Sure
Butterflies fill my stomach. What if I call him and then can’t speak? I don’t think I can handle the humiliation.
Griff would understand, though. I know he would. And I’m feeling good right now—nervous, sure, but not in the way I usually am when I can’t talk.
Fuck it. I hit Call.
It barely rings before he answers. “Hello?”
My face relaxes into a smile. His voice is so much better than I remembered.
“Hi.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GRIFF
“Hi.”
A stupidly wide grin breaks out on my face as I hear Phil’s voice for the first time. It’s ridiculous to feel like I’ve been waiting forever for this moment when it hasn’t even been two weeks since we met, but I do.
“Hi,” I echo, then shake my head. I already said hello. “So tell me how you’d do the flounce.”
He launches into a description of flounce width and bias cutting that normally would interest me, but right now I’m just listening to his voice. The light tenorsoundslike him, which is not the most logical thought. It suits him. I love the enthusiasm in it right now too.
It’s so hard to believe that a little over a week ago, I thought he was an egomaniac snob. That’ll teach me to be judgmental.
Speaking of judgmental, Vivi is side-eyeing me hard. She perked up when the phone rang, but now that she’s realized it’s not Carter, she’s holding me responsible. I pet her ears, but the gaze of judgment doesn’t falter.
“…don’t you agree?” Phil says expectantly, and I belatedly remember that conversations need a minimum of two peoplecontributing, and if I want him to keep talking to me, I need to say something.
“Yes.” It seems like the safest answer.
“I knew you would. You’ve got great taste.”
The compliment warms me. “Even though it doesn’t usually include your style?” I tease, and I’m rewarded by his low laugh.
“Even though. I don’t expect everyone to love my stuff… just most people.”
His tone indicates that he’s joking, but I’ve known enough designers to know they have more than their fair share of ego about their work. They have to, to put it out there and open themselves to relentless criticism.
“Though I got an email from this woman who felt the need to tell me my work was good, even if it’s not to her taste.” He chuckles, but there’s a note of annoyance there.
“Some people need to learn the art of shutting the fuck up. Why do they think their opinion is needed on everything?”
“That’s what I said! It’s fine, though. At least she said it was good. I had a classmate in college who made a point of regularly telling me how shitty my designs were.”
“Asshole.”
“Right? But don’t worry, when Calla found out, she told her boyfriend, and he and his friends refused to model for that guy’s form-and-movement study.”
I blink. “Did I miss something? Were Calla’s boyfriend and his friends the only models available?” Vivi rolls over for belly rubs, and I comply.
“Nah, but it’s not always easy getting models that aren’t also art students, which usually means swapping. Most of us selfishly didn’t want to give up time to model ourselves.” He laughs again. “Plus, those guys were on the baseball team, so they were great models for that assignment. Athletes move differently from the rest of us. I don’t know why—some of the models I drew weremega fit and used the gym all the time, but the ball players had a different style of motion.” There’s a shrug in his voice.
I grunt, thinking about why that might be, and he surprises me with a delighted laugh.
“Is that you switching to your second language?”
