Chapter 52
MAKE HER AN OFFER
Ivy
We make the most of our one-day holiday between hockey games, visiting Santa Monica, taking pictures along the pier, posting them on social.
We do Los Angeles Hayes, Stefan, and Ivy style. Together.
A little shopping, a little eating, a little private time.
On Friday afternoon in our Venice Beach hotel, I get ready for the fashion show I’ve always wanted to attend.
I pick out my favorite vintage dress, a Charlotte Everly that I found at Champagne Taste, then a pair of cute ankle boots.
My guys dress up in tailored slacks and button-down shirts, and they take me to the event at a nearby boutique hotel.
The venue is trendy and cool, teeming with fashion writers, influencers, and designers.
The best part? Neither Simone nor Xander are here.
Jackson told me he saw on social that their wedding was a bust. Hardly anyone covered it or posted pics or shared stories.
That’s even worse than bad publicity. But I don’t feel bad for them.
Because I don’t care about them anymore.
I care about the people here, who love fashion for the reasons I do—a chance to express yourself in new ways, and, sometimes, to do so without producing more stuff.
I weave through the crowds, pointing out rising star designers to my boyfriends, then hotshot fashion trendsetters too.
I’m giddy over the clothes, and the shoes, and the fabrics, and the colors, and the desire to do right by our planet. I drink it in, my mind popping with ideas for posts and articles, for outfits of the day, for fashion rules, for…well, everything.
When it’s time for the fashion show itself, I head into the roaring twenties-themed ballroom with its emerald lamps and speakeasy vibe. It oozes vintage charm.
My guys take me to the seat in the front row, and I feel glittery everywhere. “I’ve always wanted to see this,” I say.
Then I kiss Hayes’s bearded cheek, and Stefan’s lightly stubbled one as Stefan says, “We know.”
Those words reverberate in my mind. We know. For the last month they’ve shown me how deeply they know me, how well they listen, how much they want this. I’ve taken my time, tried to be patient, and worked through some of my past hurts.
I’ve also tried to listen to my head, but my heart knows what it wants.
I know how to tell them, and I plan to later tonight before we go home to San Francisco. For now, I enjoy the show, feeling both peace and excitement that I’m finally ready to say I know too.
* * *
When the show ends with Birdie Michaels thanking everyone for attending, I clap and cheer with the crowd, and we make our way out of the ballroom.
I didn’t come here to see Birdie. This wasn’t meant to be a networking trip, but when we’re milling about in the lobby, I catch her striding my way.
There’s determined focus in her keen eyes, which are lasered in on me.
My pulse skitters. She’s become something of an idol to me in these last few months of working together.
She looks exactly like her photos, rocking a flowy maroon dress, with long hair curled in lush waves. She’s in her late thirties, and she radiates warmth and energy, but efficiency, too, as she comes right up to me. “Ivy Samuels? I thought that might be you.”
“It is me. Nice to meet you,” I say.
“I was thrilled when I saw you on the guest list. Any chance I can steal you for a quick drink?”
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that. Stefan gestures gracefully to the nearby hotel bar as if saying feel free. “We’ve got some things to take care of anyway,” he says, paving the way.
A few minutes later, I’m swirling a metal straw in a frosted iced tea glass at the hotel bar as Birdie says, “We’re expanding Your Runway and producing more content on recycled fashion, vintage clothing, and secondhand trends.
It’s some of the most popular content with our young readers, and frankly, the biggest growth area right now in fashion media.
We want to run with it and stake a claim.
I’d love to have you move to Los Angeles and take a lead on it. ”
Wait. What? All the air whooshes out of my lungs. That isn’t what I came to Los Angeles for.
“And here’s what I’m prepared to pay you.” She tells me, and it’s double what I make on all my jobs together.
I leave the bar a little later feeling woozy even though I didn’t touch a drop of liquor. Nearly speechless with shock, I return to the room and unlock the door in a daze. The guys are waiting for me, curious and expectant.
“She just made me an offer,” I say, still flabbergasted, “to move to LA.”