“Nothing wine, pizza, good company, and the story behind this visit can’t fix.”
Dammit. So much for my distraction.
Calla holds up a pair of jeans, studying the artful paint spatter—deliberately done by me, not a hazard of Butch’s job—and says, “It’s pretty much what I told Butch on the phone. We have this new client who’s coming in for a fitting, and her stylist asked Phil to put together a lookbook of jeans for her to go through as well.”
Butch frowns. “You’ve got a couple of pairs in the latest collection, right? And since when do you and Phil not take pictures of everything he makes, even if it doesn’t go into a collection?”
“We’ve got pictures of all Xera’s jeans,” Calla confirms. “But Phil’s still anxious about this visit, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to get more.”
“Want me to put them on?” Xera asks, and I hug her. She’s my new favorite. “Aw. Love you, too, Phil.” She pats my back with one hand and sips her wine over my shoulder. Then she steps out of my arms, hands me her glass, and strips off her lounge pants. “So you’re going to add my signature jeans to one of your collections?” She grabs the pair on top of the pile and steps into them as Butch flips on all the overhead lights and tries to decide where the best spot for photos would be.
I shake my head, but Calla answers for us both. “No, these would be a one-off. The stylist requested it when he saw… Huh. Phil. Darling Phil. Honey, baby, sweetie.”
“Uh-oh,” Butch murmurs, and I take a prudent step away from my bestie, holding the wineglass in front of me like a shield.
Her eyes narrow. “How exactly did Griff see the pair of jeans you’re making for Xera?”
Xera looks up. “You’re making me another pair? I love you!”
I glare at Calla. Way to ruin the surprise. She glares back, completely unremorseful.
“Not the important part, babe,” Butch points out.
Xera nods, then rounds on me with an exaggerated smile. “I love you, Phil, but I’ve had a terrible, terrible day, and the only thing that will make it better is if you tell me how Griff saw the jeans you’re apparently making for me because you love me too. And also, who’s Griff?” She takes her wine from me and gestures toward the phone in my other hand. “I’m waiting.”
It would be so, so easy to hate my friends. They’re all looking at me expectantly—Calla with a decent amount of glare still—so I give in and start typing.
It’s nothing. He texted me a picture of his dog, and we started chatting. I was working on the jeans but they weren’t right, so I asked his opinion. He IS a stylist. He said his client would like them and asked to see more. That’s it.
It’s not itat all, but?—
“Bullshit,” Butch declares, looking up from the phone she and Calla were bent over. “Aside from the fact that ‘we started chatting’ is doing some heavy lifting there, people don’t just randomly text dog pics to people they’re not friends with.”
“Yeah,” Calla agrees. “I know you’d texted him a couple times about the gown and that his dog came up then, but that’s not, like, a reason for him to send you a photo every time his dogdoes something cute. You’re colleagues, not friends… right?” Her brow slowly rises.
“Griff’s a stylist you’re working with?” Xera asks. “I know you can’t tell me who the client is, but what can you tell me about him? Is he hot? Queer? Taken or single?”
“Yes, yes, and not sure,” Calla replies, not taking her eyes off me. She’s not glaring anymore, though. There’s a teasing light there that makes me think she might have guessed about my stupid little crush. “Ask Phil.”
Ugh. I type again.
We’ve been texting. Chatting. We’re… maybe friends. We talk about TV and fashion and his dog. I don’t feel like I need to apologize to him if I’m nonverbal.
Not that it’s come up since our first meeting, but it’s the easiest way I can think of to explain how comfortable it is to talk to Griff.
It takes them precisely three seconds to read, and then all three burst into indignant speech.
“You don’t have to apologize for a nonverbal day!”
“If he made you feel bad about not talking, I’ll fix it so he can’t talk!”
“You talk about his dog? Oh my god, he’s into you.”
We all look at Butch.
“What?” Xera asks.
Butch shrugs. “Think about it. If a business acquaintance texts, I’m going to talk work and then politely end the conversation. Unless I think they’re cute and I want to get into their pants.”
