“And two slices of meatball,” I add.
The man at the counter tallies up our order, and I automatically wrap my arms around her as we wait for our food. She’s soft and round and the perfect height to rest my chin against without getting a crick in my neck.
And don’t get me started on the citrus vanilla scent that always follows her around. After a particularly filthy shower at her place, where we brought each other to steamy, slippery orgasm, I found the source: her lemon verbena body wash andthe vanilla body butter she slathers on afterwards. She tastes practically edible, and I bend down further to take a deep sniff of the tendrils of her hair not contained by the hat.
Click, click, clickgo the cameras I completely forgot about.
“How are you handling all this?” Kendra asks once we’re safely back inside her apartment, divvying up our Italian feast.
“All what?” I ask, my mouth stuffed full of meatball pizza.
“The pictures. The questions. The paparazzi stalking us whenever we’re together.” She takes a bite of her artichoke slice. “And not in a fun way, like when you came to every one of my shows for months,” she teases.
I grasp my chest in mock offense.
“I wasn’t stalkingper se,” I hedge, watching her bite her lip to contain a giggle. “I was…taking an interest.”
She snorts and takes her full plate to eat at the dining room table. I bring my plate and a beer to sit beside her.
“Did it really bother you? Me showing up all those times?”
Back then, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t acting creepy. I was just an overeager, slightly underdressed fan watching from the back. I didn’t try to talk to her or wave; I just liked to see her in her element. Now I wonder how I ever thought I blended in.
“Hey.” Kendra places a soothing hand on top of mine. “Where’d you go just then?”
I give her a weak smile and take a too-big bite of pizza so I won’t have to answer. Instead of letting the subject drop, though, she waits patiently for me to finish.Fuck.
“I just didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I definitely would’ve stopped if you’d asked.”
Alarm crosses her face, and her hand’s squeezing mine now.
“Oh! No, you weren’t making me uncomfortable! As a model, I’m pretty used to people looking at me. Plus, Denise vouched for you. She said you’re good people.”
I let out a breath, but Kendra keeps going.
“That’s why I wanted to check onyou. Because you’renota model, and not used to these kinds of things.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, and I think for the third time in as many weeks that what I feel for Kendra goes way past just hooking up. Way past liking her. I may actually…
“It’s a small price to pay for that ass,” I joke, diffusing my own heavy thoughts. She rolls her eyes and tosses a packet of pepper flakes at me.
“So unserious,” she mutters, but there’s a smile on her face.
If only she knew how serious I am. If she did, would she put the brakes on things again? And is she really willing to be with me, an obviousdowngrade from her ex in terms of fame and fortune and…everything?
Chapter twenty-five
Kendra
After months cramped in Denise’s apartment to save on overhead, we finally had to bite the bullet and rent studio space. My heels click on the concrete floor as I do a spin in the center of the room. It’s beautiful.
The 400-square-foot converted loft space features stark white walls that won’t detract from the designs and large windows to let in plenty of natural light. We’ve been customizing the space over the last few sessions, bringing in all of Denise’s supplies from home (her sewing machine, bolts of fabric, sketch books, etc.), and chairs we found for cheap when an office went out of business around the corner. Denise’s friend Tiffany donated tables we’ll use for workstations, and I bought three new sewing machines for the tailors and seamstresses; they were delivered yesterday afternoon.
Denise’s text an hour ago said she was bringing in several dress forms, clothing racks, and all the design prototypes, so I got here early in case she needed help with the service elevator. Thank God she didn’t ask me to load the truck she rented; Manolos and hauling boxes don’t mix.
I turn when a key snicks in the lock and expect to see the woman of the hour, but find Cory instead. She must’ve enlisted his help as manual labor for the day.
“Hi, Cory!” I greet him, holding the door open as he struggles with the first of many heavy boxes.
