Chapter 5
Tessa
Even the model looks amused as I fill the girls in on the details of my last breakup. Giggling behind her lens, Esme takes a test picture of Peyton instead of the women’s suit she’s supposed to be shooting.
I pretend to be offended, mock outrage on my face. “Don’t laugh! He let the microwave beep like a psychopath instead of turning it off with three seconds left, so obviously I couldn’t trust him.”
Peyton gasps. “He let it beep? Out loud? Echoing through the kitchen with no regard for your eardrums? That chills me to my core, Tessa. You should’ve started with that, instead of him wanting a girlfriend who better ‘fits in with his five year plan.’ No wonder you broke up.”
“Well, now that a few months have passed, I’ve realized it was only a matter of time.
The whole microwave thing would’ve come into play sooner or later.
” I match her playful grin with one of my own, taking a sip of the mediocre caramel latte I bought from the coffee cart earlier.
The sweet flavor dulls slightly when I think about yet another failed relationship where I wasn’t enough.
I swallow hard, pushing down the truth in favor of a comfortable deflection. “Anyways, I told him only one of us gets to be irrational in the relationship, and it’s always going to be me. We never would’ve worked.”
Esme adjusts the camera strap around her neck and tells the model to take five. “Well, maybe you can have an Italian fling. One week left!”
“Forget a fling in Milan, I’m just excited about being four thousand miles away from the single men in this city. Maybe even more than fashion week itself,” I tease.
The Men of New York seem perfect until you discover their one fatal flaw:
He’s a hot lawyer, but he represents the oil industry.
He has a hobby, but it’s trolling people on the internet.
He loves his mom, but he loves her a little bit too much.
I spin the vibrant yellow silk scarf around my neck. “Although, the most frustrating man in New York will be tagging along.”
Peyton raises her eyebrows. “Giovanni again?”
My cup hits the folding table next to me with a bit more force than I intended. “Who else?”
Esme’s eyes—green as her iced matcha—peer over her camera for one last shot.
She sighs and lets the camera hang loosely around her neck before tucking her pink shoulder-length hair behind her ears and settling in for what she knows will be a long-winded rant.
Even the model relaxes, ready for the tea.
I groan. “When I asked him to alter the hem of a gown with white thread, he went to the back room and brought out twenty-five different shades of white, and then proceeded to read the name of each one just to slow me down. Now, I need a trigger warning before someone says the word ‘eggshell.’ He’s ruined eggs for me. ”
Esme bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile at my theatrics. Peyton fails miserably, a loud laugh escaping her lips.
“And don’t get me started on his digs about my lack of experience.
One time, Giovanni overheard me talking about my fashion school showcase—which was my first ever ‘collection,’ and said that he was shocked my formal training started so late.
When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that he tailored his first collection at the ripe age of ten.
So, naturally, I asked him if all the pre-industrial hand sewing was the reason for his arthritis. ”
I sigh. “I swear to God, Pey, it brings him joy to mess with me.”
A smile spreads across Peyton’s face. “Hand sewing aside, have you thought any more about branching out to move on from the grunt work Lamont has you doing? If you got a promotion elsewhere, you wouldn’t have to deal with Giovanni.”
“I can’t even get a Staff Designer role with Lamont, and I’ve been a Junior the longest out of anyone,” I admit quietly. Going somewhere else would be like starting back at square one.
Her head tilts to the side. “But your design just got selected for Milan Fashion Week. That means something.”
“Maybe. But I’ve gotten selected for domestic shows before, and all it’s meant is giving Lamont more of my best ideas and getting the same menial tasks in return.
Plus, he doesn’t make big decisions without Giovanni’s support, and…
Well, Giovanni doesn’t—” I cut myself off, not wanting to reveal too much.
“We just don’t see eye-to-eye, I guess.”
Esme appraises me with a motherly look. “Oh, Tessa.”
“Staying at Lamont is the sure thing anyways. The industry is so volatile. At this point, starting my own fashion house one day feels like a pipe dream.”
“Tell me, was it Christian Siriano who said ‘this feels like a pipe dream?’ Or maybe Coco Chanel,” Peyton teases.
I snort. “Either way, I can’t think about leaving right now. Maybe after fashion week, I’ll put some feelers out. A successful fashion week would make dealing with Giovanni Cattaneo totally, probably, worth it.”
“Speaking of… Damn, he’s good.” Esme turns her camera around, showing me a detailed shot of the lapel embroidery in the viewfinder. The beadwork complements the muted coral color of the suit perfectly.
I nod, begrudgingly agreeing with her. The intricate gold beading is the highlight of this look. Despite how frustrating I find him, I feel a swell of pride that the collection will look so cohesive.
Checking my watch, I’m shocked to find that it’s been a couple hours since we started the shoot.
“The morning is going by super fast. Usually weekend shoot days feel like a year crammed into a few hours.” I risk one more appreciative look at the photo capturing Giovanni’s expert craftsmanship, hoping no one notices.
Peyton yawns. “Not all of us are used to getting up at the crack of dawn. I, for one, am exhausted. I have a date tonight, and I’ll probably fall asleep halfway through.”
“Given every New York man’s propensity to monologue about their employment history on a first date, that’ll happen regardless.”
She blushes. “He’s an actuary.”
“The insurance industry? Enjoy your nap, sister.” I give her a little salute.
Giggling, she playfully shoves me, and I pretend to stagger backward.
Esme picks up a pair of loafers off the floor. “Okay. We need to focus before Lamont gets here. Tessa, do you mind taking these loafers back to the closet and grabbing the studded heels? Personally, I think they’ll overwhelm the look, but Lamont wanted a shot of them.”
“Sure! Be right back.” I take the loafers and walk off set, heading toward the back corner where the shoe closet is located. “Closet” doesn’t do the enormous space justice, but as the shoe collection grew, the name stuck.
Per usual, the room is dim and silent. The only time it’s needed is during shoot days, and we’ve been so busy with Milan prep, there’s been less and less formal photography. Everyone is busy with their individual tasks, so the crew today is small. One model, Esme, Peyton, and me.
I breathe in deep through my nose. After a busy morning, the quiet feels loud, in a blissful sort of way.
I release my breath on a long exhale and turn to the side, fumbling for the light switch on the right side of the room.
I shuffle forward so I don’t run into the wall, and run into warmth instead.
“Oof.”
Shit. “I’m sorry, I—”
And all at once, I know that the cedarwood and leather scent isn’t the shoes. It’s Giovanni.
Colliding with him in the dark, feeling his breath on my forehead, reminds me that we’ve been here before. And instead of pulling away, I’m pulled under, into a memory of the first time we met. In this very room.
“Did this closet get smaller?” I asked the mystery man I just bumped into.
A deep voice responded. “Must be a design flaw.”
After two months on the job, I was confident I hadn’t heard this voice yet. I picked up a hint of an accent, just a light melodic something dusted on top of his words. I wondered what department he worked in—who was he?
I began to panic as soon as I realized I was carrying freshly-dyed satin heels. “Fuck. I mean, oops. I came in here to put these away on the drying rack. Did I get any dye on your shirt?”
“If you did, I’ll just call it avant-garde.”
I grinned. “Perfect. I’ve always wanted my debut line to be stain-forward.”
“And I’ve always wanted to model.” The stranger flipped on the light, and… Of course, he had to be attractive. Why wouldn’t he be? My life was already chaotic enough, why not throw in a hot colleague with a lethal accent?
“Tessa.” The past loosens its hold on me with the sound of my name from Giovanni’s lips. “Did this closet get smaller?” he asks quietly.
“Design flaw,” I whisper.
“No dye this time, though.”
I wonder if we’re both remembering what we were before. The friendly teasing. The almost-flirty compliments.
I swallow. “Yeah. Well, I prefer my disasters to be limited to appliqué shapes now.”
Giovanni breathes out a laugh and shakes his head. We stand toe to toe, frozen in place. My head stays tilted up toward him, his eyes still locked on mine. The loafers start to feel heavy in my hands, but the complicated emotions coursing through my body feel heavier.
He hums before turning away and flipping on the light. When he faces me again, a rueful smile is on his face.
Squinting from the brightness, I quickly place the loafers on the shoe rack before locating the studded stilettos on the back shelf.
As I reach for the heels, the door creaks open.
Distant chatter sounds from the floor until the door closes, and I breathe a sigh of relief at being alone again.
But when I turn around, Giovanni’s still standing there, a wistful look in his eyes.
“We had fun sometimes, didn’t we?”
My lips part in surprise as my heart falls to my stomach. After a moment of thoughtful silence, a gentle smile graces my lips. “Occasionally.”
Giovanni nods. “See you at the shop,” he says, the door closing behind him.