Page 80 of Wardrobe Malfunction

I don’t really know what it means. Or what’s happening between us.

I mean, I don’t think we’re dating because we can’t exactly go out on a date together, which does make me a little frustrated at times. But it also works for me, too, because I can’t have the press delving into my personal life right now.

And, because I don’t really know what Vaughn and I are doing, where we’re heading—if anywhere at all—I can’t have my life upended.

We might not be dating, but I figure we’re fuck buddies, and I think we’re exclusive. Well, I hope we’re exclusive. I don’t think he’s seeing anyone else, and the fact that he ends every night in my bed tells me the same.

And I’m glad. More than glad.

I’m happy. Happier than I can ever remember being.

But one thing I do know is, when this thing with Vaughn does come to an end—because all good things end—it’s going to hurt like a bitch.

Because I like him. A lot.

We’re at my hotel tonight. Vaughn is working on his laptop, and I’m watching Romeo + Juliet, the Leonardo DiCaprio version, while working on that wedding dress I’ve been designing for a while now. The skirt has been evading me, but I think I finally have it. I’m going for a pleated chiffon skirt. Simple but elegant.

“I like it,” Vaughn says from over my shoulder.

I cover my drawing with my hand. I didn’t realize he was watching. This is the first time I’ve drawn in front of him.

“Don’t hide it.” He comes to sit beside me, pulling my hand from it. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I didn’t know you designed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I shrug. “It’s not important. It’s just something I like to do.”

“May I?” He gestures to my sketchpad.

I tentatively hand it over to him. He starts looking through my designs.

“These are amazing, Pins. Why don’t you do it professionally?”

“I tried. After I graduated from college. But it’s not an easy industry to get into. So, I took a job temping with an agency, and the first job I got offered was in wardrobe. I’m good with clothes, and I was always a good seamstress—”

“Except for when you’re stabbing innocent guys in the balls.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Probably not.” He chuckles, continuing to look through my designs. “Well, I think you should try again. I’m no fashion expert—”

“No kidding.” I laugh.

He pretends to ignore me and seamlessly carries on, “But I think you should try again. You’ve got real talent. It’d be a tragedy to let it go to waste. I know some people I can put you in touch with.”

“I don’t need any favors.” I sound touchy. I don’t know why.

“Friends help each other.” He frowns.

I want to ask if that is what we are—friends. Is that all we are? Friends who fuck and fall asleep in each other’s arms?

But, of course, I don’t.

“I know. I’m just used to doing things on my own. I want my success to be on my own merit.”

“And it will. But it doesn’t hurt to have someone put you in touch with the people who can help you get there.”