“Okay,” I say. Then I stop. Shake my head. Start again. “Okay, so. Today. Earlier. I got a call.”
His posture shifts subtly, and his lips fight back a smile.
“A call from whom?”
I drag in a breath. “From a fashion collective. Horizon. They’re doing an Emerging Designers Showcase in L.A. They said they reviewed my portfolio,” I continue, words spilling faster now, trying to keep up with the feeling. “That my work came through and they want to see everything in person. My designs. My concept boards. Finished pieces, unfinished ones.And then, if they like it, they’ll choose five or six looks for the show.”
I finally stop talking. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Dom looks at me with an odd, knowing expression. “That’s really good,” he says. “You deserve it,” he adds with a nod.
He steps closer to the island, attention drifting to the spread of sketches. He picks one up. Then another. His eyes move over them as if this isn’t courtesy, but something worth actually considering.
“This is strong,” he says, tapping the edge of a page. “So is this one.”
My smile turns shy without my permission. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He sets them down carefully with a faint smile. There’s something in it I can’t place.
“I just…” I hesitate, the doubt sneaking in where it always does. “I hope they didn’t call me because of… you.”
He stills. His gaze lifts from the sketches to my face, and whatever expression he was wearing fades into something more serious.
“No one makes that call unless the work holds up. Maybe they saw you next to me, heard your name through someone else, stumbled across your portfolio by accident.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “They don’t invite you unless the talent’s there.”
“When you put it like that…” I glance back at the designs.
“So even if I had something to do with how they noticed you,” he adds evenly, “that’s not why they called. They called because you’re good.”
“What do you know about fashion?” I tease, trying to hide the flutter his compliment sparks.
“Enough to mean what I say,” he shoots back with a smirk and places a bag on the counter in front of him.
He slides it toward me and I follow its path. “What’s that?” I ask, looking at the matte black bag.
“For you,” he says simply.
“For… me?”
“Yes.”
“You got me something?” I look at him in disbelief.
“Open it.” He points with his chin.
Suspicion creeps in.
“Jessica,” he says, flat and patient. “Open the bag.”
I hesitate, then reach for it slowly. My fingers slip inside and I lift out a full set of Caran d'Ache Luminance pencils. Alongside them, a case of matching professional markers—pristine, professional, and so far outside my budget.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I lift the box out of the bag. I’ve wanted these for years and never once let myself consider owning them. I look up at Dom, mouth still open.
“You…” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “You got these for me?”
