It’s technically a cardinal sin to call in sick during fashion week, but our regular model has the flu. We couldn’t risk her taking down the entire operation. My fingers are crossed that Giovanni knows what he’s supposed to be doing, becausepiecing together Lamont’s breadcrumbs of information is a skill I haven’t quite perfected after five years of working with him.
I pass a small refreshment area on my way to Giovanni’s makeshift atelier. The smell of coffee perfumes the air, a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming hairspray scent I’ve been tasting since I arrived this morning.
My fatigue is getting to me, and I could use a pick-me-up. Though I’m tired, I can’t help but think about Giovanni, who must be absolutely exhausted. He arrived at the venue to work on last-minute alterations while most of us were still showering back at the hotel.
When a cappuccino or espresso isn’t available, Giovanni drinks his coffee black with a drop of milk. Back when we were…better, I used to stop on the way to his shop now and again. Each time I brought him a coffee, his face lit up, as if the kindness caught him off balance. Eventually he came to expect the ritual… until he didn’t.
An ache of sadness hits me at how simple our relationship used to be.
Should I?
I don’t overthink it. With the clipboard glued to my left hand, I only have one available. I forgo my coffee for his, filling a cup and adding a hint of milk before heading toward his space.
When my eyes land on Giovanni, I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He’s in a squatting position, half-bent over, hastily sewing our replacement model into a dress. As he hand-stitches the area right below her armpit, a grimace appears on his face. I empathize with him, knowing that if he stands up, he’ll be too tall, and if he sits, he won’t be at the best angle. His usual shop setup—the pedestal, mirrors, furniture—is all customized to his comfort as a bigger guy. A bead of sweat falls from his hairline directly into his eye, and he mutters in frustrated Italian.
“Hey, Giovanni. Lamont wants?—”
“Not now,” he snaps.
I rear back at his biting tone, one I haven’t heard since New York. It surprises even the model, who shoots me a sympathetic look before training her focus back on the mirror.
His clipped response and narrowed eyes douse me in embarrassment. We’re all under stress, but the tone feels unnecessarily dismissive, especially after the way we’ve been working together over the past few weeks.
Shaking my head and looking at the floor, I think about how maybe things between us haven’t changed as much as I thought. Regardless, I still need an answer for Lamont. This week is just as important for my career as it is for his.
When I refocus my gaze on Giovanni, he’s walking toward me, wearing a determined expression. The model is standing off to the side with two pins holding the garment into place under her arm. I brace myself for a rant of some sort.
His bergamot and leather scent reaches me first, followed by a feather-light, discreet brush of his hand against mine. I shiver at the unexpected contact.
“Sorry, Tessa,” he murmurs, so only I can hear. “My reaction was from my own stress, not you.” He ducks his chin, trying to meet my eyes. “It should only be another four minutes or so.”
I blink at Giovanni. I’m not used to people apologizing so readily to me at work. Or in life, honestly.
“I’ll tell Lamont. He also told me to mention a ‘curved hem,’ so… hopefully you know what that means.”
I glance at the coffee cup warming my hand. Maybe I shouldn’t give it to him. Although, I don’t drink my coffee like this, so it’d be a waste if I didn’t give it to him. Bad for the planet, probably.
Stop being a coward.It’s not a big deal.
I hold out the coffee. “I brought this for you. I figured that you were probably tired from the long day, and the model replacement chaos before today’s rehearsal, so… Anyways, here it is.”
Giovanni’s face lights up with the same unguarded expression from years ago, though maybe a bit more astonished. He lifts the cup out of my hands. “It’s for me?”
“The refreshment station was on my way.”
Surprise blooms on his face as he takes a sip. “You remembered how I take my coffee.” A statement, not a question. “I can’t remember the last time you… when we had coffee together.”
I can. I can still feel the cup warm in my hand as I handed it to him, right before he told me what he truly thought about working with me. Clearly a forgettable day for him, yet one that’s burned itself into my memory.
His softened gaze fixes me in place. “Thank you, Tessa.”
I nod, unsure of how to feel. “Yep. Well, good luck. With this.” I gesture to his surroundings. “See you at the team meeting post-rehearsal.”
He takes another sip of coffee, a smile playing at his lips. “See you then.”
After informing a stressed Lamont that Giovanni is working at pace, I head to the audio/visual area. A stylish woman walks by me, picking up a tablet at the table and chatting with a sound guy. Familiar notes of warm amber and vanilla float under my nose, reminding me of my mom’s favorite scent—Brûléeby…
Oh My God. It’s Simone Santerre.
