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4
Heather
You should leave? You should leave?What the heck was wrong with me? I lie in bed, the covers thrown back as I relive that kiss. Hell, Baxter was freaking sexy, and I want him. Want him so much it hurts. He was the sexiest man I’d ever not dated, and I was kicking myself for asking him to leave. I could have had a taste of all of him. Instead, I’d kicked him out.
Tossing and turning isn’t my thing. I get up to draw some fabric I’d wanted to create for something special. I have an intern, Michelle Cole, coming in today to work with me. Maybe she’ll enjoy giving me input on this fabric.
Close to one, I drop to the mattress and this time I sleep. I swear I don’t even roll over. The next morning, I think of texting Baxter, but our relationship is fake. Instead, I dive in. Work is chaotic and I have to take care of an issue in my Hollywood store. Worry hits me about five minutes into the conversation with the manager because I think I’m going to have to fly out there. I don’t want to miss seeing Baxter. He’s my fake fiancé and already he rates higher than any of the boyfriends I’ve had in the last few years. The sad state of my dating life depresses me.
I haven’t received a call from Baxter by the time I finish eating lunch. I stare at my phone, mulling over sending him a text when I open my email. He sent me an email instead of texting. It’s a little odd, but whatever. We’re meeting at a restaurant around the corner from my store at six. I decide to work late instead of heading home or out to do yoga.
Michelle steps in from off the street, lighting up the store. If only she would work in my shop, but she has better things planned for her life than being my sales clerk.
“Michelle, it’s good to see you.”
“Heather, thank you for letting me come in again today. I know you’re busy.”
I wave her back to my office. “Sure. I have some fabric I designed last night. I wanted to see what you had to say about it.”
“OMG, so exciting.”
We head to my office where fabric litters the table. Michelle goes over and starts touching the cloth. I was just like her when I’d been younger. I loved touching every fabric under the sun when I was her age. I still do. Fabric is my life.
My stomach twists as thoughts of Baxter surface. Maybe everything with Baxter will turn out okay. He’s a week-long interruption, and then I can get back to reality.
"Here we go." I pull my sketch pad out of my bag and open to the design I'd started last night. It was bold. I like browns and oranges, but this is in shades of blues—colors that complement Baxter's eyes. I was being silly. I roll my eyes before I turn to face Michelle.
“Oh my, it’s beautiful,” Michelle purrs.
“You like it?”
“God, yes. It’s gorgeous. I love it. I could see this as a dress.”
“I was thinking pants.”
“Pants would be good, but could you imagine wearing a dress in this beautiful fabric? You’d be the talk of the town.”
“It would be nice.” I could picture myself wearing this dress on Baxter’s arm. This afternoon, I’ll contact the company who weaves my fabric and see if they can get me in. I need this dress. A depressing thought hits. The design would be created too late. Baxter and I will only be together for a week. One week, that’s all I have to get my fill of him.
“Can I show you my drawings?” Michelle asks.
“I would love to see them.”
We spend the next two hours talking about dresses, looking at swatches, and working on a design for one of her classes. She is an amazing designer. Her style is different than what I design, but maybe that’s why we work well together.
Her phone buzzes and her lips twist as she rolls her eyes. “Ugh,” she says as she packs up her things.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, I just have to attend a family dinner. Yuck.”
I laugh because I have to attend a family dinner, but it is with my fake family. After Michelle takes off, I finish my work, helping out in the store after I’m done with orders. I love talking to customers, finding out what works for them. It’s one reason I designed my Hips collection. It isn’t just as stylish as the rest of my lines, it’s maybe a little more so. The collection was made for women who weren't slim through the hips. Even some skinny women had big hips based on their DNA makeup, and I'd seen more than one designer make their clothes to fit only women who had no hips. Since I wasn't just paying lip service, I had carved out a niche market where many high-end designers failed. I also catered to my heritage. I have mixed ancestry, not just African and Irish, but I have a little Asian thrown in from some great grandmother. I embrace it all, but my skin tones are obvious, I make sure my no apology style has plenty of African influence.
I choose a dress from my private stash of clothes in my office and hold it up. Maybe I should run next door and buy something a little more traditional. But, dammit, I’m not ashamed of my clothes.
My phone rings right as I slip out of my shirt and pants. It’s Baxter. His call sends my heart fluttering. “Hello.”
“Change of plans.”
