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Remembering Liam and Phoebe, I contemplate texting both of them just to say hello. A part of me misses them terribly—even Liam—and the other part of me tells me to let them be for now. Wesley’s rule echoes in my head, and the last thing I need is another battle with Mr. Unpredictable.
If I want a chance to build my life here, I need to distance myself from them and spend more time with Wesley and Flynn.
And Wesley keeps me busy, anyway.
I remember how Liam and I would lie on his bed for hours on end, watching television shows or talking about random things. Wesley’s the polar opposite. When he’s with me, he keeps me on my toes. There’s never a moment to stop and talk. It’s unimaginable that something so simple can be so difficult with him.
The coffee doesn’t help calm my anxiety. I decide to leave home early and get a start on the day and try not to remind myself for the hundredth time that Emerson and Wesley are meeting up around lunchtime.
Their meeting’s going to happen downtown. I didn’t ask too much because the less I know, the better as far as I’m concerned. That fact, though, doesn’t stop me thinking about it, and it’s not like me to be so obsessive over something, or should I say, someone.
***
“Don’t you just love this fall line that Emerson will wear in New York?” Aurora hands me her iPad. The designs are beautiful, long coats and earthy colors. “I was also thinking about a line for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you do have this eclectic style, very…
um… what’s the word I’m looking for?” She brings her finger to her lip, tapping while she’s thinking. Her eyes light up the moment it comes to her. “Retro.”
“Um… thanks, I guess.” I smile politely, unsure if she’s complimenting or ridiculing me. “What were you thinking?”
Aurora’s iPad is her life. She carries it around like a priest carries a bible. It’s even covered in a Louis Vuitton case which is specially designed for her.
On the screen are some sketches and designs of dresses, different from the ones she showed me earlier for Emerson. I really like what she has planned for me to wear. I just can’t justify or afford to splurge on anything right now.
“It’s really nice of you, Aurora. It’s just that I can’t afford to spend money right now. Part of me working this job is to pay for my mom’s care.”
She laughs, slapping my shoulder gently. “Don’t be silly. It’s part of your package. Didn’t Emerson tell you that?”
I shake my head, distracted by my cell ringing. “Speak of the devil—”
“Milana!” Emerson’s high-pitched voice barrels through the speaker, forcing me to distance my cell until the echoing stops. “I need your help!”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, worried.
“Yes… no. I don’t know. Can you meet me in the office in twenty minutes?”
“Of course. I’m only a few blocks away.”
Emerson says goodbye, giving me no inkling as to what’s happening. When Aurora asks what’s going on, I shrug, unsure of why Emerson sounded panicked. We part ways, Aurora heading to a fabric meeting and me to the office.
It takes me only around ten minutes to get there, and thankfully, I don’t trip during my sprint to get to the office on time. I’m wearing my black pumps, the pointy ones that go with every outfit but aren’t designed for running, along with my A-line charcoal dress, coupled with a black patent belt. The dress—also not designed for running—bunches up around my waist which I fix in the elevator.
My hair is braided back and away from my face. I thought long and hard about cutting it since the heat and long hair don’t particularly mix, but I’ve erred on the side of caution wondering what Mama will think. It’s always been her thing, and I’m not sure why it never bothered me so much until now.
Jana, Emerson’s receptionist, tells me to head to the boardroom where Charlie is sitting, laptop in front of her and a stack of papers. She lifts her head to greet me, brushing her hair away from her face in annoyance. “Hi, Milana. Glad you’re here early. We’ve got a lot to work on.”
“Emerson told me to come straight away, but I have no clue what’s—”
Behind me, the sound of feet tapping against the tiles cuts me off. Charlie looks up, smiles quickly, though forced, and then stands to extend her hand. The hand reaches past me—manly, slight hair on the knuckles and fingers—the same ones that have traced all over my body.
Breathe.
Repeat.
Shit.
