Ivy looked up from a checklist. “Pads off, tee on. You, Quinn, and Jordan are block one.” She pointed her pen at me. “No scowling in the photos.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do,” she said, already marking something down.
I peeled my pads, pulled on a tee, and I was halfway through adjusting the tape on my wrist when the door opened again. Laughter hit first—low, easy—and then Em walked in.
She didn’t look like the woman who’d been in my kitchen this morning wearing my sweatshirt. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a design magazine. Her black slacks were tailored, cropped just above her ankle to show off heeled boots the same color. Her blouse was sleeveless, tucked neatly into the waistband with clean lines that made her look polished and somehow soft at the same time. A sleek gold belt caught the light every time she moved. Her glasses were on, and she wore simple gold hoops, and her hair—hell, her hair—was straightened, parted down the middle, and glossy as it fell past her shoulders.
She looked sharp. Professional. Untouchable.
And she wasn’t alone.
Quinn walked in beside her, laughing at something she’d said, one hand hovering near her lower back like they’d knowneach other for years. I knew that laugh, and I thought it belonged to only me. The sound hit somewhere low in my chest, sharp and unwelcome.
“Ivy, remind me to check if the quarterbacks have mandatory early film study next week,” I muttered under my breath, staring just past them. I sounded calm, but my blood was moving faster than it should have. I didn’t like that I noticed the easy way she smiled at him.
Ivy didn’t even look up. “Jealousy’s not a good look, Abbott,” she said, still flipping through her clipboard. She said it so casually I almost forgot she had eyes everywhere.
Em caught sight of me before I could rearrange my face. Her lips curved in a polite, professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The expression was like a wall slid up between us, and I hated it more than I could admit.
“Morning,” she said, all business. The sound of her voice didn’t match the Em who sat in my kitchen two hours ago wearing my sweatshirt and laughing with my nephew. This version of her had sharp edges and focus.
I nodded once, clearing my throat. “You made it,” I said, trying to sound neutral. The words came out rougher than I meant.
“Quinn offered me a ride,” she said, setting her tote on the garment rack and unzipping it. “It beat fighting for a spot on a bus with bags.” Her tone was casual, but my brain snagged onoffered her a ride.
Of course he did. The throb in my temple ached, and I didn’t understand how he knew she needed one. Were they texting? Why didn’t I know this?
“Traffic wasn’t bad,” Quinn added, flashing that easy grin that worked on half the fan base. “But your gate security almost flagged me, man. Guess I need your level of clearance.”
“You probably do,” I said, flat and final. My voice was steady, but my jaw wasn’t. He laughed like I was joking. I wasn’t.
Em pretended not to notice the tension, already pulling garments from bags and laying them on the table with practiced precision. Her voice switched, cool and clear. “We’re running a fast rotation this morning. Quinn first, Jordan second, Noah third. I need to verify shoulder ease on the jacket and check hem behavior on the hoodie when you lift. No cameras until we lock the fit.”
“Copy,” Marla Chen said from the doorway, her tone sharp enough to slice. I hadn’t even seen her come in, but she was already in command of the space. She snapped her fingers once, and the social crew instantly dropped their cameras like they’d been trained to.
Em didn’t flinch. She adjusted the tape measure on her waistband and pulled her tablet free, scanning something on the screen before glancing up. “I’ll need the roster sheet for reference, Ivy,” she said, and when Ivy handed it to her, she gave a small, grateful nod before going right back to work.
I felt even more distance from her.
Quinn leaned back on the garment rack, grinning at her. “You ready for me, designer lady?” he teased. “I clean up well, if you need notes for your next campaign.”
Em smirked, flipping open her tablet and not giving him an inch. “Always ready, quarterback. Let’s get you fitted before your ego inflates more than your shoulders.” Her tone was light, confident, and she hit him with a smile that made the whole room laugh.
The whole room except me. I didn’t laugh, not once. I was too busy watching her move like she owned the place.
Quinn shrugged out of his hoodie, and Em handed him a structured jacket with clean shoulders and sharp seams. “Arms up,” she said, her focus narrowing in. “I need to check the drapebefore I pin the back seam. Don’t move unless you want to get poked.”
He lifted his arms, and she circled him, humming softly as she worked. It wasn’t loud—just this quiet, rhythmic tune that filled the silence. She did it every time she concentrated, I realized. It was new. I wanted to know what she hummed. When did that start?
“Do you always hum when you’re working?” Marla asked, voice clipped but not unkind. She watched Em with a practiced PR curiosity, like she was cataloging another asset for the brand.
Em smiled without looking up. “Keeps me from cussing when the seams don’t cooperate,” she said. Her voice was warm, and Quinn grinned at her reflection in the mirror.
“That’s adorable,” he said, laughing. “We’ll have to get you a playlist for fittings—something that matches your vibe.”
“I’m a Taylor Swift and angry alternative mix, so good luck,” she said, tugging the hem of his jacket, testing the stretch. “And stop flirting or I’ll make this too tight.”
