Page 127 of The Wrong Groom

I don’t care what this divorce means for Vérité or the Beaumont family’s social standing. I couldn’t give less of a shit. All I care about is this hollow feeling in my chest. My broken heart is consuming all of my energy and attention.

But I know that my parents’ reactions to the divorce will dredge up feelings I don’t want to feel. It’ll be another reminder of what I’ve lost, and I’m far from ready to go through that.

Eventually, the phone stops ringing. I pick it back up and slip it into my purse.

The driver pulls up to the curb outside of the Fashion For All warehouse. I step out and thank him, then turn to the entrance and take a deep, steadying breath.

Fashion For All isn’t a hive of activity anymore, now that the FlashUp camera crew isn’t buzzing around documenting everything for the platform. They disappeared the same day Gabriel sent over the divorce papers. If I had to guess, something in the writing dissolved the partnership between FlashUp and Fashion For All. I haven’t investigated the terms. I know it won’t change anything, and I don’t care either way.

I was never doing this for the cameras or the platform. This was always about fashion and helping people feel good about themselves. In fact, if the social media hype dies down a bit, that might be a good thing. It’ll give us the space to work, to build more sustainable ties with the community.

I’m the first one to arrive at the warehouse this morning. The designers typically show up around nine, and I want things to be ready for them when they get here, so I spend the next hour or so organizing the space and reviewing the design ideas we’ve been working on. The sunlight filters through the large, industrial windows, illuminating the space. It catches dust motes that linger in the still air.

I feel a small sense of control as I appraise the mood boards we’ve spent the past few days setting up. Swatches of fabric are pinned to the boards alongside cut and pasted photographs of the elements of nature we’re trying to evoke, like sun filtering through grass, or the foam that caps the waves off the Pacific coast.

At least there’s always going to be this. My work. This, I can handle.

The designers start to arrive, and steadily, the warehouse comes alive with activity. People start to show up for their scheduled classes or workshop time. I feel less alone here, surrounded by other people who share my vision. It’s a great team. I’m lucky to have all of them.

By the time my lunch break rolls around, I’m feeling more like myself. Of course, there’s still part of me that’s dreading the end of the day, when I’ll have to go back home to that awful, empty apartment. For now, though, a sense of purpose grounds me.

I head down the street toward my favorite lunch spot, Luca’s, which serves Italian street food and coffee, Mediterranean style. The place is open air, and everything is served in eco-friendly to-go containers, which makes it perfect for days when I might need to hustle back to the warehouse mid-bite. Today, though, I think I’ll take my time with lunch. It’s a beautiful day, and it’ll be good for me to spend the time outside.

The scent of freshly baked focaccia and espresso greets me as I step into the line. Luca’s is popular, but it’s worth the wait.

I settle into the queue, zoning out as my eyes drift over the chalkboard menu written in colorful, looping script. I’m not really reading it. I already know what I want. The caprese salad is my go-to. My mind wanders, and I let it. For the first time in days, the distraction isn’t unpleasant.

Then a lightly accented voice cuts through my reverie.

“Excuse me, Alexis? Alexis Beaumont?”

The sound of my full name startles me. I straighten, snapping out of my daze, and turn to find the source. Standing behind me is a tall man with sun-kissed skin and side-swept black hair that’s just tousled enough to look effortlessly cool. A faint shadow of stubble dusts his strong jaw, and when our eyes meet, he flashes a warm, easy smile that lights up his face.

“I thought so. I recognized you from your FlashUp content.”

My heart skips a beat, caught between flattery and awkwardness. I knew the Fashion For All series was doing well online, but I’ve never actually been recognized in public before now. I have no script for this situation.

“Oh,” I stammer, flustered. I shift my weight and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Um. Thanks, I guess?”

He laughs. “Not used to the spotlight?”

“No,” I say apologetically. “This is actually the first time this has happened to me.”

“Don’t worry, I mean it as a compliment. I followed you religiously for a while. Your work is really amazing.”

I offer him a more genuine smile. “Thanks. That means a lot. You a fashion buff?”

“Project Runway used to be a guilty pleasure,” he says. “Then I got less guilty about it once I realized that straight guys can appreciate fashion too.”

“Well, you’re certainly well-dressed,” I say. It’s true. He wears a perfectly fitted navy linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, paired with stone-washed jeans. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, though, I cringe. Oh, fuck, that was such an awkward thing to say. What the hell is wrong with me?

Luckily, he just laughs. “Coming from you, I’ve got to appreciate that.”

“Have you been able to come by the warehouse yet?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I just got back into town a couple days ago. I’m definitely planning to swing by, though. I mean, I’m not a designer, but⁠—”

“You’re not a designer yet, “ I point out.