Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PHIL
If I hadn’t been a fan of Quixotic before, I would be now after meeting Daria.
Dorian seems nice too. But even though I have two genuine rockstars right here in our workroom being enthusiastic about my work, part of me really wishes they’d all just disappear so I can have some alone time with Griff.
I’d forgotten how big he is, and even though last time we met his size was a little intimidating, this time I just want to climb him like a tree.
My face gets hot at the thought, and I’m grateful I’ve turned away to get the lookbook Calla and I put together.
Daria is seated comfortably on the sofa against the wall with Dorian perched on the arm beside her while he sips his coffee, and I sit on her other side. Griff immediately takes the spot beside me.
“Do you mind?” he asks Calla, who waves him off with a smile that’s verging on delighted. She better not embarrass me by saying something she shouldn’t.
“Of course not. You need to be able to see.”
I let out a tiny exhale of relief but immediately regret it when she winks at me. I guess it’s a good thing that she’s got something to focus on other than fangirling over Daria.
Flipping open the book, I say, “This—”
“Oh my goddddddd,” Daria exclaims. “Those are so fucking hot!”
Well. That’s a good sign.
“Griffin, I adore you,” she continues, taking the book from me and turning to the next page. “You brought Phil into my life.”
I glance sideways at Griff.
“Daria likes to share her enthusiasm,” he says, deadpan… though there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“In other words, she’s got no fucking filter,” Dorian supplies. He’s leaning down to look over his sister’s shoulder. “That pair would look good with your suede boots.”
I glance down at the page and wonder if she’d be willing to show me the boots in question.
Griff leans in close to me, probably so he can see the photo, and the front of his arm presses against the side of mine, the warm pressure sending a wave of adrenaline through me.
I barely have time to process that before his cologne enfolds me—Thé Matcha 26.
Desire is a heady rush, but with it comes—
Pushing lightly on Griff’s shoulder, I catch Calla’s eye, and the second Griff sits back, I’m on my feet and crossing the room. This doesn’t happen often, and I definitely didn’t expect it to happen in the middle of a workday in a room full of people. I guess Griff’s just that sexy.
Calla takes my seat and, as though it’s totally normal for the designer to race away like he’s being chased, says, “If you have particular pieces you want us to work with, just send over some photos. We can find fabrics and embellishments that suit.”
Daria, after shooting a single concerned glance my way, takes the cue and replies, “I can take a picture of the boots, but most of my photos are blurry or have a finger over the lens. Griff might have one, though.”
There’s a beat of silence as she looks expectantly toward him, but Griff’s not paying attention. His focus—and his worried gaze—is on me.
I smile reassuringly at him. My anxiety isn’t bad.
Yeah, I could feel the tight-brain sensation I get when I’m about to become nonverbal, and yeah, I don’t think I could speak right now…
but not because I’m anxious. Well, not exactly.
I guess sexual desire is a type of anxiety, in the sense that the physiological response is similar… ish.
This doesn’t happen every time I’m turned on—not even close—but it has happened before.
Going nonverbal during sex and having my partner think I was in the middle of a panic attack was even worse than going nonverbal in class and having the professor think I was faking.
It’s never happened just from smelling a man’s cologne and having his arm touch me, though I guess that’s a pretty big indication of how attracted to Griff I am.
The benefit of this bout of mutism being caused by being turned on is that desire is easier to tamp down than anxiety.
Putting just that little bit of distance between me and Griff and thinking about non-sexy things—like how embarrassing it would be if anyone guessed what caused this—already have my hormones settling.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to speak again soon.
It’s not easy to communicate that to Griff, though, and unlike Calla, he doesn’t know me well enough to judge between the times when I need someone to run interference—like now—and the times when I need active “get me out of here” support.
So I just keep smiling, and after a moment he turns back to Daria.
“Boots?”
“The suede ones,” she prompts. “You’ve got a photo of them, right?”
He nods, then looks at the pictures of the jeans she wants to match with them. “Those would look great together. Could we do them in dark denim?” he asks Calla. “With the embroidery in a metallic?”
“Metallic?” Daria asks. “Yes, please.”
Calla chuckles. “That’s an easy one. Our embroiderer has a whole box of stunning metallic threads. Let me show you some of the darker denims Phil’s used for this style before.”
She flips forward in the book, and I concentrate on breathing steadily and thinking unsexy thoughts so I can rejoin the conversation sooner rather than later.
I’ve used two different dark blue denims and one black one, but I’m not sure they’d all pass the touch test for Daria, based on her fabric choices earlier.
Calla can always find a different denim, but I don’t want Daria to fall in love with something that won’t work for her.
By the time I’m back to my status quo and feel like I could speak, Calla’s taking notes for three potential pairs of jeans. I step out into the showroom to ask Deeanne to grab some denim swatches for me, then rejoin the group.
“I like this ripped version with the big pockets,” Griff is saying. “How would you feel about wearing something like that onstage?”
I hold in my squeak. Daria Keys is going to wear jeans I designed while she plays a show in a sold-out stadium?
“I’d want to try them on first,” Daria says honestly, “but I love how they look.”
That’s my cue. “We’ll make up a toile for you to try on,” I assure her, gratified when my voice sounds normal. “That will also give us the perfect pattern to use specifically for you. But I want to show you something.” I gesture toward the book. “May I?”
She hands it over. “Go nuts.”
It only takes me a few seconds to find the photo I’m looking for. It’s of a pair of jeans I made Xera years ago when she wanted to try something slouchier and looser than her usual. In the end, she decided she preferred a closer, more structured fit, but I think Daria—
“Yes. Give me twenty.”
—will like them. I bite my lip to keep from laughing and glance at Griff.
He studies the photo intently and then nods slowly. “This would probably work better for you onstage too. More air flow.” He looks up at me. “I still want the other fit, too, though. Could you do toiles for both?”
“Yes, of course. And I have some denim I want”—Deeanna walks in as I speak, and I hold out my hand to take the swatches—“Daria to give feedback on. Thank you, Dee.”
She steals a glance at Dorian, blushes to the roots of her hair, and mumbles something as she scurries out. That’s new—she’s usually very calm around our celebrity clients. Calla and I exchange a glance, and then she stands.
“Excuse me while I just check on something,” she says smoothly.
Dee’s been great, but she is relatively new to us, and while we’re still in our growth phase, intern salary is lower than we’d like—barely above minimum wage.
Sure, that’s higher in California than in a lot of other places, but it’s not enough that the potential for a tabloid payout wouldn’t be tempting.
I sit in the spot Calla vacated and offer Daria the pieces of denim. “See how these feel.”
She approves the first two but barely touches the third before she’s yanking her hand back. “Not that one.”
I tuck it into my pocket so there’s no chance of it getting mixed up with the others. “No problem,” I assure her. “What about the rest?”
By the time she’s given the remaining swatches the all clear, Calla’s back. “I was thinking, why don’t I take Daria to the storeroom? I have a few other ideas for fabrics that I didn’t think to bring out before.”
What? Before I can work out how to subtly ask her what’s going on, Daria chimes in, “Oooh, yeah. It’d be good if you had preapproved backup options, right?” She stands. “Come on, Dorian.”
Dorian looks bewildered but obediently follows them out.
I blink at their backs as they disappear through the door. Is Calla… If she’s trying to get me alone time with Griff, I’ll…
Seize the opportunity.
Twisting to face him, I smile ruefully and murmur, “Hi.”
His eyes search my face. “Hi. Are… I mean…”
“I’m okay,” I assure him. Heat climbs into my cheeks. “It was just… uh… It doesn’t usually happen that way.” How the fuck do I explain without admitting I want to climb into his lap and ride him until we’re both covered in sweat and cum?
“Did I do something to make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry if I did.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t.” Not unless existing in my space counts.
“I’d rather not talk about it.” The words might seem abrupt, but talking about it is making my anxiety churn, and I’d rather not let it get to the point when I won’t be able to talk at all.
I take a couple of measured, calming breaths, then ask, “Got any exciting plans for tonight?”
He still seems a little wary, like he thinks he’s done something wrong and doesn’t want to repeat it, but thankfully, he goes along with my change of subject. “Not unless you count watching TV with Vivi exciting. I was out with friends last night, and she was still sulking about it this morning.”
I grin. “Aww. Hopefully being home tonight will make her forgive you.”
“That’s the dream.” He hesitates. “Would… Do you want to meet her?”
Is he asking me to his place? My heartbeat picks up. “Meet the dog named after a design icon? Absolutely.”
A smile lights his face. “You could come over, if you want? Dinner won’t be anything fancy, just stir-fry, but I’m a decent cook. And Vivi would love the company.” He stops abruptly, then adds, “If you want. Don’t feel like you have to.”
Is he nervous? Happy butterflies burst into flight in my chest. If he really is into me, like my friends think, then it makes sense he might be nervous about asking me to go to his place for dinner. After all, this could be our first date.
Orrrrrr he could just be asking a friend to hang out. Until I’m sure either way, I need to play it chill.
If I’m even capable of that.
“I’d really like to,” I assure him and am gratified by the way his face lights up. “Can I bring anything?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Oh… I should probably tell you, there won’t be meat with dinner. I’m a vegetarian. So if that’s a problem—”
I wave him off. “Why would it be a problem? Who even eats meat for every meal?” There have been whole weeks I’ve eaten vegetarian without intending to, just because the food choices I made happened to not have meat in them.
Do I still love bacon? Always. Do I require meat as part of every dish?
Nope. “But I can’t not bring anything. What if I get dessert? Are you just vegetarian, or vegan?”
“Vegetarian,” he says. “Okay. This is great. I’ll, uh, text you the address. Is seven good for you?”
My smile feels like it’s taken over my face. “Perfect.”