Chapter 38 Committed to You
COMMITTED TO YOU
DAVINA
Backstage smelled like hairspray, panic, and approximately forty different perfumes engaged in a territorial dispute.
I'd been standing in the same spot for twenty minutes, clipboard pressed to my chest like a shield, watching models have their final touch-ups while Marcus circled the room like a very stylish shark.
Every few seconds, he'd stop, adjust a neckline, a hem, the precise angle of an earring, make a sound of either despair or satisfaction, and move on.
“The burgundy velvet,” he announced, stopping behind model number seven, “is magnificent.”
“You called it my grandmother's curtains a few weeks ago.”
“Your grandmother had exquisite taste, and I was wrong to question her.” He smoothed the fabric across the model's shoulder with reverent hands. “I should send her an apology card.”
“She's been dead for fifteen years.”
Paris was a dream, but Paris backstage at fashion week was a specific kind of beautiful that I'd spent three years working toward. The collection was ready. The models were ready. The venue was ready.
I was not ready.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the messages for a moment, the familiar ache settling somewhere behind my sternum when there was no new messages. The show was about to start, and he wasn’t here.
Dallas: Flight delayed again. I'm so sorry, baby. I've been at this airport for six hours. I tried.
He’d been trying since yesterday morning to get here. First the cancellation, then a delay, it was just one problem after another.
Davina: I know you tried. That's enough.
Dallas: I should be there.
Davina: You WILL be here. On the livestream.
“Show starts in twenty minutes,” Marcus said, holding out his hand.
I flashed him a look, but I shoved my phone into his hand.
“He's not coming,” I said. It wasn't a question.
Marcus's expression shifted between disappointment and pity. “His flight…”
“I know.” I cut him off. “I know. It's okay.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. It had to be okay. I didn’t have a choice. I knew that if Dallas could be here, he would be. “It is.”
He'd tried. He'd tried from the moment the first cancellation came through, calling me in a fury, already looking at alternatives.
“Good.” Marcus plucked the clipboard from my hands and replaced it with a flute of champagne. “Then drink this, stop making that face, and prepare to put on the most important show of your career.”
“I'm not making a face.”
“You're making the face you make when you're pretending you're fine.” He steered me toward the staging area, his hand warm on my shoulder. He stopped us at the staging curtain, turning me to face him.
Beyond the black velvet, I could hear the audience settling into their seats, the soft swell of music beginning, the hum of two hundred people who came to see what Curvy Closet Apparel had built for them.
“Are you ready?” He straightened my lapel, precise and fussy and completely unnecessary since it hadn't moved.
“You built this collection for women who've been told they don't belong in spaces like this.
Tonight, you're going to walk into the most famous fashion city in the world and prove them wrong.” His voice had gone quiet, stripped of its usual theatrical flair.
“That's not nothing, D. That's everything.”
My throat tightened. “Don't,” I warned. “If you make me cry, my makeup artist will kill me, and then the show will be very short.”
“I'm trying to inspire you.”
“It’s the same.”
He grinned, and the music shifted, building toward the opening notes.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode. “Let’s do this.” I stepped toward the curtain.
“You're about to put on a hell of a show, Mrs. Dodger.” He said it quietly, just for me, and then a hand closed around my wrist.
I spun, almost knocking into a rack, and came face to face with…
Dallas.
My husband, who was supposed to be stuck in an airport, was standing in a rumpled navy shirt with messy hair and an expression on his face like he'd been running.
“Hi,” he said.
I stared at him. “Hi?” I said. “That's what you're going with? Hi?”
“I was going to go with surprise, but it seemed like you'd figured that part out.”
“You're supposed to be in an airport.”
“I was in an airport. Several airports. I just wasn’t really in one when we talked. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Dallas, how are you here?”
He stepped closer, his hands finding my face. “Private jet.”
I blinked. “I'm sorry?”
“I rented a private jet.” He said. “Commercial wasn't cooperating. The delays kept stacking up, and I did some math, and there was no version of events where I was going to make it here on time.” He shrugged. “So I stopped trying to make that work and found a different option.”
“You rented a private jet to come to my show.”
“I rented a private jet so that I wouldn’t miss my wife's show.” He said the correction firmly.
“You're insane.”
“I'm committed to you.” His smile softened, the bravado dropping away to reveal the man underneath. “I wasn't going to miss this. There was no way in hell I was going to sit in an airport and watch a livestream on the biggest night of your life.”
“You rented a whole freaking jet,” I said again because my brain was still processing.
“I'll fly back with you to Tampa for the meet-and-greet, and then we’ll go to Ireland together.” He said it easily.
“No more separate schedules. No more watching you leave in one direction while I go in another.” He pressed his forehead to mine.
“We go together from now on. That's the only timeline I'm interested in.”
He kissed me, and I melted into him.
Behind us, Marcus cleared his throat.
We ignored him.
He cleared it again, louder.
“In approximately forty-five seconds,” he said, his voice thick with what was absolutely not emotion, “the curtain goes up and my collection, which I spent fourteen months and the entirety of my sanity building, needs its designer standing in the correct position. So if the two of you could wrap up the romantic reunion, that would be…” He stopped.
I looked at him.
Marcus was pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, his jaw working.
“Marcus,” I said. “Are you crying?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your eyes are…”
“It's the hairspray. There's an obscene amount of hairspray in the air, and it's affecting my tear ducts.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders. “It's time.”
Dallas squeezed my hand, pressing a final kiss to my temple. “Go,” he murmured. “I'll find my seat.”
He stepped back, and I watched him go, navigating through the chaos backstage.
I turned to Marcus. “Well,” I said.
“Well,” he agreed, his voice still rough around the edges.
The music reached its peak.
The announcer's voice filled the hall: “Mesdames et messieurs, welcome to the most anticipated debut of the season…”
Marcus met my eyes. “Go put on a hell of a show,” he said.
I went.