“Yesss.”
“Thanks for always having my back.”
“I know you’ll always have mine. Now, stop dawdling.”
When I hang up, I follow Taylor’s instructions. I open my Instagram andholy shit. I’ve just gained over 200,000 followers. And climbing. My follower count already increased by a ton when the video of me first went viral. But this is different. These are people who are following me because, hopefully, they like my style, not because I’m in the tabloids.
I feel self-conscious about having that many people view what I post. But thankfully, I’ve never gotten too personal on the account. I only opened it to promote Daisy & the Vintage, so it’s mostly just my opinions on fashion, dress-design sketches, photos of whatever I’ve recently sewed, and my favorite vintage finds. I ignore the post I made last month announcing the closure of my store. That one hurts.
Next, I go to Avery’s account and find her post about me. I’m grateful that the photo she posted is flattering and shows off the dress I adapted from Ryder’s grandmother. There are thousands of comments on her post. I’m tempted to scroll through and see what people are saying, but I remember my vow to never read the comments, so I don’t. Instead, I think a minute and type a reply.
Hi, Avery! I’m a huge fan and thrilled you like my dress and style. If you ever want me to design a dress (or anything) for you, I have LOTS of ideas. Just let me know.
My heart beats quickly, thinking about what I just did. Maybe it doesn’t seem like a big deal in the grand scheme of things. But Ipubliclyoffered to create a dress for the biggest star in the world. That’s taking a giant leap of faith. What if she thinks I’m ridiculous? Or, worse, what if she takes me up on it? Then I’d have to come through with something fabulous. My stomach twists.Shit.
The phone buzzes. I look at it and see the message is from Ryder. He’s still entered in my phone as Archie’s Daddy.
I open it.
Archie’s Daddy:
I’m taking Archie for a walk now, so you don’t have to. Take the day off so you can rest and finish organizing your things.
Me:
No, I’ll walk him. It’s my job.
Archie’s Daddy:
Maybe we can walk him together.
Me:
I’ll be down in 15 minutes.
My hand shakesas I press send. I don’t know what’s happening between us, but I feel dangerously out of my depth.
Twenty minutes later—it’sa woman’s prerogative to be a little late—I meet Ryder and Archie downstairs.
We descend the steps of the house, and I head to the path leading down the hill. But Ryder stops me.
“I have somewhere I want to show you. But only if your ankle is completely healed.”
“I’m perfect,” I say and do a little hop. “See!”
His lips twitch. “I do see,” he murmurs, eyeing the romper that I made out of blue-and-white seersucker and all the skin it exposes.
Archie trots ahead as Ryder directs us across the lawn and to a precarious-looking path leading down to the water.
“I didn’t realize this was here,” I exclaim.
“It used to be better, but it hasn’t been properly maintained in a decade. I wouldn’t even suggest it if you were wearing your normal sandals.”
I look down at my light-blue canvas flats. “They are surprisingly practical,” I say, holding up my foot to admire them. “And they match my romper.”
“If we make it down to the beach, there’s a long walk along the coast that the public can’t access. Here, take my hand,” he instructs.
His palm is warm in mine, and he leads me down. It’s steep, and we go slow, not talking as we concentrate on our steps. I only stumble once, and Ryder catches me, his solid arm on my waist, causing every part of me to go on high alert.
