She spins toward me, shooting daggers with her eyes. “It’s notmyfault I got bombarded. Sorry my shoesoffendyou.”
I feel a vein protruding from my forehead. “They don’t offend me, but if you keep this up, you’ll get hurt.”
“As if you care. You’d probably throw a party to celebrate my sprained toe.”
My eyes dart to her feet. “You’re hurt? Show me.”
Tessa’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, her voice coming out softly. “I was kidding. And even if I wasn’t… It’s, um, only a toe. Not a huge deal.”
“Right,” I choke, my anger subsiding as I lower myself back down and sit.
“I need time. To think about all this.” She waves her hand toward me, as if I am the embodiment of “all this.”
“How much time? Because I’ll have to tell my parents so they can prepare for an extra guest.”
She sighs. “At Lu’s dinner next Sunday. Before I leave, you’ll have my answer.”
An entire week? I blow out a frustrated stream of air. “Should I set an alarm?”
The corners of my mouth tick up at Tessa’s responding eye roll. I crave this messy side of her. Authenticity is a quality that I very much appreciate, even if herauthenticpersonality wants nothing to do with me.
“Roll your eyes all you want, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’ll need professional tailoring at some point,” I say, both annoyed and turned on by the fact that she hasn’t given in yet.
“You’re not exactly selling yourself with that attitude,” she clips.
More, I think. Drawing unfiltered thoughts out of Tessa is one of my favorite hobbies. “If we’re talking about people’s attitudes…”
Tessa stands and sets a folder of illustrations on my desk. “I’m not interested in the end of that sentence, so I’m going to head out. Let’s just agree to work as normal until I make my decision.”
I wordlessly nod, turning over her personalized swatch in my pocket. I embroidered a small seashell, an ode to the progress we’ve made on the garment she designed for Lamont, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to hand it over.
I glance back at Tessa as she pushes her chair out, and my eyes linger on the frayed hem of her dress that hasn’t quite dried. My heart sinks, remembering how scared she looked. The relief in her eyes when she saw me—as if the fear was melting right off of her—is an image I’ll never forget.
“Wait.” I stand up from my chair. “Are you okay?”
She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “What do you mean?”
I walk around the desk, closer to her, and lower my voice. “From the incident with the so-called “fans.” They were not respectful toward you, and it seemed…” I search for the right word, but nothing seems big enough. “It seemed violating. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Tessa’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it. After a few moments, she averts her eyes. “It’s… fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”
I duck my chin to make better eye contact with her. “You’d tell me though, right? If you weren’t okay. If there was something I could do.”
She pauses before saying, “Yeah. I’d tell you.”
I nod, and so does she. Then, she walks toward the front, leaving me alone in my office.
Chapter 7
Tessa
It’s been approximately 18 days since we started on the appliqué, 168 hours since Giovanni asked me to be his pretend girlfriend, and 12 minutes since either of us made an audible noise.
When I wasn’t busy shuttling myself between his shop and the house or ticking off items on Lamont’s checklist for Milan, Giovanni and I were even more socially unwell than normal, communicating exclusively through brief glances and muttered requests. It’s like we used up our allotment of words when he comforted me after the Daniel incident. Neither of us has acknowledged the offer on the table, and now the awkwardness between us has its own sewing machine. But temporary salvation is near, because he’s almost done.
I hold my breath as Giovanni positions the hook against the fabric. This stitch, his last in the appliqué, feels more deliberate somehow. He guides the hook through the tulle with familiar precision, but there’s an unusual tremor in his left hand, beneath the frame, as he feeds the thread through and anchors the final opal in place. After so much beading, he must be exhausted.
When I tear my eyes from the spell his hands cast on me and study his face, he looks emotional,wistfulalmost. I’ve never seen him wear this particular expression before. His lips curve into the faintest smile, seeing something in the appliqué that I don’t understand. There’s peace in his eyes as he faces me, like being here, together, is the most natural, calming experience.
