Chapter 2
two
AUTUMN
“So let me get this straight.”
Trey Harrington, my best friend from college and fellow textile enthusiast, frowns at something on his laptop, then closes the screen halfway and leans forward on the sofa to fix his gaze on me.
His dark eyes are narrowed. “You divorced Patrick for cheating on you, but your boutique is still located inside a building his parents own—and you’re planning to stay there… what? Indefinitely?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
Trey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. So, my next question is… why? Why the hell, Autumn?”
“I don’t know,” I huff, blowing out my breath in exasperation. “I mean, I do know. It’s a prime spot. Right on Main Street, historic building…”
“And owned by your dickwad ex’s family.”
“Well, yes. But trust me—it’s easier right now. Especially until this show is over, I don’t have the capacity to look for something else and figure all of that out.”
Trey scratches his chin, which is covered in the perfect five o’clock shadow. He slings a Converse-clad foot over one knee and leans back to look up at the ceiling fan. “Girl.”
I snap my fingers at him. “Can you focus? Judging me for my business decisions is not what I asked you for help with. Trust me, I can do that all by myself. What we need to do now is—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Trey waves a hand. “I know. Get the RSVPs sorted. I’m on it.”
He pulls his laptop screen fully open and navigates to the spreadsheet.
He clears his throat, starts reading the names of confirmed attendees aloud while I crosscheck on a yellow legal pad.
There are only two weeks left until my debut show, and everything has to be perfect—including the upcycled gift bags I’m going to have on each guest’s chair.
Trey, with his experience in putting together large events thanks to his wedding planner husband, has graciously agreed to emcee the entire show, as well as help me dot my i’s and cross my t’s—which I’m immensely thankful for, because my brand’s reputation is basically riding on this event.
Even though I started sewing in high school and have been thrifting since that first trip to the Goodwill with my mom, trying to get a line of sustainable, upcycled clothing to take off has been harder than I expected.
And Patrick warned me when we were still married—or rather, sneered at me, if I’m being honest—that no one who’s anyone is looking to buy already-owned, already-worn clothing.
When I opened my shop in the red brick building his parents owned on Main Street, I believe the blessing he gave me was something along the lines of, “Glad my parents could help with your penchant for playing public dress-up, babe. Have a good time.”
Fuck that. Patrick, in his Tom Ford suits and Berluti loafers, always knew how to dress, but he definitely didn’t know how to treat a woman—probably because his witchy mother has not-so-secretly always wished she’d be the only woman in his life.
Too bad she doesn’t believe me that there’ve been dozens.
Probably at the same time. Definitely while he was married to me.
But I’m not thinking about that right now.
I’ve got to make sure this show is solid.
It’s bad enough to have to see Patrick and his snobby family around town—or even sense their presence when I don’t run into them.
But knowing they think they’re doing me a favor out of the kindness of their ice cold hearts by letting me keep my spot in their building until my business fails? It’s fucking awful.
And I can’t let it happen. I won’t.
My pieces this season need to take off. I need to see them online, on TV.
I need to be able to give my former monster-in-law my most smug, diabolical grin when I fork over next month’s rent check.
Because honestly… I’m starting to wonder if they’re right.
Maybe this is a hobby. Maybe my pieces really do suck.
Maybe I’m nothing more than a little girl, trying to play dress up in the playroom the adults so graciously provided for her.
Whatever. They can all fuck off. At least I got the lake house—even if that obnoxious and way-too-good-looking-for-his-own-good Zeke Holloway is still living in the cabin.
That was my own doing, unfortunately. He’s my friend Lydia’s fiancé’s little brother, and he was annoying the hell out of them at home—so I invited him to stay on my property. Naturally.
I’m too fucking nice.
Trey waves a hand in front of my face. “Hey. Autumn. You listening to me? I just asked you three times whether you’ve got a seating chart and you’re just—”
“Sorry,” I say, snapping out of it. I click my pen. “I’m with you. No to the seating chart, but yes to reserved seats for specific guests. I want to make sure VIPs get seats up front.”
“Good call.” Trey makes a note on the spreadsheet. “Text me the list of the people you want next to the runway, and I’ll set up the chart this week.”
“Kay.”
Trey looks up from his screen, studying me over the laptop. He quirks an eyebrow, and I have to smile. Even with his furrowed brows, Trey is just so stupidly handsome. “Who’s this sullen Autumn and what did you do with my snarky, upbeat best friend?”
I snort. “I’m not sullen. I’m just thinking about how this show needs to come together. I saw Patrick last week—”
“Uggghhh,” Trey groans. He throws his head back and I see his Adam’s apple bob before he rights himself and kicks his feet up on my coffee table.
He fixes me with a pointed stare. “How many times do I have to say this? Fuck Patrick. He’s nice on the eyes and he played nice when you met him, but he’s a garbage person. Okay? You don’t need his approval.”
“I’m not trying to get his approval. I just want the show to be good.”
“Right—so you can prove him wrong.”
“No,” I say, scowling. “So my business will grow. So I can sell some freaking pieces.”
Trey’s quiet a moment. He looks up at the ceiling fan again, like he’s weighing his words carefully, then he reaches over to squeeze my hand.
When he speaks, his tone is gentle, his face softer.
“I know. I’m sorry. The show’s going to be fabulous, and you’re going to be the talk of the town.
I mean, hell—you’ve even got Nico Brooks walking in this thing. I’m still shook!”
I smirk. Snagging Nico Brooks, the hottest model in the Boston area, to model my menswear line at the show was a huge win. He may as well be taking my firstborn child with what I’m paying him to do it, but it’ll be worth it. The fashion world always watches Nico Brooks.
“You’re right,” I say, lacing my fingers through Trey’s. I offer him a reassuring grin. “Nico Brooks is going to be better dressed than he’s ever been in his whole entire life.”
“That’s the spirit!” Trey pats my hand, then looks down at our intertwined hands. He untangles his fingers from mine and holds up my hand between us. “Good. It was about time you took your ring off.”
I bend my other fingers down so I’m flipping him off with just my ring finger—which is, as he’s just noticed, conspicuously empty. “I’ve actually had it off for a while. If you left the sacred city of Boston more often to actually come see me, you’d know that.”
Trey laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here now, right? Anyway, look at that ring tan! Girl, you need to get some new bling on that hand stat. It’s giving full-on divorcée.”
I snatch my hand back from him and hold it up to the light, squinting. “Ring tan? There is not!”
“There so is.”
“Nuh-uh,” I whine—because I really can’t see it. I’m about to retort that he’s always welcome to buy me jewelry when a thump from the ceiling above us makes us freeze.
Shit. Not this again.
Trey’s dark eyes go wide. “What the fuck was that? Did you have a kid and not tell me?”
“Don’t even joke about that,” I whisper. I tilt my head toward the upstairs, bringing a finger to my lips to signal for Trey to shut up and listen. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been hearing it for months now. Like, every couple of weeks.”
“But—hearing what?” Trey’s voice is a hiss. He looks positively freaked out.
“I don’t know!” I gesture wildly. “Whatever that was—thumps. Bumps. Cracks. I’m legit starting to think it’s a ghost.”
Trey gives me an oh please kind of look, but we sit in silence for a minute more, listening. Only one other muffled thump comes, and after that… nothing. I turn back to Trey and clear my throat.
“It’s always coming from the guest room. I don’t know if there’s, like, an animal or something that got into the wall, or if it’s a ghost or what, but it just started back up again after I moved back in.”
“Started back up?”
“Yeah, when Patrick and I first started coming to the lake house on weekends—back when we first got married—I heard noises in there all the time. He always dismissed it, said it was just the house settling or something, and eventually I realized it had kind of stopped. It’s only recently I started hearing it again. ”
“Yeah, that is a hard pass from me,” Trey says, crossing his arms over his solid chest. “And to think I agreed to stay the night here tonight!”
Now it’s my turn to give him the oh please look. “Oh, boohoo, Trey. You’re a big, strong man. You’re going to be fine.”
Suddenly, Trey’s phone buzzes on the arm of the sofa. As he glances down at it, he frowns. When he holds the phone up to show me the number, I don’t recognize it either. Trey shrugs his well-built shoulders, and brings the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
I can’t make out the voice on the other end of the line, or whether it’s a man or a woman speaking. All I know is that suddenly Trey’s face has gone tight, and his eyes are looking everywhere in the room but at mine.
“Mmhmm,” Trey is murmuring. He’s quiet for a beat, listening, then says, “Oh, wow. Yeah, that’s really unfortunate. Okay, yes—yes, of course, we understand. We send our best wishes. You tell him to take care.”
And then the call is over.
Trey brings the phone away from his ear and stares at me. He swallows.
“That was Nico Brooks’s agent.” Trey pauses, then delivers the death blow, finally bringing his eyes to mine. “Nico broke his leg. He won’t be able to walk in your show.”