AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Nora? Are you okay?”
Is she really that upset about my having dinner with Simon? I didn’t even tell her about the kiss at the club or the way his body responded to my touching him. Or maybe more importantly, the wayIfelt touching him.
“Do you need me to call David for you? Or is Clay still in the office?” I’ve never felt so helpless, but from thousands of miles away, I can’t do much more than call someone else to help her.
Nora appears back onscreen with a tissue pressed to her face, which has gone pasty greenish-white. “Ugg, sorry. My belly has been giving me fits lately. I keep asking Clay if he’s getting hemp milk in my coffee, but he swears he isn’t.”
“Are you really okay?” I ask again, not sure even though she’s already pinking back up. “You’re not getting an ulcer from missing me, are you?”
The silly joke brings a watery smile to her face, and she nods. “I’m fine. Just need to gargle a little, cut out the coffee, and I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, need to get your shit straight and design your ass off. Be careful with Simon. I don’t want you to mess up a possibly great thing.”
“I hear you,” I promise.
“Okay, I’m going to let you go. I’m suddenly starving now that my dinner is gone. But call me if you need anything—design or dick related.”
“Drink some water! Your kidneys will thank you,” I add before we hang up.
I think about what Nora said. Am I ruining a great opportunity here? Or is dinner an additional adventure? And what the hell does a man like Simon Corbin see in me?
I’m not down on myself. I know I have certain assets. I mean, I have seen my tits. But on a scale of one to ten, I’d give myself a solid and respectable 7.9, with the extra 0.9 being for the unusualness of my hair and freckles. But on that same one to ten scale, Simon’s a conservative twelve. It’s weird, especially considering he’s in the fashion industry too, where thin is always in, something I vehemently disagree with.
I’m still trying to decide about dinner and Simon as I get dressed and make my way to the workroom. Yori and Molly are already hard at work and barely look up in greeting. Yori is squatted down, looking over a swath of fabric she’s spread out on the floor.
“That’s pretty,” I say about the abstract floral she’s eyeballing as though it offended her entire family line.
Yori glances up. “It doesn’t fit the theme, but I like it.”
I can see her point. Though it is floral, it’s black and gray and would be more suitable for a winter design, or springtime for Goths. “Maybe work with it and play around. If the result isn’t what you want, you can always cut it out of the final show. You’ve got to respect your muse, though. Sometimes, she knows more than you do.”
“Arigato,” she says, her eyes still locked on the fabric.
I settle in at my worktable and begin pulling together fabrics for the designs I worked on last night.
At some point, Katarina and Beatrice come in. Together, but working on our own projects, we make magic happen. We chat about fashion and our families while we work. At some point, when Molly starts growling at a particularly ornery sewing machine, we even have a dance party to break the stress.
As bass beats fill the space, we make our own circle, cheering each other on through moves that are more silly than sexy. As Katarina unironically does the sprinkler, I break out some sick ‘jump around with your hands in the air’ moves. Molly acts like she’s making it rain dollar bills over Beatrice who’s doing her best with a step-touch. She was much looser on the dance floor at the club, but that was after a drink or two, so that’s understandable. Surprisingly, given her previous awkwardness on the dance floor, Yori is the best of us all, especially when she breaks out in a moonwalk.
Laughing and catching my breath, I say, “Damn, I needed that.”
We drift back to our tables as the models come in for a daily check-in. Jeanette and I work together on a pair of shorts out of the pink polka-dot fabric, and once they’re finished, I consider what else I’d like to add to them. Jeanette looks in the mirror with me and then makes wiggling fingers by the hem. “Frou-frous?”
I don’t know what she’s talking about at first and then it hits me. “Ruffles!”
But not just any ruffles. I gather the fabric into small, tight, precise pleats. It’s perfect—classic, with a twist. And it would be better at the waistline to emphasize or create curves depending on the wearer.
“Yes!” I hug Jeanette in excitement as the image comes together and run for the sewing machine.
Work is rarely quiet, with conversation bubbling around the room constantly. Of course, in a room full of ten women, all of them in fashion, men and clothes seem to be our favorite topics. Whether it’s stories of old flames, favorite ‘bloopers’, or just gossiping, we never seem to run out of things to say.
Really, it feels like I’ve found a sisterhood. The Sisterhood of Sewing Pants, perhaps? I don’t know, but it’s a good feeling. I’m having the most fun since fashion school. It totally doesn’t feel like a competition. It’s more like working with co-workers who have the same passionate mindset I do.
As it gets later, the models leave, and we begin to head out to our own apartments as well. Gathering my tablet and a few fabric samples, I decide to head home.
I haven’t seen much of Paris yet, only the walk from my apartment to House Corbin, but I’m looking forward to exploring... eventually.
At home, I get ready to go out quickly, though I force myself to slow down as I apply mascara. The truth is I’m a hell of a lot better with clothes than I am with makeup, so I have to take my time to ensure that I don’t end up looking like an escaped rabid raccoon from the zoo or something.
Part of it is my nervousness. I still don’t understand what this is that’s developing between Simon and me. I feel like the sexual tension between us is off the charts, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure whether that’s real or just my horniness. All I know for sure is that every time he’s near, it puts me on edge. I don’t know if I want to slap him, kiss him, or throw him to the ground to mount him like a cowboy gets on top of a bucking bronco.
