He shrugs and smiles dreamily. “I don’t know, but all those ripped, hunkalicious men hanging out together and getting sweaty on runs? Definitely you sit around shirtless watching gay porn and talking about your innermost feelings while eating candy and braiding each other’s hair.”
I lift my hand to touch my hair, which is longer now than it was when I was enlisted, but still not long enough to need braiding. “Uh-huh. I understand why knowing me for the past three years has given you that impression.”
Adam clutches imaginary pearls. “No! Say it isn’t so! I thought you were an anomaly—the antisocial stereotype who proves the rules of fabulosity. Now you’re telling me my dreams arelies?”
I grunt but can’t help adding, “Fabulosity isn’t a word.”
He sniffs. “Darling, anything’s a word if you want it to be. Just say it with your whole chest.” The leer that forms on his face would be creepy if I didn’t know he’s kidding around… and that I could bench press him. “And you havesomuch chest to say it with.”
Just another day at the office.
“But anyway, why are you so shitty with Phil Marchand? He’s a sweetheart and I love him.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, everyone seems to. Doesn’t it bother you that he acts like he’s better than us all?” The question bursts from me, fueled by irritation and bile, and I immediately regret it. Damian lets us get away with a lot, but I’ve always tried to maintain a standard of professionalism. The Marines taught me discipline and structure, and that’s hard to let go of.
“Phildoes? Are we talking about the same person? Red hair, cute smile, taller than me but not as tall as you? Designs incredible clothes? You think Phil acts like he’s better than… anyone?” His outright disbelief has me faltering for a second.
“Doesn’t he? What else would you call it when his partner warns people not to upset him and then he doesn’t bother to speak for a whole meeting about an important client?” I amnotmaking this up… except Adam is shaking his head slowly, an appalled expression on his face. My stomach sinks. I don’t know what he’s about to say, but I’m positive it’s not going to be good for me.
“Griffin, Phil Marchand has anxiety and selective mutism. If he didn’t talk to you, it’s because you scared the fuck out of him and hecouldn’t.”
Well, fuck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PHIL
I’dlow-key planned to spend the weekend working—without telling Calla, who, in the hopes of getting me to work less on weekends and have an actual social life, invented a rule that if I work, she has to as well. It’s a stupid rule, since her work involves a lot of dealing with clients and suppliers and my work involves me getting to draw clothes and use my sewing machine, both of which I love, but arguing with Calla is like arguing with a rock. She doesn’t listen, and I’m not going to change her mind.
That analogy sounded a lot better when it was a concept in my head.
Anyway, the plan goes out the window on Friday afternoon when Polly drops by the office and insists we’re all going to Disneyland with him for the weekend. I’m appalled, of course—crowds and I do not get along, and weekends are when the crowds at Disneyland are worst—but I don’t want to pass up the chance to hang out with my friends, and I know they’ll take care of me. They always do.
By midafternoon Saturday, I’m leaning against a fence beside Butch and Harold, waiting for Polly and Jordan to finish signing autographs.
“I guess a ball cap and sunglasses aren’t a good enough disguise when you’re a professional ball player,” Butch says, heavy on the sarcasm, as Xera comes back from concessions and hands out sodas and churros.
“Those dumbasses,” she agrees fondly. “But I can’t say I’m mad about the chance to stand here, eat, and heckle them.”
Harold perks up. “We get to heckle?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before calling, “Hey, Polly! Are you a construction site? Because your form issolid.”
He gets some weird looks and a few chuckles from the small crowd of adoring fans. I don’t think Polly hears him, but Jordan laughs and winks at us before turning back to the little kid whose shirt he’s signing.
“Maybe go easy on the heckling,” Butch suggests. “Some of those people look rabid.”
Shrugging, Harold says, “Sports people are all a little rabid in some way. So, Phil.” He turns to me, his tone indicating a change of subject. “Calla said you have some very cool new clients.”
I glance over at where Calla and Blaise are handling crowd control for our famous athletes. She wouldn’t have mentioned names because our contracts include an NDA at this early stage—especially for red-carpet designs—but I wish she hadn’t said anything. I still feel like Griff Pevensy hates me and this might all fall apart.
“Yeah,” I say at last.
Xera studies me. “You don’t seem excited.”
I shake my head. I’m still verbal today, but not very. I probably wouldn’t be if my friends weren’t allright here, or if a stranger came up and wanted to talk. It’s weird how one person who was predisposed to be nice in my safe-space office was too much for my anxiety to take, but being surrounded by literally thousands of people in an uncontrolled environment is okay because I’m in kind of a separate bubble. It’s impossibleto explain, and I kind of understand why it would make some people think I’m faking… but also, I don’t. Because telling someone they’re faking their anxiety is an asshole thing to do.
“Why not?” Butch asks, moving closer. It’s like she knows I need a protective barrier between me and the rest of the world if I’m going to answer. “Are they dictating the design? I know you hate that.”
I shake my head again, then change my mind and pull a face. “Not exactly. The stylist…” I trail off. I don’t know how to explain why I’m so wound up about Griff, who hasn’t actually done anything wrong. “He wanted changes, but hasn’t replied about the mocks I sent.” And it’s eating me from the inside out. I sent the email before lunch yesterday—how long does it take to look at two gifs and admit the one with the overskirt is better? I know he was checking his email yesterday, because Calla sent him our terms and the contract for Daria’s top, and he replied to her.
