“Be my girlfriend,” I repeat instead, surprising myself.
Tessa shakes her head like she’s ridding herself of demons. “Sorry. What was that?”
Take it back, I tell myself.
“Be my girlfriend,” I triple down.
Merda.
Tessa’s eyes grow wider by the minute. “See, it sounds like you’re saying ‘be my girlfriend,’ but it might be a cultural difference. What do you think ‘girlfriend’ means?”
Obviously, her response makes sense. It’s a ridiculous request, and her shocked reaction confirms it. I know this would just be strategic. A favor between colleagues, nothing else. But I can’t deny that small feeling, buried deep inside of me. The one that says this wouldn’t feelsocrazy. Not for me.
Instead, I try to turn my logic back on and review my options. They’re limited at this point. Even if I wanted to take it back, my reflexes won’t let me, so I decide to commit.
“Not myrealgirlfriend, obviously. I just need a girlfriend for Brescia. My family’s in Italy and I… I’ve been lying to them.” I tug at my collar. “They ask about my love life, and I don’t have time for a real relationship. I don’t want my parents to worry about me, so I told them I have a girlfriend here in the industry. It’s been working so far, but the requests for in-person visits have been getting excessive. I just need someone to placate them.”
Tessa cackles hysterically—emphasis on hysteric. I sit back in my chair and wait it out. I’ve only ever heard Tessa laugh as a byproduct of sarcasm or outrage, as she’s doing currently, and I fantasize about what her laugh might sound like if she truly found something funny.
Even though the light in her eyes is at my expense, I can’t help but to study her. As her wavy hair sways over her shoulders, the scent of her pear shampoo tortures me. Her full lips are shiny with the gloss she’s constantly applying. The slim fit of the silk dress she’s wearing shows off her long and lean runner’s body, and the color complements her dark brown eyes in a way that I’ll never recover from.
A few moments pass before she calms down, her expression shifting to one of suspicion as it dawns on her that I’m being serious. There’s a moment of silence, maybe to mourn the dying remains of our former working relationship, before she speaks.
“To be clear. Youliedbecause you don’t have an actual girlfriend. So due toyourinability to think ahead, you want me to deceive your entire family?”
When she says it out loud, it sounds pretty bad. Almost like a criminal offense.Isit a criminal offense?
“You’re making it sound worse than it is.”
There’s technically no explicit rules about dating within the fashion house. In fact, Lamont himself met his husband through work.
She places both of her elbows on my desk and leans forward. The angle of her body makes it extremely difficult not to appreciate her cleavage. I have to physically engage my core to tear my eyes away from her.
On a deep inhale, she asks, “Which part? The lies you’ve told or the blackmail?”
“It’s not blackmail. It’s a favor. You already promised me you’d do anything outside of subway pole licking.”
“I didn’t think it would bethis.”
I wince. Maybe an appliqué isn’t worth agreeing to an extended vacation in a foreign country, pretending to be a work colleague’s significant other in front of his prying relatives.
“What if there was something else in it for you?”
“Are you… propositioning me?” Her face twists, which doesn’t do great things for my ego.
“Porca miseria,” I mutter. “Of course not. I was talking about something else.”
Tessa folds her arms in a bratty way that, regrettably, I find extremely hot.
She huffs. “I don’t know if there’s anything on planet earth that would make me want to be your pretend?—”
“I’ll tailor your entire first collection for free, including embroidery.”
She snaps her mouth shut. I already know it’s a no brainer for her. She said herself she can’t afford professional tailoring.
Tessa shoots up out of the chair and starts pacing back and forth in my office, open-toed heels clicking across the wood floor. I wish she would’ve worn more sensible shoes in this weather. The memory of seeing the bottom of one of her stilettos sticking out between a paparazzo’s legs after she fell ignites something fierce in my chest all over again. It could’ve been so much worse.
“Once again, I see you chose heels over common sense today,” I blurt, my tone coming across harsher than I intended. I can’t get the image of her collapsed form, completely defenseless on the wet ground, out of my head.
