I shrug as I reverse the car into a parking spot. “How would I know? I’m not there yet.”
“Stop dawdling, then,” she teases. “Are we still having dinner tomorrow?”
Turning off the engine, I grab my phone, check my hair in the rearview mirror—I donotwant to be compared to “a bird with ruffled feathers” like one of my castmates was a couple ofmonths back—and get out of the car. The garage I parked in is supposedly just a block from the Phallacy… offices. Or studio. Whatever fashion designers call their headquarters.
“Probably. Damian said he’d have my new clothes today, so plan on it, but I’ll confirm with you later.”
“Sounds good. Have fun!”
We end the call, and I tuck my phone into my jeans pocket as I approach my destination. Damian called this morning to tell me what to wear, which was an experience I haven’t had since I was a kid and my mom decided she was too embarrassed by my choices to let me pick my own clothes. She gave that up when I was a teen, thankfully, but my wardrobe was mostly jeans, tees, and hoodies by that stage, with sweatpants for variety. That hasn’t changed much over the years—except for the “public” clothes that my stylist picked, I still mostly stick to the same basics.
Which is why when Damian told me to wear “the jeans you had on when we met and a plain tee, preferably dark red to suit your skin tone,” I could obey.
The building I enter houses multiple businesses, and the handy directory by the elevator tells me Phallacy has the whole of the third floor. When I get there, though, the reception desk is abandoned, and there’s literally nowhere for me to go—the rest of the floor is behind a locked door. I rattle the handle just to make sure it won’t open, then go back to the high-fronted desk to see if there’s a bell or something.
The door opens before I get there.
“There you are,” Damian says. He’s standing with a smiling woman who I’m instantly sure is a fashion person, though I couldn’t say why.
“Hi. Am I late? Sorry.” I cross toward them, and they stand back to let me through the door.
“No, you’re fine. Meet Calla Gardner, one of the owners of Phallacy. Calla, this is?—”
“Kane Fortney,” she interrupts, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m a fan. Phil and I are so excited to dress you.” Her gaze skims down my body and then back up, and she gives Damian a significant look. “You were so right. The green linen shirt is going to look incredible on him.”
Well, that’s nice to hear. “It’s great to meet you.” I glance around the open area we’re standing in. There are two sewing machines with people bent over them, a bunch of tables pushed together to make a big square with rolls of fabric and sheets of paper abandoned on it, a couple of desks with computers and more paper, and a few doors in the wall at the far end. I really hope Damian knows what he’s doing, because this doesn’t seem big enough of an operation to give me what I’m hoping for.
“Come through and meet Phil,” Calla continues. “And then, if you don’t mind, we’ll get you to try on the toile?”
I follow her and Damian to the other end of the room. “The what?”
Damian chuckles, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s a practice version of your suit, to make sure everything looks right before they cut the expensive fabric.”
Huh. That’s smart. I never really thought about how clothes are made. “Oh. Yeah, that’s fine.”
We stop in front of one of the doors, and Calla pats my arm. “Thank you. It’s not usually needed for a tux, but since we didn’t take your measurements for ourselves, we’d like to take the extra step. Not that we don’t trust Damian’s measurements, but…” She trails off with a rueful shrug.
“No offense taken,” he assures her. “I’d have done the same.”
She smiles gratefully at him, but it fades to a serious expression as she turns to me. “I’m a fan,” she repeats what she said earlier, “but if you’re mean to Phil, I’ll kick you out myselfand I don’t care if it loses us Damian’s goodwill.” There’s a faint tremor on the last word that makes the statement a lie, but I’m too busy being offended to care.
“Why would I be mean? Did someone tell you I’m mean? I’m not mean!” Oh my god, do people think I’m mean? Why? Does my publicist know about this, and why didn’t she tell me?
“Nobody said you’re mean,” Damian assures me. “Calla gives everyone this warning, me included. Phil’s shy, and some people aren’t nice about it.”
“Oh.” That’s a relief. “I won’t be a dick, but it’s fine if he’d rather not meet me or anything.”
Calla’s smile is tinged with relief. “No, he wants to meet you. Just don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk much.” She knocks on the door and opens it before I can reply, so I shut my mouth and follow her inside.
The guy looking up from the desk is around my age, maybe a bit younger, with red hair and the pale, freckled skin that often goes with it. He’s built slim like me, but I think he might be taller. It’s hard to tell from the way he hunches in. He doesn’t say anything as he puts down his pencil, gets up, and comes around the desk.
“Kane, meet my business partner and Phallacy’s chief designer, Phil Marchand. Phil’s a fan, too,” she adds, and Phil’s mouth turns up in a tiny smile, even as hot color floods his face.
“I’m glad to meet you,” I say, but I don’t offer to shake hands, just in case he’d rather not. “Damian tells me I’m going to love your work.” I grimace. “I’m not so great with fashion.”
The smile widens, color receding slightly, and he speaks. “That’s my job. All you have to do is look good wearing it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
