“This one is a clean-line suit with raised seams. I want gold stitching here.” She taps the lapel. “Andthis one is a modernized bias-cut dress; the fabric will drape right here. See?”
Passion pours out of her—pure, unfiltered, unapologetic. This girl has fire. Not the polished, fake kind I see at sponsor galas.
It’s intoxicating. My chest warms watching her bring designs to life, her excitement tangible.
She taps another sketch, leaning closer, eyes shining. “And the hem here—I want it to move. When the model walks, it’ll float instead of swish.”
So she’s not only beautiful and smart.
Not only hot enough to derail my life, not only mouthy and able to get under my skin—she’s also incredibly talented and passionate.
“Has anyone seen your designs?”
The question catches her off guard. “I mean, yeah. I post them online, and I wear them—”
“I meant someone in the industry. Have you shown your stuff to someone in the industry?” I clarify, and she looks at the drawings on the counter.
“Well, no… but they will. I already have some names written down.”
I know someone who could actually launch a career like hers. This deserves more than a few thousand views. It deserves a runway with her name on it.
I don’t want her reading that on my face, so I force something flat. She looks at me, waiting for validation.
“Yeah, well, nice doodles.”
Her face falls immediately.
Fuck.
I wasn’t ready for how awful it feels to see her dim like that. It hits somewhere I don’t like.
“Yeah, thanks.” She turns back to the stove, quiet now, trying to swallow the disappointment.
I want to punch something. I want to punch myself. She showed me something she clearly cares about, and I stomped on it.
My chest squeezes.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and grab one of the sketches. She doesn’t turn; she already accepted my stupid lie.
I look at the paper. It’s a men’s suit with sharp shoulders, a tapered waist, gold thread tracing each muscle. It shouldn’t work, but it’s brilliant.
“What’s this one?”
She pauses and slowly turns. I hold the sketch up. Suspicion mixes with surprise on her face.
“That’s a… suit.”
“How did you come up with the gold stitching?”
“The gold stitching?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Explain it to me.”
She hesitates, as if unsure I’m actually interested. Then her spark returns.
“Well, the gold stitching,” she says, pointing, “frames the body without being flashy. The shoulder seam is raised slightly to give more shape. I wanted the cut to accent muscle without being suffocating.”
My chest warms.
