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2
Heather
I’m not gonna lie; I love New York. It’s not what I expected, but I still love it. I’d been warned about how bad New York City was when I’d moved from LA, but they’d been wrong. The city, the people, everything is so much different from LA. I like the people, the community, and yes, I even love the subway. My sweet little walk-up on the west side, just south of Columbia University, is perfect.
I still have a store in LA and one in San Francisco, and a couple of large retailers want my items, but I’m not sure I want my line available so widely. Exclusivity keeps me in high demand. I was weighing developing a line for a midline retailer but offering my clothes at Target would change everything.
One thing which helps me think is yoga. I’m in the middle of warrior two in a field close to the Great Lawn in Central Park when my phone rings. Honestly, I thought of ignoring it but I can’t, not with everything I have going on.
“Hello, Heather here.”
The person on the other end clears their throat then silence ensues. I’m about to ask if anyone is there when they speak.
“Hi, um, Heather.”
The voice takes me way back and a mix of pleasure and pain hits. God, I’d been stupid sending him a note. In my defense, I’d consumed a half bottle of chardonnay. I mean I wanted to see him, but the reality of facing Andrew has me shaking.
“Andrew Delany Baxter-Scott the fifth or is it the sixth, I can’t remember,” I say, trying to keep the feelings out of my voice.
He chuckles, and my heart squeezes. That chuckle had invaded my dreams for years.
“I go by Baxter now.”
“Of course you do.” Everyone in college who didn’t like him had called him Bastard. I’d defended him, losing more than one friend over that name.
“Um, so I was wondering, you know if—”
“Spit it out, Baxter.” In college, if he didn’t want to tell me something, he would stammer. It makes me sad to remember so much from that time.
“Would you like to meet for drinks tonight?”
I wipe my face with a towel. A one of a kind HipFeather—that’s me, HipFeather—towel that had been sold in my boutique in Hollywood since last year. I’m going to say no, but I’d been the one to send the first note. I need to see him to know I’d dodged a bullet. Plus, I need a diversion. My best ideas hit me after a distraction.
“Sure. Where and when?”
“So could you meet me at Red Fire off Madison at 76th in twenty minutes?”
Baxter has me intrigued. “I don’t know.” I gather my water bottle and start walking that way. I want to pull his chain and hold back a giggle as he sighs.
“Please, I could throw in dinner too.”
More than curious, I pick up my pace. “Okay, if you toss in dinner. A girl’s gotta eat.”
He blows out a breath that is full of frustration. “Thank you. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
I roll my eyes and skip a little as I approach the Met. I’ll be dressing two women at the huge gala next month. It’s an honor. My clothing line is quirky, more do yoga in the Great Meadow and grab coffee with friends kind of clothes, not Met Gala type of designs. I do have a few dresses and casual occasion clothes I’ve developed over the years, but I’d caught the eyes of a few women in Hollywood. Since the women had both asked for me specifically, I couldn’t say no, not that I ever would. I mean come on; it is the Met Gala.
“Baxter, I’ll be there, and you’d better be prepared to explain everything.”
I hang up and hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. I tug down my crocheted shirt, taking it from right under my bra to a near bellybutton covering crop. It was one of my favorite pieces because it was so versatile. My hair had been in a band to tame it for most of the day, and I pull the band out, letting the curls go wild. I'd been trying to go natural, but fear of past inequalities had me conscious of what some people thought. I know, it was ridiculous to be so self-conscious. My brand was about breaking free, being yourself, and here I was afraid to let my hair do its own thing. A quick look at my reflection in my phone confirms I’m presentable. If someone doesn’t like my hair, that’s their problem.
The walk to the bar takes ten minutes. Surprise hits me when I see Baxter already at the location. An intense expression covers his face, one I remember well from college. I’d been on the receiving end of his ire more than once. Maybe I was twisted, but I take great pleasure in riling him up. Usually, I don’t even try to get under a guy’s skin, but with Baxter, it was almost a requirement.
He glances up, and a horrified expression crosses his face. His judgmental attitude hasn't changed much in the years since school, but back then he'd let his judgment fall on others. One thing I would never do was apologize for my clothes, my look, and I would stop apologizing for my hair. Sure, my designs were different from what most people wore, but my clothes were for women who were secure in their skin no matter their size.
I march over and pull him in for a hug. “Calling you Baxter is going to take some getting used to.”
His body stiffens, and I almost lose my nerve.
