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I looked over my shoulder, making sure we were alone before checking back with Dean, “Are you allowed?”
“Of course. I’m in charge of delivering the designs and making you comfortable.” He pointed to the book on the desk. “I already did half of my job, now I’m just trying to do the other.” He worked on uncorking the bottle, turning his back as I eyed the book.
“Could I take a look at them?” I asked, curious to see what was inside.
Dean looked over his shoulder, giving the most perplexing shrug. “Well, of course. You can have them back if you want.”
“Back?” I opened its pages to see what was inside. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—a stack of myowndesigns piled in a row, my initials inked at the bottom of the pages. It was everything, my colors, my patterns, my floral obsession. “Wait… I don’t understand.”
“Personally, I love them,” he clinked the glass that found its way into my hands. “I’m rooting for you, friend.”
“How did you even get these?” I blurted, more shocked than upset.
“Alex Rivers! He… gave them to Henri. I thought you knew.”
I looked up and around the room, searching for an answer, getting stuck on a photo on Henri’s desk. It was one of him and Dean, sitting on surfboards, kissing.
“Alex gave these to Henri?”
“Yes!”
“And wait, you’re his assistant?” I clarified, getting my answer from the narrowed expression on Dean’s face.
“Actually, he’s my husband…” A dulled French accent greeted from behind, entering into the office as I turned around. Henri St. La Vie pushed his way through the door, holding a stack of mail in his hand. A lady followed close by, taking feverish notes, on whatever he said before walking in. “I see Dean has already driven you to drink.”
I put the glass down quickly.
“Gemma was nervous.” Dean waved away, as if to brush off the criticism.
Henri adjusted the transparent frames of his glasses, fixing them against the bridge of his large nose. He swiftly kissed Dean on the cheek, making his way around the desk in a hurry. “We’re due downstairs at New York Prestige in twenty minutes, they are running a featurette on upcoming fall fashion.” He picked at his nails, not once making eye contact. “They’re wanting headshots and a confirmation of our attendance to the party this week.”
Henri then looked at me, his attention so intimidating that I nearly reached for my drink. I didn’t know what to say, but I hoped my nervousness wasn’t as noticeable as Dean had announced.
“I’m sure Gemma knows all about it,” Dean grinned.
“About a party? Wait… New York Prestige is here?” I turned to look backwards, imagining their logo slapping me in the face.
“We share the same building. What do you expect from the busiest skyscraper on Madison Avenue? Lots of style here, lots of fashion.” Henri answered, digging into the trash to fish out his cigarettes. He rolled up his sleeves, simultaneously lighting one up for a quick smoke. I hardly noticed the otherwise triggering sound of the lighter, but Dean rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed by the habit.
“You kept us waiting.” Dean scolded.
“Did I?” Henri scratched the sides of his dark peppered hair, using the tip of a single finger.
“Not at all.” I assured, clearing my throat, “I’m Gemma. Gemma Rose Harrison.”
“Mmmmhmmm.” Henri looked away, discovering an old coffee cup to store his ashes. He flicked the tip of his cigarette, taking back the book of designs I just held a moment ago. “Gemma, Gemma, Gemma.” He repeated, testing how my name sounded, drawing a line under my signature, his finger tapping on a sketch of a colorful summer dress.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.” I added, silently gauging the suppressed domineering effect he had on the room. He was very slow to respond, almost transfixed to the collage of paper and color he held in his hands, his expression positively unamused.
“Lilac is a loud color for spring,” he pointed to the design, still not looking at me. “Used…”
“I personally—”
“Periwinkle is more subdued,” he interjected. “More universal for day and night. My comment wasn’t a question…” He leaned over and removed a red pencil from his drawer, leaving a note on the design itself, “And you want to be a designer?”
“Is that a question this time?” I asked, making sure he wasn’t just talking to himself. He rested his chin on his palm and grinned, taking another hit of his cigarette.
“If you want to be one, I can make that happen for you.”
