CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GRIFF
I’m clingingto professionalism by a thread—Phil’s coming over!—when I step into the elevator with Daria, Dorian, and Patton. I know I left the place tidy this morning, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a once-over before he arrives—because yes, I’m trying to impress him. Damian won’t mind if I handle some time-sensitive stuff and then take the rest of the afternoon off. We mostly work independently, and?—
“I’m impressed, Griffin,” Daria announces, breaking into my thoughts. “I really like the clothes and the designer. Good job.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “So you want more of those tops?”
She nods. “Definitely. Not all patchwork, though. I like how it looks, but not so much that I want only patchwork.”
I shake my head. “We’re getting the patchwork one in exchange for the video and a pap walk, but the rest are going to be custom orders, so we have more control over those things. I’ll work with Calla to pick some colors and fabrics for you.”
“That’s the other thing I really liked, the way Phil brought the denim in for me to feel before anything else. After the asshole last year…” She shudders, and Dorian slings an arm around her in sympathy.
The “asshole” in question is the rep we were working with at a well-known luxury design atelier, who we overheard making snarky comments to a colleague about Daria’s sensory issues. We hadn’t signed anything yet, so we walked. My clients have to deal with enough crap in the media and online—they don’t need to hear it from the people they work with, and especially not for stuff they can’t help.
“You won’t have to deal with anything like that from Phil and Calla.” I might have only known them a few weeks, but I’m damn sure of that.
“What happened with him?” Dorian asks as the elevator doors open and we all exit. “When he got up and walked away. Was he okay?”
I shrug, though I wish I had the answer to that. He said he was okay, so I have to take that at face value. “He probably needed some space.”
“He and Calla make a good team,” Daria muses, then side-eyes me. “Do you think they’re…?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
My jaw clenches involuntarily, and I force it to relax. “I don’t ask people I work with personal questions.” That’s… partly a lie. It depends on the person.
“So you wouldn’t care if they were?”
She’s baiting me, but I’m determined not to let it show. “Why would I care?”
Dorian snorts. “Griff, man, even I could see that you’re down bad for Phil. My not-subtle sis is trying to find out if you plan to do anything about it.”
We step out onto the street. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you.”
Daria crows in victory. “That means yes. Way to go, Griffin! But if you guys ever have a fight, I can’t guarantee I’ll be on Team Griff. It depends on whether I need new tops.”
“That’s heartwarming, thank you.” I flip my hand in a wave as we separate to go to our cars, and her laugh trails after me.
The soundof the doorbell sets Vivi barking excitedly. She doesn’t normally get so wound up by it, but after watching me clean, shower, and set the table at a slightly frantic pace, she knows something’s up.
“That’s Phil,” I tell her, scooping her up and glancing around one more time to make sure I haven’t missed anything important. The place looks good—tidy and clean, but not clinical—and I have a Top 40 instrumental playlist going on low for some background noise. The table looks like I’ve made an effort but not tried too hard—I think—and I’ve just started getting the stuff out for dinner. I’m wearing jeans and a designer button-down, but I’ve left my feet bare to make things more casual.
Plus, there’s Vivi. I took her into the shower with me and then let her pick a bow afterward. She opted for lacy yellow with cute rickrack trim, and she looks adorable.
There’s every chance I’m overthinking this. But I can’t remember ever being this nervy over a date before, not even when I was a teenager, and that has to mean something, right? So I’m not going to risk fucking it up.
I pause to take a deep breath before reaching for the door handle. I open the door, and Phil smiles hopefully at me, the porch light highlighting the fiery red tones of his hair.
I smile back and say, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Vivi barks, thankfully interrupting what might have turned into an awkward moment, since my brain seems to have shutdown at the sight of him on my doorstep. He turns his smile on her.
“Hi, Vivi! Ohhhh, you’re even cuter in real life than you are in pictures.” He lifts his hand, then glances at me. “Can I pet her, or is she standoffish with strangers?”
I chuckle. “Standoffish? Vivi never met her. She adores anyone who’ll worship her. Do you want to hold her?”
