“Oh my goddddddd,” Daria exclaims. “Those are so fucking hot!”
Well. That’s a good sign.
“Griffin, I adore you,” she continues, taking the book from me and turning to the next page. “You brought Phil into my life.”
I glance sideways at Griff.
“Daria likes to share her enthusiasm,” he says, deadpan… though there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“In other words, she’s got no fucking filter,” Dorian supplies. He’s leaning down to look over his sister’s shoulder. “That pair would look good with your suede boots.”
I glance down at the page and wonder if she’d be willing to show me the boots in question. Griff leans in close to me, probably so he can see the photo, and the front of his arm presses against the side of mine, the warm pressure sending a wave of adrenaline through me. I barely have time to process that before his cologne enfolds me—Thé Matcha 26. Desire is a heady rush, but with it comes?—
Pushing lightly on Griff’s shoulder, I catch Calla’s eye, and the second Griff sits back, I’m on my feet and crossing the room. This doesn’t happen often, and I definitely didn’t expect it to happen in the middle of a workday in a room full of people. I guess Griff’s just that sexy.
Calla takes my seat and, as though it’s totally normal for the designer to race away like he’s being chased, says, “If you have particular pieces you want us to work with, just send over some photos. We can find fabrics and embellishments that suit.”
Daria, after shooting a single concerned glance my way, takes the cue and replies, “I can take a picture of the boots, but most ofmy photos are blurry or have a finger over the lens. Griff might have one, though.”
There’s a beat of silence as she looks expectantly toward him, but Griff’s not paying attention. His focus—and his worried gaze—is on me.
I smile reassuringly at him. My anxiety isn’t bad. Yeah, I could feel the tight-brain sensation I get when I’m about to become nonverbal, and yeah, I don’t think I could speak right now… but not because I’m anxious. Well, not exactly. I guess sexual desire is a type of anxiety, in the sense that the physiological response is similar…ish.
This doesn’t happen every time I’m turned on—not even close—but it has happened before. Going nonverbal during sex and having my partner think I was in the middle of a panic attack was even worse than going nonverbal in class and having the professor think I was faking. It’s never happened just from smelling a man’s cologne and having his arm touch me, though I guess that’s a pretty big indication of how attracted to Griff I am.
The benefit of this bout of mutism being caused by being turned on is that desire is easier to tamp down than anxiety. Putting just that little bit of distance between me and Griff and thinking about non-sexy things—like how embarrassing it would be if anyone guessed what caused this—already have my hormones settling. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to speak again soon.
It’s not easy to communicate that to Griff, though, and unlike Calla, he doesn’t know me well enough to judge between the times when I need someone to run interference—like now—and the times when I need active “get me out of here” support. So I just keep smiling, and after a moment he turns back to Daria.
“Boots?”
“The suede ones,” she prompts. “You’ve got a photo of them, right?”
He nods, then looks at the pictures of the jeans she wants to match with them. “Those would look great together. Could we do them in dark denim?” he asks Calla. “With the embroidery in a metallic?”
“Metallic?” Daria asks. “Yes, please.”
Calla chuckles. “That’s an easy one. Our embroiderer has a whole box of stunning metallic threads. Let me show you some of the darker denims Phil’s used for this style before.”
She flips forward in the book, and I concentrate on breathing steadily and thinking unsexy thoughts so I can rejoin the conversation sooner rather than later. I’ve used two different dark blue denims and one black one, but I’m not sure they’d all pass the touch test for Daria, based on her fabric choices earlier. Calla can always find a different denim, but I don’t want Daria to fall in love with something that won’t work for her.
By the time I’m back to my status quo and feel like I could speak, Calla’s taking notes for three potential pairs of jeans. I step out into the showroom to ask Deeanne to grab some denim swatches for me, then rejoin the group.
“I like this ripped version with the big pockets,” Griff is saying. “How would you feel about wearing something like that onstage?”
I hold in my squeak. Daria Keys is going to wear jeans I designed while she plays a show in a sold-out stadium?
“I’d want to try them on first,” Daria says honestly, “but I love how they look.”
That’s my cue. “We’ll make up a toile for you to try on,” I assure her, gratified when my voice sounds normal. “That will also give us the perfect pattern to use specifically for you. But I want to show you something.” I gesture toward the book. “May I?”
She hands it over. “Go nuts.”
It only takes me a few seconds to find the photo I’m looking for. It’s of a pair of jeans I made Xera years ago when she wanted to try something slouchier and looser than her usual. In the end, she decided she preferred a closer, more structured fit, but I think Daria?—
“Yes. Give me twenty.”
—will like them. I bite my lip to keep from laughing and glance at Griff.
