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33
MIRANDA
“He’s keen,” Ethan said. “Can’t say I blame him.”
I paced about, something I’d become good at since meeting Lachlan.
He’d changed me—made me act deranged.
“This was probably not a great idea. I’m not over him,” I said at last.
Ethan tapped the cushion by his side. “Just sit down. I’m not going to hit on you.”
I joined him on the sofa. “The other night…”
“Don’t worry. It was nice, anyway.”
“We didn’t do much,” I said.
We’d just hosted an art show, and Ethan and I had had a bit to drink. We ended up smooching in a corner. His hands crept under my tank top, and it got steamy, though perhaps more for him. I felt numb, as though I’d desecrated something with Lachlan.
“He’s married,” an inner voice screamed, so I allowed Ethan’s hungry groping to continue in the hope of releasing Lachlan from my system. Instead, it increased my yearning for him.
Then like a scene from a movie, Lachlan climbed a wall to see me. How ridiculously romantic, if not touching too.
But I wasn’t going to be his mistress, regardless of his obvious disdain for Britney.
Ethan rose. “Okay. I’ll go.” He looked disappointed.
“Sorry.” I grimaced.
I walked him to the door and hugged him. “It’s probably better this way. We have to work together.”
“Sure.” He pecked my cheek and left.
A week had passed since Lachlan burst through my door, and in order to forget him, I threw myself into work.
With the fashion parade and exhibition of screen prints opening that night, Juniper and Jessie, her fabric designer, were arranging the clothes on racks and hanging their prints on the walls.
“This looks great,” I said, admiring the stock of limited-release T-shirts bearing surreal designs as well as Juni’s range of three-quarter-length unisex pants printed with graffitied scrawl.
Sam, Juni’s husband, brought in crates of his craft beer that Ethan and Clint helped carry into the kitchen, which was now fully equipped with two large fridges. A table had been set up for the beer, with Clint’s younger brother and sister there to serve drinks.
Everyone’s chipping in was what made the Artefactory special, giving it a great family atmosphere. And because of that, we’d hosted some fabulously inspiring shows. Trendy and well-attended, the Artefactory had steadily become a brand. Ethan had even designed a fun logo depicting an animated machine pumping out blobs of color.
I directed the six models Juni had hired for the fashion parade into my office. “It’s not much of a dressing room.” I pointed at a full-length mirror. “It’s pretty makeshift.”
“It’s great. I love this place,” Juni said. She was wearing floral flares and psychedelic wedges with a flower on top.
She hung the clothes to be paraded on a clothes rack.
“Can I help in any way?” I asked.
“No. It’s all good. Six outfits each. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” She turned to one of the beautiful girls and asked, “Allegra, have you met Miranda?”
We acknowledged each other and smiled.
“Yes, you’re Clarissa’s daughter. I met you at your house,” I said, struck again by how stunning she was with her big blue twinkling eyes and golden waist-length hair. And she was sweet. Even though men’s eyes had been all over her, she maintained a gentle and unassuming air.
