Tessa ends the call and pivots around, startling when she finds me watching her.
“Were you listening to my conversation?”
I point to the “no cell phones” sign hanging on the wall. “You’re breaking policy.”
I expect some sort of insult back, but she just gives me a blank stare. “Right.”
When I take a few steps closer to Tessa, her small frown and slumped posture are more noticeable.
“Who were you talking to?”
“I don’t think there’s a shop policy against keeping personal conversations personal.” Her eyes narrow, but there’s no bite behind her words.
Hoping to bring her spark back, I hold out the stress ball swatch, and she takes it in silence. Brushes her thumb against the fabric. Stares at it. Looks back up at me.
“I’m sorry for answering the call in your shop. It didn’t end up being important, anyway.” Her voice comes out completely monotone.
My brows furrow in confusion.What happened on that call?
Tessa gives the homemade stress ball a small squeeze, holding it up. “I should get going. See you in Milan, Giovanni.”
She picks up her bag, setting the swatch inside, and walks out of my shop, leaving me alone to question who dared to dim her light.
PART TWO
MILAN, ITALY
Chapter 10
Tessa
“Coming through!”
I only get a second of warning before I’m knocked over by a goddess in heels backstage. Picking myself up from the sticky floor, I glance down at my outfit, now damp from The Holy Trinity of Sprays (hair, setting, perfume) and wince. I’ll be adding a physical bruise to my collection of emotional aches.
The last few days in Milan passed by in a whirlwind of preparation for Lamont’s show. Today is a dress rehearsal, and we need the set-up to be perfect for tomorrow. With the madness of Giovanni’s constant alterations and me working on all the behind-the-scenes logistics, I haven’t had time to breathe, let alone discuss the intricacies of the team production meeting later today with him. When I proposed we planwhowas going to saywhatabout our look on the flight, he said “you don’t need to practice” and put his headphones on. So that was the end ofthat.
But whenever I feel particularly stressed, I remember that I’m inItaly. I’m at my first international fashion week. After years of hard work, one of my dreams is finally being realized. Apicture of younger me, decorating the top of my brother’s high school graduation cap in mini footballs and glitter glue, flashes in my mind, and the gratitude I feel for this opportunity loosens some of the pressure in my chest.
As people power walk past me, I realize I’m still in risky territory. No one is looking up as they run around, and a repeat meeting with the floor feels imminent.
When I round the corner to find the model Lamont needs, I walk straight into a cloud of glitter. Swallowing at least a good teaspoon, I cough incessantly until my throat feels normal again. First, the hairspray floor, now the glitter bomb… What’s next? I fall into a vat of lash glue?
“Oh! Sorry!” the makeup artist chirps.
“No worries.” I laugh it off. “Casualty of fashion week, right?”
The artist profusely apologizes and reaches for a large powder brush, absentmindedly sweeping flecks of glitter off my all-blackLamontensemble: A sleeveless, cropped suit vest, paired with wide-legged black trousers and brushed leather loafers.
“She’s all yours,” the artist says, nodding toward the done-up model in her chair.
“Thanks!” I escort the model over to Lamont. He’s holding court in the corner, doling out directives and rearranging the Run of Show for our rehearsal.
When he notices me, his eyes look upward in exasperation, as if I’ve been off gallivanting all day. “Tessa. Finally.”
My nostrils flare as I attempt to ignore the indirect dig.
“Get an ETA from Giovanni on the replacement model. Make sure to mention the curved hem on the dress,” he commands.
