Chapter 18
Backstage is awash with bright lights, rows of clothing racks and makeup stations now empty as all models stand in a queue, ready to step onto the runway. There’s quiet murmuring amongst the models as the news of no-shows circulates in the line extending from the dressing rooms. Pollux and I immediately get to work, with no time for introductions and formalities as we dive into our tasks and start working to fit our last-minute models in their clothes.
“I’ll handle Romeo, Mateo and August,” Pollux instructs. “You fit Henry and Valentina.”
I nod walking over to the clothing rack where the remainder of the garments are neatly hung.
“Who’s closing?”
The estuary accent belonging to Henry Atkinson travels across the room and my gaze falls on the model card detailing the measurements.
“Valentina,” Pollux answers.
I turn towards the eldest daughter of the iconic shoe designer. She’s currently sat on one of the chairs, getting her makeup done.
“Is that okay?” I ask, willing myself not to look as starstruck as I feel in her presence.
She gives me a smile, wide and dazzling, and I feel my face flushing. “Of course.”
“A woman closing a man’s show,” Henry chuckles before beginning to nonchalantly strip in front of everyone. “So progressive of Holmes.”
The shirtless presence of London’s It Boy would have had me blushing if it was in any other setting but I’m immediately in designer mode as I pick up the original model’s outfit card in front of me.
“Come here often?” Henry attempts for an icebreaker.
“First time, actually,” I reply, humouring him.
He grins, face breaking out into his signature smile.
Standing at 6ft1, Henry is tall and a little on the bulkier side than the slim physiques on the runway. I concentrate on pinning the garments down securely to his body, ensuring that the fabric drapes similarly to the original outfit as possible.
“You’re a quiet one.” Henry is watching me inquisitively. “And rather gentle.”
“Oh,” I laugh nervously. “This is my first time fitting models.”
Though I’m more than a little nervous, I’m surprised at how steady my hands are as I continue to safely pin the denim-washed wide-leg trousers in place.
“Intern?” He asks and I respond with a small nod. “Glad to be your first.”
I smile up at him before grabbing the shirt and blazer from the hangers.
“The name’s Hen,” He winks as I stand in front of him. “Henry Atkinson.”
“Hallie,” I play along. “Mahalia Hartt.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” He grins. “An absolute pleasure to be manhandled by you.”
Across the room, someone is hollering and I glance up to find the younger-looking Conti snickering at the model.
“Keep it in your pants, Hen, you dog.”
“Ignore Teo.” Henry shakes his head. “I don’t bite, I promise.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” I respond without thinking.
He pauses before flashing a grin and tapering off to a bashful chuckle.
“Wine and dine me first!” He exclaims. “Women these days, I swear.”
Henry makes a show to act demure, covering himself dramatically and I couldn’t help but laugh at his antics.
“Stay still!” I reprimand him lightly.
Working on fitting the upper part of the outfit, I adjust the fabric of the cropped blazer around him.
Henry reminded me a little bit of Hero, the same boisterous attitude sending me into a more relaxed state. But whereas Hero would rather drink bleach than attempt to flirt with me, Henry continues to throw lighthearted compliments my way. His easygoing attitude makes it near impossible for me to feel uncomfortable and I find myself oddly flattered by the attention.
“Okay, all done.”
Tugging on the wide-leg trousers and the cropped blazer to ensure they’re properly pinned, I give Henry a thumbs up.
“Thank you, gentle goddess.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, clearly enjoying his theatrics. “Yours are the most tender hands I’ve ever had the pleasure of manhandling me.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re welcome.”
Stepping to the side, I gesture for him to join the queue of models backstage but Henry pulls back, turning towards me.
“Can I actually take you out for dinner?” He clears his throat.
The sudden seriousness in his tone paired with the hopeful look on his face catches me off guard and I feel my cheeks heat up at his forwardness.
“Oh, I—”
“Stop harassing my intern, Atkinson.” August’s voice rings across the room where he’s having his makeup done.
Henry raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Your intern, huh?”
Sensing August’s gaze, I steal a glance in his direction. Our eyes meet and, for a fleeting moment, he relaxes. His expression softens as he nods towards me in silent acknowledgement.
I nod back, managing a small smile.
“Yes, my intern.” He asserts, his tone unwavering.
“My bad, Vante.” Henry chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realise you were this territorial.”
With a wink, Henry joins the lineup of models. From the corner of my eye, I notice August narrowing his eyes, his gaze fixed intently on Henry.
“I sincerely hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, should you take Atkinson up on his offer.”
“Mate, don’t sabotage me!” Henry calls out.
August doesn’t acknowledge Henry as he stands in front of me.
“Valentina’s closing,” He says. “Not that I don’t think you’ll do a good job but, best if Pollux handles the adjustments?”
I nod, agreeing with his suggestion. I’m already anxious enough and the final outfit is more elaborately constructed than the rest. I’m more than happy to let Pollux take over the final fit of the show. Noting the outfit combination for August, I retrieve the garments from the rack, grabbing the pins and the measuring tape.
August undressing shouldn’t make me nervous but I find my heart rate picking up as he slowly removes his blazer and begins unbuttoning his shirt.
Trying to appear nonchalant, I focus on the fit and the details of the garment. Stealing a glance at August, I feel my cheeks flush at his deliberately slow pace of undress.
Professionalism, Hallie. I mentally scold myself. Stop ogling your boss, Mahalia Hartt.
August pauses midway from unbuckling his belt and looks up at me questioningly.
My eyes widen in realisation.
Did I just-?
The puzzled yet amused expression on his face confirms that I did indeed let that thought slip out of my mouth.
Mortified, I quickly avert my gaze.
“Do you know your measurements?” I stammer, attempting to regain my composure.
August is completely unfazed as he stands in front of me in nothing but his boxers.
Ever the professional.
“It’s been a while since I did a fitting,” He answers.
“That’s fine.” I work quickly with the tape, mindful of the ticking clock as I begin measuring him.
Chest, waist, hips, inseam. It feels oddly intimate, as though I shouldn’t have such knowledge of my pseudo-boss in this way but I rid of the thoughts quickly as I focus.
Towering at 6ft2, August is lean and sculpted in all the right places. Broad shoulders, toned arms, well-defined six-pack. He stands still, eyes fixed on my hands as they work around the waistband of his boxers.
I keep my gaze focused and avoid eye contact, which isn’t difficult considering August’s tall height. Glancing up quickly, I measure the circumference of his abdomen, making sure not to stare at the sight of his chiselled torso.
He remains silent, his expression neutral.
Of course, it wouldn’t affect him. He’s a professional, he’s used to this.
I double-check the photo of the fitting reference of the look on the original model before grabbing the correct runway garments on the clothing rack.
Masking an air of indifference, I kneel in front of him as he tries on the cargo trousers— long, well-defined legs disappearing inside the cotton-twill bottoms. My hands brush against the smooth expanse of his lower back to make sure the waistband is sitting in place when I feel him suddenly tense up.
He bucks forward unexpectedly and I let out a quiet squeak, feeling myself further flustering at his response. The movement causes me to lose balance and I shift forward, accidentally palming his crotch.
My eyes widen, looking up at him in mortification.
“S-sorry!”
August winces, eyebrows knotting as he shuffles backwards slightly.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”
“It’s fine,” He swallows thickly.
A warmth creeps up my neck as he looks away and the temperature in the room suddenly feels a lot warmer. I try not to dwell on how compromising our current positions look, refusing to look anywhere and at anyone else but August.
The cargo trousers hang slightly loose around his hips and I reach for the pins.
“I need to secure the back in place.” I stutter.
Rushing to get his fitting done as soon as possible, my index finger nicks on the safety pin and I wince at both the pressure of the prick and my skin being trapped on the fastener.
“Ow,” I hiss quietly.
Out of habit, I instantly bring my finger to my lips, sucking on the wound as it draws blood.
“Are you okay?”
August promptly crouches down to my level in concern, the scent of his cologne, rich sandalwood with aromatic bergamot surrounding me.
Finger still in between my lips, his gaze drops down to my mouth and something flickers in his grey eyes. Releasing my finger, I bite my lip subconsciously as August reaches for my wrist.
Gently, he brings my left hand forward to inspect my finger. Though the bleeding stopped, a faint laceration marks my fingertip and I inwardly curse at my carelessness.
For a moment, he looks like he’s going to press his lips to it, mouth hovering so close to my knuckles I can feel the slightest exhale of his breath.
August pauses, eyes squinting slightly before his thumb grazes the slightly puckered skin extending from my palm to the back of my hand. I hold my breath as he raises my arm to closely inspect a different injury and I almost forget where we are until the loud boom of music playing startles me to attention.
The show is about to start.
I quickly stand and pull him up with me, suddenly cautious of the outfit creasing. Standing behind him, I hurriedly pin the waistline of the cargo trousers in place.
“All d-done.” I manage to say, heart hammering against my chest.
Slowly, August turns around before stepping back into my personal space. I look up at him and I almost feel my knees give under the intensity of his gaze until the frantic bustle of people rushing backstage breaks our charged moment.
“Is everyone ready?”