Wait. Almost four years old?
I snatch up my phone.
Did you name your dog after Vivienne Westwood?
I’m going to feel like a fool if—when—he laughs at me about this, but?—
She’d just died, and she was such an icon! Don’t judge me.
My choked squeal is a little louder than I thought it would be, and even as I type my reply, Calla knocks on the door from the meeting room.
“Yeah?” I call, hitting Send. I don’t want her to freak out.
Zero judgment here, just so much appreciation. Vivienne Westwood Pevensy is a credit to her namesake’s memory.
“I thought I heard a weird noise,” Calla says, but I don’t look up. I’ve had another thought and need to send a follow-up message.
“Yeah, sorry. Cute dog pic.”
Is this why nobody at your office is intimidated by you? They know you’re a dog dad who reveres Vivienne Westwood?
“Dog pic? What? Who are you texting?”
“Uh…”
They know about Vivi but not who she’s named after. You’re the only person who ever asked.
Stunned, I let the phone drop into my lap and lift my eyes to look at my best friend. Does he mean I’m the only one who knows?
“Phil?” Calla prompts. “Is everything okay?”
Pulling myself together, I nod. “Yeah, sorry. I’m texting Griff… Pevensy.” I’m pretty sure she knows who I mean, but adding his surname makes me feel less like a creep who was maybe daydreaming about Sunday morning snuggles… and Friday night fucks.
Calla’s brows shoot up, and she comes to slouch in the chair in front of my desk. “Why? And how did that lead to a cute dog pic?”
“He has one. Uh… just let me…” I hold up my left forefinger while my right hand retrieves my phone and types out a quick message.
I’m honored to be part of the inner circle. I gotta go, but can I text you later? I have more Vivi questions.
I wait long enough for him to reply with a thumbs-up and a smiley face before tapping on the picture of Vivi and holding it out for Calla to see. “Griff’s dog. Her name is Vivi.”
Predictably, Calla coos over Vivi’s adorable little face, but unfortunately, the cute dog doesn’t completely wipe her mind. When she’s done with the puppy talk (to a dog who is not in the room with us), her laser-sharp gaze returns to me.
“When did Griff Pevensy start texting you photos of his dog, and more importantly, why?”
Putting my phone down, I shrug. “It just happened. He emailed to tell me I was right about Margaret’s gown—which I already knew.”
“Of course.”
“And he had his number in the email in case I ever needed to reach him. So I texted to give him mine.”
“All very reasonable so far.”
Damn, I was hoping she would just accept that and assume we fell into social chat from there. Which we kind of did… but not until I embarrassed myself by sexually harassing him.
I’m not telling Calla that, though. “I also apologized for not being able to speak to him last week and explained why. He was cool about it.”
She sniffs. “He’d better have been. We don’t work with assholes.”
