Janice laughed. “We all know which fluid you’re here to contribute.”
Art stopped and turned back to her as they passed, beaming. “Why, Janice, I had no idea you knew me so well already.”
The Hawthorne matriarch laughed again. “I know your type, dear. Twenty years ago, I would have mounted you like a baboon myself.”
It was Art’s turn to laugh at the delightful and weird analogy. “You know I’m gay, right?” he asked, taking a few backward steps as both of them moved on with their business.
“It never stopped me in the past,” Janice called over her shoulder, loud enough for the entire lobby to hear, as she walked on. “My track record of seducing gay men is at seventy-two percent, so you’d better watch yourself.”
Art belted out a laugh and marched on to the studio wing. Not once in his life had he been curious enough about women to actually sleep with one, but if anyone stood a chance, it was Janice Hawthorne.
He was still giggling and shaking his head over the encounter when he entered Ryan’s studio. True to what Janice said, Ryan sat at his drafting table, sketching furiously. Papers surrounded him, several sheets on the floor. From what Art could see, most of the sheets contained aborted sketches of gowns and dresses, everything he would have assumed was typical of a high-end designer.
“Any luck with the spring collection?” he asked, stepping up to Ryan’s table jauntily.
Ryan let out a breath that sounded more like a roar than a sigh and snapped to face Art. “Two months,” he said, buzzing with panic, eyes wide and a bit bloodshot. “Two months is an insane amount of time to put together an entire collection.”
“Then why did you say yes?” Art asked, stepping up to Ryan and resting his hands on his friend and would-be lover’s shoulders. He squeezed and started to massage Ryan as he glanced over his shoulder at the drawings on the table. Really, they weren’t bad.
“I had to say yes,” Ryan groaned, rolling his head back slightly. “My entire career depends on it.”
“But does it?” Art asked, questioning the premise.
“It does,” Ryan said, strangely, without a lot of energy.
“Because?” Art continued to massage his shoulders.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder with a guilty look. “Let’s just say that when I left Milan, a lot of doors were slammed in my face.”
Art’s hands froze for a moment. Ryan still hadn’t fessed up with the whole story of why he left Giorgio Esposito’s fashion house. The answer was obvious to Art, of course. Some sort of sexual impropriety had probably happened. Something that was former-grad-student-on-top-while-lounging-beside-a-pool level of scandal.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Art asked, or rather purred against Ryan’s ear as he slid his arms down over his chest to hug him.
“No,” Ryan snapped without any humor at all. “I want to finish these designs so that I actually have something to show to the seamstress I’m supposed to have a meeting with this afternoon.”
Part of Art was tempted to pull back in offense and feel hurt because of Ryan’s rejection. A whole other part of him felt deeply sorry for the stress his crush was under.
He reached for one of the more complete designs on the table and picked up the paper. It was a rather fetching pantsuit with unique lines that drew attention to the shoulders.
“This looks really good,” he said.
Ryan sighed and some of the tension left his body. “It isn’t good enough. This show needs to wow people, utterly blow them out of the water.”
“Why?” Art asked, letting go of the paper and Ryan so he could pivot and stand directly beside Ryan.
Ryan looked up at him sullenly. “Because if I don’t turn heads in September, my career is over.”
“Is that true?” Art asked, doubting it.
Ryan looked like he wanted to argue that yes, it was. Instead, he puffed out a breath, rubbed his face, and said, “I don’t know. Fashion is a fickle business. People don’t get second chances.”
“Unless they’re talented,” Art pointed out. “If you ask me, I bet anything you put out will impress people because they’ll know how quickly you put it together. That has to be a stepping stone to other things. Raise eyebrows now, knock socks off later.”
Ryan stared at Art with a look Art couldn’t read. He was convinced he’d said the wrong thing until Ryan said, “You’re notsupposed to be this serious and brilliant. You’re supposed to be a saucy fuckboi.”
Art broke into a smile. “I am a saucy fuckboi,” he said, tempted to sit on the edge of Ryan’s table, but uncertain whether it would hold his weight. “I’m also a university professor with a PhD and a wealth of experience under my sassy belt.”
He’d spoken too seriously, despite trying to be funny. Ryan gazed up at him with an entirely new emotion in his eyes. It was hot and yearning, and if Art didn’t know any better, he would have said it was love.
