Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GRIFF
“You’re doing it wrong,” Harold declares.
“Oh my god, you have got to be kidding. How am I doing it wrong? It’s cheese and dip, Harold, and I’m putting it in a bag. There’s only one way to do it!”
“True, but you’re not doing that. Here, let me—”
“I swear to all the divas who lived before me, if you lay one finger on this bag, I’m going to cut it off and serve it with the cheese!”
I lean closer to Phil where we’re sitting on the couch, watching the show Calla and Harold are putting on in the kitchen. “Are they always like this?” I whisper.
He nods. “Mostly. Calla likes to get things done. Harold thinks everything should be done aesthetically. It’s fun to watch.”
“It really is. I’m glad we stayed here last night.
” My neighbor, Bettina, had a nasty fall earlier in the week (which makes me feel bad for being grumpy with her) and is banged up and feeling sorry for herself.
She pitifully requested Vivi sleep over with her and Oscar, her dog, last night, and while I really wanted to say no—I’ve never been separated from my baby before—I agreed. Vivi loves her, and it’s a good deed.
But then I was so antsy, pacing the kitchen and trying to get a look in Bettina’s windows to make sure Vivi was okay, that Phil insisted we come here and get some distance.
He was just as surprised as I was to find that Harold had already driven up from San Diego and was planning to crash on the couch, since apparently the guest room at their friends’ house is occupied.
“Even though Harold critiqued our ‘sexual performance soundtrack’ over breakfast?” Phil teases, and I shake my head.
That wasn’t something I was prepared for on a Saturday morning before I’d even called to check on Vivi.
For a split second, I’d wondered if Phil would get mad about me murdering his friend, but then my sense of humor kicked in and I laughed instead.
“Still can’t believe he knocked off a point for not being loud enough.
I mean, come on. We were trying to be quiet so they wouldn’t hear us.
” That’s so unfair. If I’d known I was being judged, I would have put some effort into being noisy.
After a tour with the Marines, I’m not shy about people hearing me come.
“And you failed,” Harold says cheerfully.
We look up, and he and Calla are coming toward us, the cheese-packing debacle resolved. From the way Calla has the tote slung over her shoulder, I’m guessing she won.
“Get up, or we’ll be late,” she orders. “It’s bad enough Harold slowed us down. Don’t add to the problem.”
I obey, since getting on the wrong side of my boyfriend’s best friend seems like a stupid thing to do, and hold out a hand to Phil. He takes it, lets me pull him up, and then hangs on to my hand.
I fucking love it.
“Lead the way, Cal,” he says, mock-saluting.
I make a mental note to show him how to salute properly. Not that it matters—it’s cute the way he does it.
Calla leads the way to the front door, muttering under her breath.
She’s been in a shitty mood since we arrived last night.
Phil said it was partly because she’s got some unresolved personal issues, partly because Harold showed up unannounced to crash on the couch, and mostly because those two things are connected.
I was too busy alternating between worry about Vivi and trying to get Phil’s pants off to give it much thought, but now I have some questions.
“Motherfucker! Who left this here?”
Questions that can wait until Calla’s not listening.
She snatches up the parcel that someone left right outside their door, shoves it into the tote with the cheese and stuff, and marches down the hall like she’s daring anyone to get in her way.
“So,” Harold says, “we should take two cars, right? I’ll ride with you guys.”
The guy who opens the door to us is one I recognize. “Hi,” he says with a friendly smile, holding out his hand. “I’m Jordan.”
I shake it, grateful I’m used to dealing with famous people and no longer get starstruck. “Griff Pevensy. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. I’ve—”
“Don’t the rest of us get a hello?” Harold asks. “I told Blaise he’d never manage to civilize a brute from the athletics department.” He’s smirking, and Jordan rolls his eyes, so it’s probably an old joke.
“Hello, person who spends too much time in my spare room.” He directs a warm smile to Phil and Calla. “And a special hello to the people who are going to design the suit I’ll wear for my Hall of Fame induction one day.”
“Hah!” someone shouts from inside the house. “You wish!”
“They’re all so mean,” Jordan tells me earnestly. “If you’re not okay with mean love, this might not be the right place for you.”
Phil gasps. “Excuse me. Can you at least wait until my boyfriend is inside the house before you try to scare him off?” He puts his hands on his hips indignantly.
I grin, loop an arm around his waist, and kiss his temple. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I was a Marine; mean love is child’s play for me.”
“Ooh,” Harold says, perking up. “Tell us more. Were you naked when you practiced mean love with other Marines?”
There’s nobody to blame for that but myself. I sigh. “You should meet my colleague, Adam.”
“Jordan,” an exasperated voice says, “what the hell are you all doing? We’re waiting, and Calla’s got the cheese.”
It’s becoming fast apparent that getting between these people and the cheeseboard would be a bad idea.
A tall, attractive, familiar-looking man appears behind Jordan and smiles at us. “Hi, Griff. I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve met before. I’m—”
“Blaise Warner. Yes, I remember. It’s good to see you again.” I’m so glad Phil and I have already talked about his friends some, or I’d be completely thrown right now, faced with a Major League Baseball player and an up-and-coming costume designer I nearly hit on once.
“Come on in. I promise we don’t normally make guests hang out on the doorstep.”
“We weren’t hanging out,” Jordan protests. “We were talking. There’s a difference.” He stands back, and we all troop inside.
There are more people waiting in the living room, and I recognize them all—Butch and Xera from Phil’s descriptions and Brad Polling from TV interviews and photos in sports media. Phil introduces me to everyone and then pulls me down to sit beside him on the couch.
“Sooooo,” Xera says, “Phil and Calla can’t tell us who they’re designing for, but I looked up a list of your clients. If I start naming names, can you confirm or deny which ones will be wearing Phallacy?”
I plaster a stern look on my face even though I want to smile. “No.”
She sighs. “What’s the point of knowing people in the industry if I can’t get gossip early?”
“Thanks, Xera,” Blaise says dryly, bringing out a tray of drinks. “It’s so nice to know you value us for our personalities.”
Butch chortles. “We don’t have personalities, just some stuff we like. Plus, free designer clothes and tickets to baseball games.”
Phil giggles, and this time, I can’t hold my smile back.
“That reminds me,” Xera says. “Is someone famous going to wear my jeans?” She stands and does a little twirl, finishing with her hip cocked. “As you can see, Griff, they’re clearly fabulous.”
That’s so obviously true that it doesn’t need an answer, and my first instinct is to grunt, but that wouldn’t make the best impression on Phil’s friends, so instead I say, “I knew that when I saw an unfinished pair.”
That gets me a chorused, “Aww,” from Xera, Butch, Harold, and Jordan.
“Tell us about yourself, Griff,” Polly says. He’s wearing a somewhat reserved expression, and I wonder if that’s about me specifically, or if he feels protective of Phil.
“I’m a fashion stylist,” I start, falling back on what they already know while I get my thoughts together.
“I’ve worked at Style Me for more than eight years now, ever since I moved to LA.
Before that I was a personal shopper and stylist at a department store in Portland, and before that, I was in the Marines.
I have one sister, who’s given me the world’s best nephew, and I live with a very special lady. ”
Polly’s brows shoot up, but before he can get all butthurt, Butch cuts in, “The cute dog? Phil’s in love with her already.”
I grin. He really is. She loves him too. If I was insecure, I’d feel better about having that kind of leverage against him dumping me. “Her name is Vivi. Vivienne Westwood Pevensy.”
“That’s the best name for a stylist’s dog,” Blaise proclaims as he comes back in with a platter of cheese and bread. “A fitting tribute.”
“Thanks. A lot of people don’t get it. I had someone ask me once if I’d named her after a relative.”
“Do you think it’s wise, professionally, to date Phil? You’ve already dragged him into the media.”
“Polly,” Jordan rebukes, but Phil cuts in before anyone can say anything else.
“He didn’t drag me anywhere, and if it’s professionally unwise, I’m guilty of making the exact same decision. Be nice, Polly.”
“Is Polly being a dick?” Calla asks, coming out of the kitchen with the dips and crackers. “I told you to behave.” She sets the tray on the coffee table, then smacks him upside the head.
“I am—ow! Quit it, Calla! Okay, okay… no more questions.” He rubs his earlobe where she pinched it, and she kisses his cheek.
I love the dynamic here—no wonder Phil has the same friend group he had at college.
“I don’t mind the questions,” I volunteer, surprising myself. “I’ve got nothing to hide. But I’m planning to be around for a long time, so you’ll find out everything eventually anyway.”
That gets me another chorus of “Aww,” and Phil leans over for a kiss, his face beautifully pink. When he pulls back, he takes my hand and holds on to it.
“Okay, now that we’re done with the inquisition”—Blaise winks at Phil—“does anyone else have anything to share?”
“I quit my job.”
Dead silence falls as all heads swivel toward Harold, who’s spreading brie on a chunk of bread like he just mentioned checking his mail.
“Ex-fucking-scuse me?” Butch demands. “When?”
Harold shrugs. “Yesterday. The boss was not happy, which is why I left early and came up then instead of this morning. He should cool off by Monday, though. I said I’d work out my notice until the end of the year.”
Phil and Calla are engaged in some sort of silent communication that involves making faces and moving their eyes, but the others are still focused on Harold.
“Have you got something else lined up? You never mentioned that you were looking,” Xera accuses.
“Does this mean you’re moving to LA? The guest room is yours,” Blaise adds.
Polly makes a wordless sound of protest. “I’m literally staying in it right now!”
“You’re leaving Tuesday,” Jordan points out, “and even if you do come back for a visit between now and Spring Training, you can crash with Calla or, I don’t know, pay for a hotel with part of your million-dollar salary. Can we get back to the part where Harold was telling us about his new job?”
“Don’t have one.” Seemingly unconcerned, Harold takes a bite of his snack.
Calla’s eyes narrow. “I think we need the whole story.”