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I grit my teeth, wanting to punch her. I mean, if she thinks Jeanette is fat, what does she think of my curves? Not that I give two shits.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say coldly. “My job is to dress the models in a way that flatters them. I felt I had done so, quite well, actually. But there’s always room for... personal taste.”
I’m taking the blame, though there’s nothing wrong... with Jeanette, the dress, or my design work. I also pointedly look up at her hat, wrinkling my nose slightly.
“Well,” she huffs. She says more, but it’s in muttered French, and I can’t understand the rapid-fire, harsh spitting of words.
Spinning, she throws her scarf over her shoulder, slapping me in the face with it. But I’m more worried that the dead cat on her head is going to fall off and tumble to the floor, or maybe reanimate like some sort of zombie feline. It wobbles slightly, and though my first instinct is naturally to catch it, I step back. I don’t know what that is and I do not want to touch it.
I try to mingle more, but all I hear are people raving over Katarina’s collection. It’s completely warranted, but the comments that equate to ‘good try’ about my own work set me on edge. Seduction, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, and there’s room for all sorts of interpretations.
But when it came down to it at the club, when I was presented with all sorts of options, what I chose was also very similar to Katarina’s designs. Though on a much less luxe scale.
Maybe I did miss the mark with my vintage lingerie-inspired collection? I loved it, but maybe it wasn’t right for a competition setting.
I look around, not even realizing that I’m looking for Simon until I see him. I instantly feel better, the knot of anxiety in my gut relaxing just from seeing him.
He’s across the room, holding court with a group of people. They’re looking at him as though he’s a god, hanging on every word. I can understand why. He’s gorgeous, smiling and gesturing as he tells a story. One of the people in the group, a tall, lithe blonde, leans into him, laughing at whatever he’s said as she touches his forearm.
Simon doesn’t react, not flinching away nor encouraging it. Hell, I don’t know if he even notices. But I most definitely do. I want to rip her fingernails out from the quick for daring to touch Simon. Of course, she doesn’t know that’s unacceptable because he’s not doing anything about it, which worries me.
I get playing the game, but there’s still that voice in my head telling me that I’m not good enough. Not good enough for this competition given the collection I just put on the runway, and not good enough for Simon given he’s who he is and I’m who I am.
He takes a sip of his drink, looking away from the group to scan the room. His eyes find mine, and I see the fire burning there, even with the space between us. I lick my lips, wanting to run to him. I want him to take me in his arms and whisper reassurances in my ear. I want him to worship my body and distract me from tonight.
I want... him.
His kindness, his heart, his strength that lets my worries fade.
Someone in the group must say something because I blink and Simon is looking back at them.
Slowly, so as not to draw attention, I turn and make my way out of the warehouse space. It’s a short walk back to my apartment in the cool night air, with the lights of the city glowing all around me. It’s as beautiful as it is every night, but tonight it feels... lonely.
