3. Sierra
SIERRA
“ O uch, dang it!” I said as I accidentally jabbed myself with the sewing needle. I stuck my thumb in my mouth, careful not to bleed on the pristine white silk. That would just be the cherry on top after yesterday’s horrific face-to-face experience with Finn Lockhart at In Stitches.
I checked my thumb. No red. Crisis averted!
I got back to work, carefully selecting shiny pearl beads from the box in front of me.
I was usually far less clumsy, but I’d had weird stress nightmares all night where I was trying to catch an unwinding bolt of fabric.
Finally giving up on getting any real rest, I had dragged myself out of bed at dawn to finish the latest iteration of my mother’s wedding dress.
She’d been insistent that she wanted beads. Lots of beads!
I selected another pearl, threading it over the end of my needle. Beading was the kind of finicky work I loved for taking my mind off things. And right now, I was trying not to think of all the ways I’d mortally offended the CEO of Hart of Gold Productions.
The man who was executive producing Every Day Is Sunday .
I hated the fact that he was making this movie. And I hated myself even more for still desperately wanting to work on this movie, in spite of him.
Gah! Why did he have to turn out to be such an asshole?
I lifted the bodice piece I was working on, squinting as I inspected it. There wasn’t enough light here, so I moved from my spot on the couch to the tiny dining room table that served as a flat junk drawer.
“That’s better,” I said, sitting in front of the large kitchen window pouring in natural light. I lined up my needle with the fabric again, frowning when I noticed my hand trembling. I shouldn’t have had so much dang coffee but I was out of my favorite energy drink.
“Mornin’!” a voice croaked.
I looked up to see Ro shuffle across the living room and into the kitchen, wearing an oversized housecoat with some random woman’s name embroidered on the front and a pair of puffy Homer Simpson slippers.
Her thrift store finds were always…interesting, to say the least. Just when I thought I’d seen the strangest of it, she came up with something even worse.
She stopped at the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to face me, cradling the mug.
“You know, you scare me when you crouch in the corner of the kitchen like a little sewing goblin,” she said. “But I’m too exhausted to stress about it right now.”
I straightened up in my chair and laughed.
Rose “Ro” Gilmore had been my best friend since she’d moved to Garnett, Kansas, in first grade.
We’d moved out to LA together almost ten years ago to chase our dreams, sharing an apartment while I hunted down costume design work and she worked as an intimacy coordinator, doing small indie directing gigs on the side while waiting for her big, mainstream directing break .
“Did you end up seeing that guy last night?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, closing her eyes as if to savor the memory.
“And?” I asked, a smile curling my lips.
“One and done,” she said. “But God, he knew what he was doing.”
I hummed. “Would a second date be so inconceivable?”
Ro wrinkled her nose. “Don’t start talking crazy.”
She refused second dates, saying she needed to stay laser-focused on her career. Nothing came before the directing grind. Especially not love. And yet, she still insisted that love was out there.
I didn’t know how she ever expected to find it given the way she operated, but who was I to judge? I’d been ghosted by the last guy I’d dated. Ro sipped her coffee, made a noise like she’d been possessed by a demon, and whirled around to do a spit-take in the sink.
The mug landed in the basin with a thud. “Lord have mercy!” she cried, the Kansas popping out of her the way it only did when she was really taken by surprise. She coughed like I’d force-fed her poison. “Girl, what is wrong with you? This isn’t coffee, it’s jet fuel!”
I gave her an apologetic smile.
She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her housecoat. “Is this why you’re so jittery?”
“No,” I groaned. “Well,” I amended. “Not just that. I’ve got the interview of a lifetime this morning, and I’m nervous as hell.”
“Oh, right,” she said, slinging herself down in the chair across the table. “ Every Day Is Sunday ?”
I nodded .
“But why are you nervous? That’s totally your wheelhouse. A period piece. The twenties. Classily dressed men and women.”
“I know.” I sighed. “It’s so perfect for me.
” The film was based on an absolutely stellar biography I’d devoured last year—the story of high-society Bostonian Evelyn Chisholm and her doomed romance with Tommy Lombard, a member of Boston’s Italian Mafia.
“Not to mention it’s perfect timing with me being between jobs. ”
“Exactly,” Ro said. “You’re going to rock it.”
“Before yesterday,” I muttered, “I might have agreed with you.”
Ro’s eyes narrowed. “I feel like I’ve missed an episode. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is it’s a Hart of Gold movie.” I put down my beading, groaned, and gave Ro a detailed play-by-play of my encounter with Finn Lockhart at In Stitches.
Ro’s jaw moved up and down like she couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or amused. “You charged him the asshole tax?” Settling on amused, she cackled, throwing her head back.
I dropped my head in my hands. “I did!”
“I love it!”
“It’s a disaster,” I said. “There’s no way I’m getting the movie after last night.”
“Well, in your defense,” Ro said, “it sounds like the guy was asking for it. Plus, maybe he won’t actually be at the interview.
CEOs are busy. They’ve got shit to do. Probably more important things than interviewing a costume designer for one little production when he’s got a full slate of other projects. ”
“Maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t hopeful. He’d recognized my name, had known about my interview. That seemed like a pretty clear signal he was keeping a close eye on this project. Which meant, basically, that I was screwed.
In the light of day, and the cool of air conditioning, I felt really stupid for how I’d behaved. Anybody walking into In Stitches could be important. It’s how I’d made connections in the past that had led me to work. That’s why I had my business cards on the counter.
I should have remembered all that before getting snippy with Finn. But, God! He was just so…unbearable! And he shouldn’t be allowed to be that handsome if he was going to be that much of a jerk. It defied the rules of justice.
“No, seriously,” Ro said, trying to be supportive. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Maybe that BTSB won’t be there.”
“BTSB?”
“Behind-the-Scenes Beefcake,” she said, cracking a smile. “That’s what he’s being called in the gossip rags after that sex scandal with Violet Stone.”
I frowned. It sounded vaguely familiar. That’s probably why I’d recognized him. But Ro would know better than me. She’d been a fiend for gossip magazines since we were kids.
“Actually,” Ro started, “if he is there, I think you should tell him exactly where to shove it.”
I snorted. “Oh, yeah, cause that’s gonna help this mess.”
“Seriously. You might think you went too far, but I don’t think you gave him enough sass last night.”
“I wasn’t trying to give him sass,” I said. Finn and his bigshot attitude just brought it out in me.
“Well, maybe he likes strong women,” Ro said. “Which would line up with everything I’ve read about Violet Stone. If that’s the case, you’ll impress him by standing up for yourself. Or…”
“Or?” I said, defeat ringing through me.
“He doesn’t like strong, sassy women, and you’ve already lost out on the position, so why bother playing nice? At least have some fun before he throws you out on your ass.”
“That’s…” I sighed. “Not especially comforting.”
She released my hand, miming. “You could always stab him with your fabric scissors as a show of dominance if he gets out of line.”
“Ro!” I said, scandalized. Not at the violence but at the potential danger to my beloved scissors. They were being willed in a gold box to my future children. “Maybe I could just jam a couple of pins into his hand instead.”
Ro smirked. “I liked my idea better.”
My phone started buzzing, and I glanced at it. It was the alarm for my interview. I jumped to my feet. “Oh, I’ve gotta run.”
“Here,” Ro said, standing and picking loose threads off me. “Go show Finn Lockhart what you’re made of.”
“Mostly Kansas corn?”
Ro laughed, shoving my purse and keys into my hands. “We’ll work on it.” She pushed me out the door. “Good luck! You’re going to rock this.”
I headed for my junker car in the parking lot, clinging to her confidence in me. I was going to need it.