Calla comes back while Damian is putting a note in his phone, and she takes us around the rest of the workroom. The fitting room is suitably plush and comfortable, and we meet their head seamstress and their pattern cutter.
“We’ve had a lot of growth this past year that’s allowed us to expand,” Calla says frankly, leading us toward the offices at the back. “A lot of that is thanks to Damian and Kane, plus a really strong showing last awards season. We’ve gone from being me and Phil with a couple of part-timers to being able to give our team the hours and recognition they deserve.”
The words slip out. “You’re still getting established, though.”
Damian quirks a brow but doesn’t look annoyed. It’s not a secret that I prefer to dress my clients in designers that are entrenched in the fashion world.
“We are,” Calla agrees. “That’s why I was surprised to hear from you. I hope you give Phallacy the chance to prove that we’re capable of meeting the high standard you have for your clients even though we’re still new.”
I’m still processing the fact that she thinks she needs to win my approval to get Margaret’s commission when she continues, “That aside, I don’t know if Damian mentioned that Phallacy won’t work with anyone who doesn’t show Phil the utmost respect.”
I blink. Theutmost respect? Am I supposed to genuflect? “It came up.”
Her smile returns. “Good. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.” She turns and knocks on the closest door, then opens it and ushers us inside. “Phil, come and meet Griff Pevensy.”
Across the room, a man puts down a pair of scissors and turns to face us. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt, nothingextraordinary, but they fit in a way that screams custom tailoring. The overhead light gleams off red hair and highlights the freckles on his otherwise creamy skin, and there’s a small, wary smile on his face.
I hate him.
I hate him for probably being an asshole.
I hate him for probably exploiting his staff.
But most of all, I hate him because it takes only one glance for a hot wave of attraction to rise in my chest.
Fuck.
CHAPTER FOUR
PHIL
It’san effort to hang on to my smile as my gaze tracks up… and up… and out. Holy fuck, nobody told me Griff Pevensy is a tank. I resist the urge to step back. He’s probably a perfectly nice man. Damian wouldn’t employ anyone who wasn’t.
Though, the way Griff’s looking at me right now makes me less sure. There’s nothing overtly bad about it, just something in his eyes that makes me think he doesn’t like me. But we’ve never met! How can he dislike me already?
My anxiety’s got special skills if it can make me think people who don’t know me hate me. I know better. I might be a creative type, but I can use logic just like everyone else.
Not even logic can help me talk right now, though.Fuck. I cast Calla a desperate look as my face gets hot. Great, I’m turning red too. That’s just what this situation needs—me turning into a mute tomato.
Without skipping a beat, Calla continues, “Griff, this is my business partner and Phallacy’s head designer, Phil Marchand.”
I hold out my hand for him to shake and avoid looking him in the eye. My brain isn’t going to let me talk until I feel calmer, and that’s not going to happen while I’m thinking that he dislikes me.His gigantic paw of a hand swallows mine up in a firm grip, but he’s not an asshole about it like some guys are with the whole bone-crushing thing.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice a pleasant mid-tone with just a little bit of a rough edge.
I widen my smile and nod politely, but words won’t come. I hate this.Hate it.Worse is that I know Calla—and probably Damian—have told him I might not talk, and he won’t say anything about it. Not that I want people “calling me out” on what they think is rudeness—god, that’s happened enough times to be my number-one recurring nightmare—but it’s not a lot better to be treated with kid gloves. Especially because Iwantto talk. I’m, like, giddy excited at the thought that I might be able to design something for Margaret Haywood, and I want to convince Griff that I’m the right person for the job.
But all I can do is keep smiling and hope that the redness in my hot cheeks is distracting enough that nobody notices my eyes are glassy with tears.
Just as I guessed, Griff doesn’t mention my silence, but as he releases my hand, I make the mistake of catching his eye, and I’m definitely not imagining the contempt I see there. Shame is a slap to the face, but thankfully Damian comes forward to give me a hug, and I get a moment to pull myself together.
“It’s good to see you,” he’s saying as he draws back. “Calla showed me Kane’s shirts, and they’re perfect as always.”
My smile immediately becomes more natural. The shirts aren’t anything fancy—a design from this year’s fall collection—but it’s still nice to hear. I want to tell him that I also doubted Calla about the bronze silk, but that’s not happening today.
Calla ushers us through the door into the little lounge that connects our offices. We’re not sure what it was used for before we took over the lease—storage, maybe? An assistant’s office?—but it works for informal meetings with clients. Enteringthrough one of our offices makes them feel like they’re in the inner sanctum, and it’s more comfortable for a group to sit and chat in than the fitting room is.
By the time we’re all sitting in club chairs around the coffee table, I’m a little calmer. Not enough to talk, but at least my face doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore. I even have the presence of mind to admire Griff’s pants. That straight cut suits him to a T.
