exaggerated smile.
“I love you, Phil, but I’ve had a terrible, terrible day, and the only thing that will make it better is if you tell me how Griff saw the jeans you’re apparently making for me because you love me too.
And also, who’s Griff?” She takes her wine from me and gestures toward the phone in my other hand. “I’m waiting.”
It would be so, so easy to hate my friends. They’re all looking at me expectantly—Calla with a decent amount of glare still—so I give in and start typing.
It’s nothing. He texted me a picture of his dog, and we started chatting. I was working on the jeans but they weren’t right, so I asked his opinion. He IS a stylist. He said his client would like them and asked to see more. That’s it.
It’s not it at all, but—
“Bullshit,” Butch declares, looking up from the phone she and Calla were bent over. “Aside from the fact that ‘we started chatting’ is doing some heavy lifting there, people don’t just randomly text dog pics to people they’re not friends with.”
“Yeah,” Calla agrees. “I know you’d texted him a couple times about the gown and that his dog came up then, but that’s not, like, a reason for him to send you a photo every time his dog does something cute. You’re colleagues, not friends… right?” Her brow slowly rises.
“Griff’s a stylist you’re working with?” Xera asks. “I know you can’t tell me who the client is, but what can you tell me about him? Is he hot? Queer? Taken or single?”