Chapter 21
Kit only owns three suits: one navy, one charcoal, and one black. To say I’m surprised it’s that few would be an understatement. He wears them to work every single day; I just assumed he would own at least a closet’s worth. I stare at the suit he’s chosen for today hanging on the closet door—it’s a classic navy, with a white button-down and a simple red tie.
The pants are wrinkled from the move over here. I sip on my mug of coffee, trying desperately to ignore the cameras over my shoulder. When they said they’d be filming every waking hour, they meant it. They want footage of us at our married best—brushing our teeth and making coffee and generally tiptoeing around each other in the mornings.
At least they’re not forcing me to talk to him. He’s in the shower, and that would be awkward. For all kinds of reasons.
After the pizza disaster last night, he offered to massage my hands before bed. Selfishly, knowing his day was long too, I took him up on it. My whole body shimmered as he worked lotion into my skin, and I held my breath when he slid my wedding ring back on. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to not climb into his lap and thank him for his effort. This morning, I can’t seem to look him in the eye without thinking about it.
And after his confession about what’s going on with his mom, I don’t have it in me to wall him off. He’d been so close to me, and the buttons on his shirt were so perfectly undone around the notch in his throat. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to kiss him, to take it too far.
That part of our relationship has always worked. And well.
But he said his mom wanted him to apply for the show so she could see him settled before she died. He’s been vague about how dire her diagnosis is, but it doesn’t matter. His mom wants to see him with a happy wife, and the more time I spend with him, the more I think he wants that life, too. And I robbed him of that option when I said I do.
Then he had to go and set the coffee maker to go off this morning. My tablet sat next to my favorite mug on the counter, fully charged.
I don’t know what to do with these emotions rising in my throat. All I know is I’m officially on dangerous ground, caring about what happens to Kit and his mom. I’m worried about what will happen to me, too.
I set my coffee on the dresser and flick on my handheld steamer. My skirt needs some attention after the move too. Kit’s still in the bathroom when I finish smoothing out the wrinkles in the silk, and my steamer still has plenty of water in it, so I take a few minutes to steam his pants too. They’re already hanging up; it’s easy enough to move from one garment to the other.
Kit emerges from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, shameless in front of the cameras, just as I start on the second pant leg. He pauses when he sees me messing with his clothes, then leans against the wall, a smirk on his face. “Are you ironing my clothes?”
I roll my eyes. “Steaming. They’re wrinkled.”
“That’s very domestic of you.” His eyes sparkle with amusement, and he crosses his arms over his chest.
I shoot him a sharp look through a puff of steam. “Why do you only own three suits?”
He shrugs. “I travel for work. Three suits are easy to take with me.”
As I reach the hem of his pants, I notice a loose thread. I hand him the steamer and flick open the decorative wooden box on the dresser to retrieve a tiny pair of scissors. This hem has seen better days. Only three suits means he wears them all the time, and if he’s had them for years … even the most well-made suits have their limits. As far as I can tell, this is a department store basic, not a high-end designer garment.
Almost all of his shirts are beginning to pill around the collars, and every one of them has a loose thread here and there, or a button about to pop off. The man gives new meaning to minimalism. And I mean he has to be a minimalist, because if he lives and works at the fucking Colonnade, he can afford a new shirt.
I snip the offending thread from the hem of his pants. “You only have five oxfords.”
“What’s your point?” He frowns.
I take the steamer from him so I can finish the job. “I just figured a man with your status at work would own more.”
He pushes off the wall and maneuvers behind me to drink out of my coffee cup, clutching the towel at his hips with his other hand. “Not all of us can make our own clothes on demand. I have plenty.”
I snort my disagreement, but keep my mouth shut. It’s not my place to judge how many items of clothing he has. But my side of the closet stuffed full stands in stark contrast to his barren three suits and five dress shirts. I flick off the steamer and turn to face him, setting it down on the dresser. “All done.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half grin.
“Don’t get used to it.” I pluck my coffee cup out of his hands and take a sip.
Completely shameless, his back to the cameras, his eyes dip into the V of my robe before skating slowly up my chest to caress my neck before finally meeting mine again. His half grin turns into a full one. “You look beautiful.”
Heat rising to my cheeks, I counter, “And you look like you’re going to be late.”
“But at least my suit will be wrinkle-free.” As he slips around me toward his suit, he tugs on my messy bun. Before I can protest, he presses his lips to my cheek. “Thank you.”
I almost forget my tablet on the way out the door.
I’m halfway through pinning a ballroom skirt onto a dress form for one of my Fashion Week designs when I hear my laptop ping with an email. Always when my hands are occupied. I finish the draping, stabbing pins into the form with more force than is strictly necessary. None of it’s working anyway. Instead of a ballroom skirt, all I can see in my mind is a towel clinging to Kit’s hips.
A ballroom skirt can’t capture the intimacy of marriage like that towel can, and suddenly this dress feels so foreign I’m not sure it came from my own mind anymore. My insecurity about being good enough to design my own line rears its ugly head with such force I take in a sharp breath.
Space. I need space.
I already spent the morning procrastinating assembling this dress by filming TikToks of fabric swatches in the sunlight coming in my loft windows. I also filmed a few of my other designs, explaining which silhouette looks best on certain body types. Those videos should last me a week of content at least.
Frowning, I approach my laptop and wake the screen. I groan when I read the subject line: PAST DUE—ATLANTA FASHION WEEK FEE. The email is short and to the point. If I don’t pay up by the end of the week, I lose my spot in the tent at Fashion Week.
I planned on paying the fee when Clover Callaway wrote me a large check for the delivery of her dress. As it never came, the fee for my spot at Fashion Week slipped my mind. And now I might lose my spot because a man couldn’t keep it in his pants.
The frustration rises in me so quickly, I don’t know what to do with it. I pace the room for a few seconds, mumbling every curse I can think of and call the bastard some creative names under my breath.
After all the work I’ve done on my own—never going into debt, never applying for a business loan, never asking anyone to help me—my dreams are still at the whim of someone I don’t even know. Someone who will never understand what this means to me, how important it is that I show at Fashion Week.
My swearing gets more colorful as my resentment mingles with the shame I feel at spending so much on materials for Fashion Week, confident nothing could go wrong. I should know better than this. I should be more cautious. I shouldn’t have reached so far out of my comfort zone. It was a silly, childish thing to do.
As the shoulds reach a fever pitch, profanity isn’t enough. I whip around to the dress form and tear the fabric off. The form wobbles at the base as my obscenities get louder, echoing off the walls. Pins scatter on the wood floor as painstakingly cut muslin joins them in a heap. By the time the form is bare, I’m trying to catch my breath.
Someone clears their throat behind me.
I gasp and spin around, smoothing my hair back into my messy bun. My brain short-circuits when I see a man in black pants and a white button-down standing inside my studio holding two large brown paper bags. My hands shaking, I force a smile. “Can I help you?”
“Is this Andrea Dresser Designs?” he asks, eyeing all the bolts of fabric on the far wall.
I clear my throat and nod. “It is.”
The man lets out a sigh of relief. “I was worried I had the wrong place.”
“Wrong place for what?” I frown as I look him over. Is this one of the grooms from a wedding I designed for? Or a high-profile bride’s personal assistant sent to scout out my business and make sure I’m not a liability?
You blew that one, Andie.
“I’m from La Campagne.” The French restaurant down the street? He holds up the bags that look damn heavy, bulging at the seams. I gesture for him to place them in the kitchenette as he explains, “This is one of everything we have.”
I dare to peek into one of the bags. It’s packed to the brim with to-go containers and smells suspiciously like garlic bread. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Oh, no.” He waves it off, and I’ve definitely missed something. “A Mr. Watson ordered it and told us where to take it. We don’t normally do deliveries, but he tipped really well.”
Something warm tugs inside my chest. I thank the man for his trouble and start unpacking the bags. He was not kidding about there being one of everything. A few salads, two loaves of bread, several entrees, and three desserts in total.
At the bottom of one of the bags is an envelope with my name on it, written in Kit’s confident block letters.
I pop it open and pull out the thick card stock with his company letterhead at the top.
It doesn’t make up for me missing the class last night, but we’ll always have Paris.
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. It’s not a declaration of love, but it is enough food for a few days.
I tuck all the food I’m not going to eat today into the fridge and stare at the now-bare dress form as I rearrange numbers in my head. Kit doesn’t know it, but his large offering today just bought me the slimmest margin of breathing room. If I can stretch these meals out to last a week, I can afford to pay the fee for Fashion Week.
I smile wider at Kit’s handwriting as I dig in.
The next couple of weeks pass by in a blur of dress forms, sketches, and meals sent to my loft to make sure I eat. Suddenly we’re halfway through filming, with only four weeks left until D-Day. I told Kit not to get used to it, but I steam his clothes in the morning as a silent thank you for taking care of my hands every night.
He let me sleep in this morning, waking me up with a large mug of coffee on my nightstand. He’s already dressed for work.
“I have to go,” he whispers, brushing some hair out of my face. Are there cameras here already? “I have a meeting this morning I can’t be late for.”
His touch is casual but so intimate it sends heat curling down my spine. I’m used to him touching my hands now. This is altogether different and not entirely unwelcome. Bleary-eyed, I roll out of bed, asking him to wait as I straighten my cotton shorts and tank top.
No cameras. Huh.
I feel his gaze on my bare legs as I walk around the bed and duck into the closet. When I emerge, I explain, “If you add a pocket square, it will look like a different suit.”
“I don’t own any pocket squares.” The hint of a smile pulls at his lips.
He looks too good, standing in the morning sunlight that’s streaming in through the curtains. Nothing about this is fair. I shake my head to stop my train of thought as it marches down the buttons on his shirt, willing them to open.
“Here.” I fold the silk square I retrieved from the closet and tuck it into his breast pocket.
As I pluck the fabric until it lays just right, he asks, “Andie, did you get me pocket squares?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I made you some.”
The way his gaze softens makes my cheeks grow warm. I clear my throat and take a step back. “There,” I say like it’s no big deal. “Looks like you belong in a boardroom.”
He tilts his head with an amused look on his face. “It’s a meeting with the contractors for the dome. Dress code is safety vests and hardhats.”
“Oh.” I want to crawl back under the blankets and never come out. “Well. Anyway.”
Kit walks to the closet and pokes his head in. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he reaches behind the door and pulls out the skirt I hung up to wear today. He looks between the garment and his chest until I see it.
They’re the same fabric. I made his pocket squares out of leftovers from some of the clothes I made for myself. “I’m sorry,” I groan, crossing the room and reaching for the fabric I tucked into his pocket. “You can wear another one. Or none at all. It’s fine.”
He covers his chest with his hand so I can’t take the pocket square off him. “The hell I will, sweet potato.”
My eyes shoot to his in a glare, and I steel my jaw. I really should be used to the pet name by now.
His half grin is teasing, his eyes warm. “I like that we’ll match today.”
“I’ll wear a different skirt.”
I reach for it, but he holds it above my head. The warmth in his eyes turns hot, an open flame for anyone to see. “No, you won’t.”
My lips part in a silent gasp. That was almost … possessive. The heat swirling in my gut and sinking lower tells me I like it. When I narrow my eyes, he says, “Be my good luck charm today. Please. It’ll be our secret.”
His words are light, nonchalant. But the look in his eyes screams, you’re mine. My hand shaking as desire curls between my legs, I reach for the skirt. Kit surrenders it. Just when I think he’s done, he leans over, close enough that I’m wrapped up in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, and whispers, “Good girl.”
He’s gone before the wave of heat crashes over me, leaving me hungry and cold as I sit on the edge of our shared bed.
FIRST LOOK AT FOREVER
SEASON THREE
EPISODE SEVEN
PRODUCER:
It seems like you’re feeling more comfortable with Kit these days.
ANDIE:
Yes. Well. He works hard to make me feel at ease, I think.
ANDIE:
[frowns]
PRODUCER:
What’s on your mind?
ANDIE:
I just … hope he isn’t giving up too much of himself for me, you know? I want him to be comfortable with me too.
PRODUCER:
Are you starting to care for him?
ANDIE:
I— [blows out a breath] Maybe?
PRODUCER:
Are you going to tell him?
ANDIE:
[chews on her lip] When I know. I don’t know.
FIRST LOOK AT FOREVER
SEASON THREE
EPISODE SEVEN
PRODUCER:
You sure do a lot for Andie, don’t you?
KIT:
[shrugs] It’s small things. Easy things. Isn’t that what couples are supposed to do for each other?
PRODUCER:
Does she do anything for you?
KIT:
You’ve seen her steam my clothes in the morning.
PRODUCER:
Is that it?
KIT:
No. She … [runs his hands through his hair] Have you ever watched a TED Talk or had a conversation with a friend that left you so fired up, you knew you could conquer anything?
PRODUCER:
Yeah, I think I know what you mean.
KIT:
Being with Andie is like that. All the time. I can’t help but want to do more and be better.
PRODUCER:
It sounds like you have feelings for her.
KIT:
[Smiles.] Maybe I do. That’s the whole point of this damn thing, isn’t it?
[Crew laughs off camera.]