I grunt assent, my mind racing. He and Calla live together? I guess it makes sense, with them being best friends, plus how much rent costs and them trying to build their business, but workingandliving with someone is a lot. They must be even closer than I thought.
Definitely gotta stay on Calla’s good side.
“I’m interpreting that as a yes,” he says cheerfully, and a second later, my phone beeps against my ear.
I pull it away, tap the Speaker button, and then open the message.
Damn, those jeans…. I force myself to concentrate. “Left leg, second applique from the bottom—what if you moved that a couple inches toward the outside? It would reflect more light on the curve of her calf.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. I can hear him moving, and then a satisfied sigh. “That did it. Thanks, Griff. I was going nuts trying to work it out. It’s always something small.”
“Happy to help.” I wait a beat. “So…”
“Yeah?”
“Those jeans… are they part of the current collection?”
There’s laughter in his voice as he answers, “No, this is a pattern I worked up for Xera years ago. She’s picky.”
“Good for her. She’s clearly got great taste. You know who else has great taste?”
“You?”
He’s adorable. “Yep. And also Daria, who would love those jeans. Lighter on the bling, though.” Daria likes embellishments, but she’s not the sequin type. Studs, on the other hand, or some artful paint splatters….
Phil doesn’t say anything, and I frown. “Hey, it’s okay if you want to keep this design for your friend only. I just figured I’d ask.”
“It’s not that,” he assures me. “I’m… I guess a little overwhelmed that you’ve seen two pieces I designed randomly and immediately asked if I’d make them for a rock star. I…”
He stops, and I grit my teeth to keep from prompting him. I don’t know if he’s just thinking or if he’s struggling to speak, but either way, he’ll let me know in his own time.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s hard to silence the voice that’s saying you’re wrong and Daria won’t like them after all. I know you’re good at your job, but even the best stylists occasionally pick things their clients don’t love.”
Designers aren’t the only ones who need to have egos to get the job done, and I wrestle with mine for a few seconds. He’s right, as much as I hate to admit it. Sometimes we do get it wrong. But I know I’m right about this.
“The only way to silence that voice would be for Daria to see the jeans and tell you what she thinks,” I point out. “I got a message from Calla to ask if I wanted a fitting for the top, so why don’t we line that up? Daria can see Calla’s, try on hers or the toile—whichever you’re planning—and tell us what she thinks. And if those jeans are finished by then, you can take photos of them to show her as well.” I try not to hold my breath while he thinks about it.
And then my phone beeps, a notification coming up on the screen that someone else is trying to call. I swear. “I’m sorry, Phil, my nephew’s calling. Can I?—”
“Go. I’ll talk to you later.”
He ends the call before I can say anything else. Fuck, is he mad? Did I offend him?
I tap to answer Carter’s call, and Vivi perks right up the second she hears his voice coming through the speaker. Their little ritual gives me time to worry about whether I pushed Phil too hard. My—admittedly rushed—research into selective mutism revealed that it’s an anxiety disorder, which probably means Phil deals with that even when he can talk. I don’t know a lot about anxiety, but I know it doesn’t turn off. It’s always there, even when things seem good.
I’m still fretting over it—and trying to tune out Carter’s caterwauling—when a message notification pops up on my screen. I tap it, ignoring Vivi’s little growl of displeasure.
Calla will call to set it up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PHIL
I tossmy phone aside and flop back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. My mouth wants to smile—is smiling—but my brain is being its usual buzzkill self. Griff might be convinced that Daria will like the jeans, and yeah, he’s right that showing them to her is the only way to know for sure, which is why I’ll get Calla to set it up, but the anxious part of me is convinced he’s wrong.
So I’m going to think about something else. That’s the only trick I’ve got to lessen the physical impact of anxiety: distract myself. Don’t let my brain focus on the thing that’s making me anxious. Instead, I’ll focus on how much Xera is going to love these jeans, on how much fun I’ve been having chatting with Griff, on how damn good it felt to actually talk to him tonight. To hear that voice in my ear, to laugh at what he said, to feel like I’ve made a friend… and to feel that tingle inside as I wonder if maybe we could be more than friends.
I mentally replay parts of our conversation. I was flirting—probably badly, since I don’t get that much practice—and I think he was too. Like when he said he’d make sure to switch to his second language more often, and his voice got just a little growly…. The memory of it makes me shiver, and my cock goeshalf hard. What would it be like to have him make that sound in my ear? While he was touching me? Or while I was touching him?
