Page 51 of The Trouble with Flings

“Yeah, I can see that by the way you’re clutching them to your chest.” Mia grabs my jacket sleeve and says, “Come on. The closet awaits.”

“Have fun,” Riley calls after us.

Mia tugs me into the closet, which isn’t a closet at all, but a massive treasure trove of designer outfits. The walls are lined with designer heels, boots, and every other type of shoe imaginable. Accessories dangle from hooks and hangers, and the rest of the space is filled with racks of JRB Designs. There are pieces from past collections, styling extras for last-minute meetings and photo shoots, and even a few one-of-a-kind pieces that were too bold for the runway but too beautiful to toss.

Mia closes the door and spins around as I set the enormous vase on a table that’s covered with a variety of fabric belts. “Are those from Fitz?”

“Who else would send me a bouquet the size of a small child?” I hate the way Mia’s eyes light up like the flowers are evidence of something, when they’re not. Yes, Fitz sent me gorgeous flowers, and yes, they made my heart sing in a way it hasn’t in a very long time. He’s a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I should put my heart on the line when I know what that brings in the long run. I take off my coat and hang it on the end of a clothing rack. “Don’t sound so excited about it.” It only confuses me more.

“You have a nice, hot, sex machine of a guy pursuing you, and you haven’t kicked him to the curb yet. I’m allowed to be excited.”

“Whatever. It’s your energy.”

She starts flipping through a rack of dresses, pulling several out to give them a once-over, then putting them back. “So…where do things stand with you guys?” she asks casually, her eyes still trained on the clothes, which means she’s decided this conversation requires strategy.

Smart woman, my sister.

“We still text every night,” I say, moving to another rack and looking through it.

“And?”

“And nothing.” I don’t tell her that it’s the highlight of my day or that I love how he asks about my work and about the programs and my life. Because if I tell her that, she’ll give me a hard time about not taking it further.

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No.” I pull out a gorgeous dusty-rose slip dress with thin straps and a delicate lace hem and assess it. “He doesn’t push, which is either very respectful or strategic. I haven’t decided which.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Mia suggests. “Maybe he knows you well enough to realize that pushing would send you running.”

I don’t respond, because she’s probably right, and I’m not in the mood to hear a lecture about it.

“You can’t hide forever, Jen.”

“I’m not hiding. I just told you we text.”

“You know you’ll see him at Jared’s opening.” Mia holds out a cobalt-blue dress sheath with a slight A-line flare and a deep V in the back.

“So?” I take the dress and hang it on the try-on rack without looking at it, distracted by that particular fact, which I’ve been trying to ignore. My pulse quickens at the thought of seeing him again.

“So you’ll be there in a killer new dress, and who knows what’ll happen.”

I shake my head, pulling out a black crepe dress with asymmetric draping at one shoulder. “You’re such a hopeless romantic.” I set the dress aside to try on and say, “Some of us are perfectly happy single. Can we please just find me something to wear and not make this into a therapy session?”

She gives me a look, then turns back to the rack without another word, which is somehow louder than if she pushed. A few minutes later, she pulls out a mauve wrap dress with a deep V-neck and flutter sleeves.

“That’s beautiful,” I say.

“I think so, too.” She hangs it on the try-on rack. “I’m just saying that I think this thing between you two is more than nothing.”

“Mia, stop pushing Fitz on me.” I find an emerald-green dress with a diagonal neckline and capped sleeves. “What about this?”

“That’s the one I told you about. I love it.” We choose three more outfits, and she says, “For the record, I wasn’t pushing Fitz on you. I’m merely pointing out that you’ve been texting for two months, and you can’t give him up, so maybe…”

“No. I’m not going to lay my heart on the line just to get it trampled on.”

“Then give him to Shea,” she says frustratedly.

“That’s not happening.”