“Harry. We’ve been dating for three months, and last weekend I introduced him to Carter. They built LEGO and played video games for four hours, and I got to read a book. Then Carter went to bed and?—”
“I don’t need to know what happened then,” I interrupt. I respect my sister’s right, as an adult woman, to have a sex life, but I really don’t need to know the details. “I’m happy for you, Pen, and hopefully I’ll get to meet him soon. Maybe we can FaceTime?” Even if this guy turns out to be a whole golf course of green flags, I still want him to see me glare at him and know I can pound him into mush if he hurts Penny.
“Well, actually… he’s got family in Vegas, and we were thinking of spending Christmas with them. Would you maybe want to?—”
“Yes. Of course. Let me know when you’ll be there, and I’ll book a hotel. I’ve got a couple of friends there I can visit when you’re doing stuff with his family.”
“Harry says you should come to his parents’ place for Christmas dinner. They do a whole big thing and invite a lot of friends and neighbors.”
I can’t imagine anything worse. “I’ll see. I might spend it with my buddies, since I haven’t seen them in a while.” Or in the hotel bar… or getting major dental work. Either would be better than a big family Christmas with a lot of people I don’t know.
We talk for a little longer, and Penny sounds genuinely happy when she hangs up. I’m glad—she deserves it. Carter’s dad was the love of her life, and when he died, right before Carter was born, she was convinced she’d never be happy again.
Fuck knows she wasn’t with the most recent douchenozzle.
Vivi crawls into my lap and curls up, and I pet her precious ears. “How’s a trip to Vegas for the holidays sound, darlin’?”
Midmorning the next day,I get an email with secure links to the 3D modeling for Margaret’s dress. It’s from Phil, surprisingly,not Calla. I guess the ban on speaking to plebs like me only applies to verbal communication.
Hi Griff,
It was great meeting you yesterday, and I’m glad our vision for Margaret is mostly aligned. As discussed, I’ve included 3D models both with and without the overskirt, and I’m sure you’ll see why the skirt is necessary to the design. To give an idea of our vision, I’ve used some of the sample fabrics we showed you, but the final decision hasn’t been made yet.
If Margaret or you would like some changes made to the embellishments, we’re able to do that, especially if you have specific accessories you’d like to use.
Calla and I look forward to working with you! She’ll be in touch later today with information for Daria’s order.
Best wishes,
Phil Marchand
Co-owner & Head of Design
Phallacy
I scoff. I’ll see why the overskirt is necessary, will I? Doubtful. And wow, suddenly he’s verbose, almost chatty. Anyone who wasn’t at the meeting yesterday would think that we’d talked for hours and got along like a house on fire.
“What’s made you all grumbly and scowly?” Adam asks, then makes a hm sound. “Although, that’s normal for you, somoregrumbly and scowly?”
I shoot him a dirty look, then stab the button to open the models. While they’re loading, I say, “This dickhead—” Fuck. I glance toward Damian’s office, but the door is closed. Still… “The designer thinks he’s right about something that I know is wrong, and I’ll prove it in just a second.”
“Oooh. I love drama with designers when it’s not me who has to deal with it.” He rolls his chair over to my desk so he can see my screen. “Who’s the designer, and what are they wrong about?”
The first model, with the overskirt, finishes loading, and Adam gives a little gasp. It does look good, though I still think it’s overdone. “Phil Marchand at Phallacy,” I tell him. “He thinks this”—I wave at the screen—“looks better with the overskirt than with?—”
My voice dies as the second model loads. Adam and I both study the screen silently, eyes flicking between the two looped videos as the 3D figure rotates 360 degrees to show the gown from all angles.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and Adam pats my shoulder commiseratingly.
“I’m glad you see it. I didn’t want to be the one who had to say you were wrong.”
I stare at the dress without the overskirt. It’s… fine. Beautiful, even, and still a lot of fun, with the embellishments and richly printed fabric.
But it lacks the stunning impact that the original design has, and I swallow my bitterness. “I hate that he’s right. That fucker,” I mutter.
“Whoa,” Adam says. “That’s… harsh. I get being annoyed that you weren’t right, but didn’t the Marines teach you that names hurt?”
I blink, then slowly turn to look at him. “What exactly do you think Marines do?”
