Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
I take a breath, set down my glass of wine, then start to type “See ya later, sexy” as a reply to Chad.
Halfway through the text, I get a phone call.
It’s my boss.
I lift my phone to my ear. “Ms. Andrews?”
“Lance, there you are. I’ve been calling you for hours. I must have left ten voicemails.”
I blink. “Oh. I … I didn’t, uh …” I glance down at my phone, alarmed, then bring my ear back to it. “I must’ve been still on the plane when you called. I’m home now, I just stepped in.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it appears you won’t have much time at all to settle back in.”
“Is something wrong, Ms. Andrews?”
She lets out a long and hollow sigh. “If you had listened to my voicemails …” she mutters, and I get the suspicion she is saying that to herself, as if I can’t hear her. Then her tone hardens. “I’ll make it simple. The Roussey collection had a complication with a show in Paris and they’ve been moved up a week to here at our studio. Mari and Isabella will be in meetings all next week. Carly dropped out of the showcase, which means—Oh, shit, I need to meet with her tomorrow. Miranda!” she calls out in her steely, singsong voice. “Check my schedule for Saturday! Tomorrow, 1 PM, lunch with Carly!”
I stare at the counter, my hand slowly going to my forehead. “Wait, Ms. Andrews, I’m not following. The Roussey collection …?”
“A lot has happened in this week you decided to take off.” She sighs deeply. “Really, the worst week you could have taken.”
“What does this mean?”
“What does this mean?” she repeats back to me. “It means the designer showcase has been moved up a week, and it means I need one more piece from you. It means you need to play some serious catch-up and ensure your pieces are perfection, Lance. Not good. Not great. Not amazing. Not stellar. Perfection.” She cups the phone to shout out something else at her assistant Miranda, then returns to me. “I want sketches to my office by five. Impress me. Floor me. Perfection, Lance.”
Then she hangs up.
I stare at my phone in shock, my breath held, reading my half-written reply to Chad over and over: See ya late
20
Some Threads Don’t Break Easily
Clip, clip, clip.
Snip, snip, snip.
Remeasure. Chew anxiously on my tongue. Finger through a bin of different threads, select one, and thread the machine.
Change the bobbin. Align the fabrics and feed the machine.
Press my foot down. Noise, noise, noise. Let my foot up.
Using a sewing machine is a lot like driving a car, except more terrifying.
Inspect my work, then curse at it. Seam ripper. Try again.
Different fabric. Consult the bin again, tapping my foot.
Sigh and wipe my cold and clammy forehead.
Look at the clock.
Hate my life.
Return to the dress form to redrape the silk chiffon.
Question my use of silk chiffon. Why silk chiffon? Why always silk chiffon? What is my obsession? What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me …?
My whole bedroom somersaults as I drop onto my bed with a sigh so long, it could wrap around the planet. I stare at my ceiling and grip my hair. Every nerve ending in my body is stretched to its limit. My muscles ache in places I can’t even explain. I feel like there are steel rods in my neck, pulsing with my heartbeat. My eyes feel twice their size somehow, and they burn when I blink.
I have never been this stressed before.
And it’s making me mourn the heaven I felt all last week at Chad’s big, relaxing, dreamland ranch on the outskirts of Spruce, Texas where everything was perfect, safe, and far away.
It’s been a week.
A whole week.
I pick up my phone and check the messages. I last called Chad a day ago. He was heading out the door to meet someone in-town for some kind of machine maintenance I couldn’t understand, so we didn’t talk long. I told him I’d call him back in the evening, but then time slipped away from me, I missed his text, and by the time I did get back to him, he didn’t answer, likely being asleep—as he’s two hours ahead in Texas and all.
There was one night when we got ahold of each other. It was on a Wednesday night, sometime around eight for me, ten for him, and with my phone pressed against my ear, I listened to him dirty talk me while we jerked off together. It was so hot, the way he got all nasty right in my ear, his deep voice like gravel and coffee and sensual awakening and everything I needed.
We were both so horny, it regrettably didn’t last long.
“Goodnight, boyfriend,” he said after we finished.
A wistful smile was falling off my face. “Goodnight, Chad.”