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I keep trying to arrange a time to catch up in person. To fit her out properly, but she always seems so busy from her messages but is so nice about everything that it’s not like work at all.
More like messaging a friend than a client.
“Another dress?” I ask Cynthia, pretending to push Brandon’s hands out from under my sweater, but really all ready for him once I hang up.
It’s like he can’t keep his hands off me and I don’t want him to either. Although my chest has been tender the last few days.
I’m wondering if it’s just from him grabbing it all the time?
We’ve been at it like rabbits for two whole weeks.
“Another one,” she echoes back to me. “The last one for a while, I promise,” she adds. “I don’t want you to feel overworked,” she says, and actually means it for once.
Pity, it’s too late.
Since I left I know they’ve felt more pressure, but they support me in my choice which is great. That’s the best thing about people outside my age group, they’re a lot more mature emotionally.
Most of the time anyway.
“Brandon’s finishing the workshop this week, so next time we’re down that way… should be in a few days, I can come in then,” I suggest.
Cynthia readily agrees and even renegotiates her pricing so I make more from each dress.
Funny how things change when they’re suddenly different.
Ending the call with Cynthia, I’m ready to deal with three hundred pounds of Brandon coming at me, but he seems preoccupied suddenly.
“Losing interest in me already?” I ask, meaning it as a joke, but he frowns, still not liking it when I talk like that, even in fun.
“Don’t even joke about it,” he cautions me, hooking his arms around me and kissing me tenderly on the mouth.
I hum in a low tone, the heat of his arousal pressing into my front letting me know he’s far from losing interest in me.
“I’m just wondering if you’re taking on too much,” he says, looking thoughtful.
“It’s the last favor for Cynthia for a while, and Brenda’s fine with waiting,” I add, trying not to smile.
“Is she?” Brandon asks, suddenly interested in my clients.
“Well, she hasn’t really set a date yet,” I add almost sounding cryptic, but it’s often hard to tell some things with Brandon.
Sometimes I’m not sure if he’s serious or messing around.
And he almost always has some sort of surprise up his sleeve for me. Whether it’s a spontaneous dinner date or flowers, or just him primed and at the ready when I look up from my work sometimes.
He studies me silently, looking me over. Like a doctor about to take my temperature or check my pulse.
“Just don’t overdo it, is all I’m saying. Stay fresh and keep the passion by doing just enough.”
I make a face. “Thanks, Plato. That’s pretty deep stuff right there,” I joke, but I know what he means.
“You could...” he starts to say again, like he’s suggested a hundred times already, but I always say no.
“No, Brandon. I won’t get someone else to do the work. They’re my creations because I do all the work. I can’t sell a dress as one I’ve made when I haven’t made it,” I argue, feeling my face grow hot and red, a little miffed that he keeps bringing it up.
“And all those big designers. The names on the catwalks and in boutiques. You think they all do every stitch by hand themselves?” he replies.
I growl and throw my hands in the air, because I know he’s right.
I hate it when he’s right
Moving into the huge workspace Brandon’s made for me, converting his double garage into what now looks like a clothing factory, I try to busy myself with something but I can feel him behind me.
Slowly getting closer until he holds me by the waist. My head falls back as I lean against him.
“I’m not nagging,” he murmurs.
“You’re just… nagging,” I reply, giggling before I turn to face him, letting him lift me up the way he does.
Like I’m light as a feather before I hook my legs around his taut waist.
“How is the Brenda dress coming along?” he asks suddenly, catching me off guard.
His interest in that particular dress is weird, but he tells me it’s only because it’s my first real big job and he’s only asking out of curiosity.
“I remember when I got my first solo contract,” he reflects with some nostalgia.
“I didn’t charge ‘em anywhere near enough and I had to borrow a ton of money just to finish the job,” he smiles. “I just want better for you is all, Ashlee,” he says earnestly.
“I’ve got my patterns laid out,” I tell him. “I’m just waiting on some fabric and lace from overseas,” I add, which is the truth.
Vintage fabric and lace from certain parts of the world aren’t too hard to find, but it is expensive and takes some time to arrive.
