But fuck me, I really do want to hear Phil’s voice. Is it low? High? Does he have an accent? A lisp? Does he sound growly?
“What’s his name?”
Yeah, definitely not going there. “I don’t want to say.”
Adam’s face lights up like I’ve given away a big secret. “So thereisa guy!”
I should have known this was a game I couldn’t win.
Sighing, I say, “There’s a guy I’ve spoken to a couple of times.” Kind of true. “He doesn’t know I’m interested, but I know he was intimidated by me at first. I’m… trying to lay some groundwork.”
“Ooooh. Smart. Being friends first helps a lot with weeding out the guys who’re going to steal your AirPods and siphon gas out of your car.”
What?“Did someone do that to you?” No wonder he’s so creative with revenge.
He shrugs. “Only once. Don’t worry, he only got to use some of that gas before his car didn’t need it anymore.”
I’m wondering whether I even want to ask when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PHIL
I stareat the picture Griff sent me and wonder if I’m reading too much into it. What does it mean when a man sends you a photo of his dog kissing his face? Is it supposed to make me want to drop to my knees and suck his brain out through his dick? Because that’s what’s happening.
But most likely, he’s just sending a cute pic because he knows I think his dog is sweet and we talked about her last week. This totally fits with my semi-pathetic need to make friends, so instead of thinking about how that bare shoulder probably means he wasn’t wearing a shirt when he took the selfie, or about how incredibly sexy it is to see a man who’s not afraid of pink and/or sparkles, I send back a gushy message about how adorable Vivi is.
And then, because stupid impulses seem to be my thing lately, I follow it up with
Looks like Daddy loves getting kisses!
Ugh. I spend a split second debating whether to unsend it, but then I’d need to send something else so it wouldn’t looksuspicious, and I honestly don’t trust myself to think of a safe message right now.
So instead, I decide that if Griff interprets it as anything other than perfectly innocent, that’s on him, and I put my phone down. I should be working anyway. The McLaren matriarch is coming in for a fitting this afternoon, and I want to get a bunch of stuff done before then.
“Knock knock,” Kyle says from my open doorway. “Mail call.”
“Really?” I wave him in, surprised. We hardly get any paper mail in this age of email and secure electronic document transfer, and most of it goes to Calla.
“Shockingly, yes. I brought it myself because I want to know what it is,” he says with a chuckle, handing me an envelope.
It’s plain white, the kind a birthday card might come in, and from the feel of it, I think there might be a card inside. It’s not my birthday, though, and nobody I know would send me a card in the mail.
My name and Phallacy’s address are written on the front in neat cursive, but when I flip it over, there’s no return address to give me a hint who the sender might be. Shrugging, I rip it open.
Itisa card, but not a birthday one. Instead, it says CONGRATULATIONS in bold letters, with a bunch of illustrated balloons underneath.
“Did you win a prize nobody told me about?” Kyle asks.
I shake my head, mystified, and flip the card open. The same neat handwriting is inside.
Dear Phil,
I’ve been looking further into your work and discovered that you’ve had several big achievements in a short space of time. Well done! Red-carpet fashioncan be very subjective, so it’s a good place for your designs.
Even if you never achieve anything more, you’ll have those memories to hold on to.
Best wishes from a new fan,
