I snicker. “It’s okay to be jealous. As long as you don’t stab me with a fork in the break room like Joe did to Alyssa two years ago.”
“Well, she did steal his almond milk creamer twice. I’m pretty sure he milked those almonds himself. Definitely worth a stabbing in my opinion. At least a lil’ poke,” she deadpans.
I breathe out a laugh. These last five years would’ve been painful without her.
“I might prefer a light stabbing over working with Giovanni, to be honest,” I joke.
Peyton chews her piece of cinnamon gum. “I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. He’s such a sweetheart. When you were off for your brother’s wedding last year, I ran errands for Lamont. Giovanni was so appreciative, saying that junior designers are the ‘backbone’ of the fashion industry. Not to mention his Italian accent is so freaking hot. And one time, Iliterallysaw him walk an old lady across the street.”
I lean back in my chair. “Did you stay to see her reach the other side? Maybe he was slowly pushing her into moving traffic.”
Peyton grins, shaking her head. While her sunny take on Giovanni is almost certainly incorrect, all of my publicly aired grievances about him are annoyances at best, which is why she’s never understood my lack of reverence for Lamont’s beloved tailor. The real reason I dislike Giovanni is like an oil stain on silk—it willnevercome out.
My stomach rumbles, and I glance at my phone. “I’m starving. Do you want to grab brunch before I head toCattaneo’s?”
Peyton folds her arms. “I’m not ready to eat yet. Lamont’s ‘skip intro’ comment is making me nauseous.”
“Please.” Shondra slumps down in a chair next to Peyton. Lowering her voice just above a whisper, she mimics Lamont. “Is this your final sketch?”She hunches over, putting her head on top of the table and speaking directly into the particle board. “I think I’m entitled to worker’s compensation for that emotional slap in the face.”
Peyton pats her back. “Do you want me to call HR on his ass, Shon?”
“Do we even have that here?” Shondra asks.
“I think we did, once, but the HR lady left due to this being a hostile work environment.”
We laugh, now immune to the harsh culture. Crying is for first-year apprentices. Experienced designers understand that gallows humor and dairy-free lattes keep this place running.
I squeeze Shondra’s hand. “I’m sorry, girl. It was a good cape.”
She nods miserably, much like she did in front of Lamont.
“I loved the yoke style, too, Shon,” Peyton adds.
Peyton and Shondra start chatting about the merits of their designs, hyping each other up, and I begrudgingly collect my things to go to Cattaneo’s.
As I drag my feet out of the space, my shoulders are so tense they nearly reach my ears. Before the door closes, Peyton calls after me.
“Love him or hate him, he’s your ticket to Milan!”
* * *
The bell above the door almost bonks me in the head as I walk intoCattaneo’s. As a tall person, hitting my head on random objects isn’t unusual. But Giovanni is taller than me, which makes me think he’s lowered the bell by a centimeteron purpose. I shouldn’t even have to make the pilgrimage to his little kingdom, but Lamont allows him to work from his private shop down the street while the rest of us breathe recycled air at the studio.
I take a deep breath. Calming down is my first order of business. I’ve only taken one step into his shop, and I’m already acting like a conspiracy theorist.
Okay, Tessa.
Remember what you learned three years ago at the only yoga class you’ve ever attended.
Channel inner peace.
Do not give into problematic homicidal fantasies around this man.
I pull out my rendering, ready to hand it over and leave as soon as possible. I will not let Giovanni Cattaneo ruin my shot at Milan Fashion Week.
The scent of leather, fresh laundry, and cedarwood perfumes the modest space. A velvet couch is pressed up against the shop window in front of a coffee table with old books scattered atop it. Built-in wooden shelves displaying menswear line the left wall, and on the righthand side, coutureLamontdresses hang from racks.
The familiar rhythmic ticking and whirring of a sewing machine draws me toward his workspace in the back. My heels click satisfyingly on the walnut floors, reminiscent of models strutting down the runway, bolstering my confidence.
