Brown-Eyed Girl

by Lisa Kleypas

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, giving me an appalled glance as I sat with Sofia on the blue sectional.

  “Nothing,” I said curtly.

  “Then why are you wearing a Boy Scout tent?”

  Before I could reply, Sofia retorted, “Don’t you dare criticize how Avery looks!”

  Steven inquired acidly, “So you like what she’s wearing?”

  “Of course not,” Sofia said. “But if I didn’t say anything about it, you shouldn’t either.”

  “Thanks, Sofia,” I said dryly. I sent Steven a warning glance. “I had a rough night. Today is not a good day to push me.”

  “Avery,” Val called urgently from her desk in the design area, “we’ve gotten an e-mail from Hollis Warner’s social secretary. You’ve been invited to a private party at the Warner mansion on Saturday. A black tie fund-raiser. It’s their big annual contemporary art auction and dinner.”

  Sofia let out a little yelp of excitement.

  The atmosphere in the studio seemed instantly diluted – my lungs had to work harder to obtain the necessary amount of oxygen. I strove to sound calm. “Did she mention a plus-one? Because I’d like for Sofia to come with me.”

  “There was no mention of that,” Val said. “If you’d like me to call and ask —”

  “No, don’t,” Sofia said instantly. “Let’s not be pushy. Hollis may have a reason for inviting just you.”

  “She probably does,” Steven said. “But that’s irrelevant.”

  “Why?” Sofia, Val, and I all asked at the same time.

  “Because the Warners are out of our league. If the wedding is scaled bigger than Amspacher-Kendrick, which Hollis told you it would be, we haven’t developed our vendors and suppliers list enough to handle it. The big event planners in Houston and Dallas have the best professionals and venues all sewn up with exclusive contracts. We’re still relatively new on the scene.”

  “Working for Hollis would put us on the fast track,” I pointed out.

  “It’s a bargain with the devil. She’ll expect you to cut our percentage to the bone in return for the prestige of having her as a client. This won’t help the business, Avery. It’s more than we can handle right now. We need to keep growing by focusing on smaller projects.”

  “I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of us,” I said. “But I’m definitely going to the party. No matter what happens, it’s an opportunity to make some great contacts.”

  He looked sardonic. “What are you planning to wear to this black-tie event?”

  “My formal gown, of course.”

  “The black one you wore to the hospital fund-raiser? The one with the big shoulder pouf? No, you’re not going to the Warner mansion in that.” Steven stood and began to hunt for his keys and wallet.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m taking you to Neiman’s. We have to find something decent off-the-rack and get it altered by Friday.”

  “I’m not spending money on a new dress when I’ve already got a perfectly good one,” I protested.

  “Look, if you want to dress like a parade float on your own time, it’s your business. But when you’re networking and trying to land a high-profile client, it becomes my business. Your appearance reflects on the studio. And your personal taste is a tragic misuse of some fine genetic endowments.”

  I directed my outraged gaze from him to Sofia and Val, silently commanding them to back me up. To my disgust, Sofia had suddenly become preoccupied with checking her text messages, and Val was intently straightening the piles of magazines on the coffee table.

  “Okay,” I muttered, “I’ll get a new dress.”

  “And a new hairstyle. Because that one does you no favors.”

  “I think he’s right,” Sofia ventured before I could reply. “You wear it in an updo all the time.”

  “Every time I get my hair cut, it ends up looking like a Darth Vader helmet.”

  Ignoring my protests, Steven spoke to Sofia. “Call Salon One and ask them to squeeze in an appointment for Avery. If they give you any problems, remind them that they owe us a favor after we found a last-minute caterer for the owner’s wedding. Also call Avery’s optometrist for a contact lens fitting.”

  “No way,” I said. “No contacts. I have a problem with touching my eyeballs.”

  “That’s the least of your problems.” Steven found his keys. “Come on.”

  “Wait,” Sofia exclaimed, pulling something from a drawer. She hurried to hand it to Steven. “In case you need a backup,” she said.

  “Is that the studio credit card?” I asked indignantly. “That’s only supposed to be used in case of emergency.”

  Steven gave me an assessing glance. “This qualifies.”

  As I picked up my bag and Steven ushered me to the front door, Sofia called out after us, “Don’t let him in the dressing room, Avery. Remember, he’s not gay.”

  I hated trying on clothes, hated it, hated it.

  More than anything, I despised the department store dressing room. The three-way mirror that magnified every little indulgence and unwanted pound. The fluorescent lighting that gave me the complexion of a bridge troll. The way the salesgirl trilled, “How’s everything working out for you?” right at the moment I was tangled up in a garment that had turned into a straitjacket.

  When trying on clothes was unavoidable, a dressing room at Neiman Marcus ranked above all others. From my perspective, however, deciding on a favorite department store dressing room was about as appealing as choosing my favorite way to be executed.

  The Neiman Marcus dressing room was spacious and beautifully decorated, with lit columns on either side of the full-length mirrors and dimmable ceiling lights.

  “Stop,” Steven said, carrying in a half-dozen gowns he had pulled from the racks as we walked through the premier designer apparel.

  “Stop what?” I hung up the two black dresses I had picked out in defiance of Steven’s objections.

  “Stop looking like one of those caged puppies on the SPCA commercials.”

  “I can’t help it. That mirror with the pedestal in front of it makes me feel threatened and depressed, and I haven’t even tried anything on yet.”

  Steven took a few garments from a helpful saleswoman, closed the door, and hung them on the double wall rack. “The person in that mirror is not your adversary.”

  “No, at the moment that would be you.”

  Steven grinned. “Start trying on dresses.” He took the dresses I had chosen and began to walk out.

  “Why are you taking those away?”

  “Because you’re not wearing black to Hollis Warner’s party.”

  “Black is slimming. It’s a power color.”

  “In New York. In Houston, color is a power color.” The door closed behind him.

  The saleswoman brought a long-line bustier bra and a pair of high heels and left me in privacy. I undressed as far as possible from the three-way mirror, hooked the placket at the back of the bra, and twisted it around to my front. The bra, with its boning and angled seaming, hoisted my breasts to shameless prominence.

  I took the first dress from the hanger. It was a canary-yellow sheath with a beaded bodice and a stretch satin skirt. “Yellow, Steven? Please.”

  “Any woman can wear yellow if it’s the right shade for her coloring,” he said from the other side of the door.

  I struggled into the gown and reached back to the zipper. It refused to budge. “Come in, I need help with the zipper.”

  Steven entered the room and gave me an assessing glance. “Not bad.” Standing behind me, he closed the back of the dress with difficulty.

  Tottering toward the mirror, I struggled to breathe. “Too tight.” I was suffused with gloom as I saw the strained and distorted seams. “Could you get me the next size up?”

  Steven lifted the tag dangling from one armhole and frowned as he read it. “This is the largest size it comes in.”

  “I’m leaving now,” I informed hi
m.

  Steven unzipped me decisively. “We’re not giving up.”

  “Yes, we are. I’m going to wear the dress I already have.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

  “Right after we left, I texted Sofia and told her to get rid of it while you were out. You’re at the point of no return.”

  I scowled. “I’m going to kill you with one of these stiletto heels. And I’m going to kill Sofia with the other one.”

  “Try another gown.”

  He left the dressing room while I fumed and reached for a floor-length aqua silk with an overlay of silver-beaded organza. The gown was sleeveless with a V neck. To my relief, it slid easily over my hips.

  “I’ve always wanted to ask you this,” I said. “Did Sofia really try on clothes in front of you?”

  “Yes,” Steven replied from the other side of the door. “But she wasn’t naked, she was wearing underwear.” After a pause, he added in a preoccupied tone, “A matched set. Black lace.”

  “Are you interested in her?” I asked, slipping my hands through the armholes and pulling up the rest of the dress. At his silence, I said, “Never mind, I know you are.” I paused. “And it’s not all one-sided.”

  His tone was decidedly less casual as he asked, “Is that opinion or confirmed fact?”

  “Opinion.”

  “Even if I were interested in her, I never mix work with my personal life.”

  “But if you —”

  “I’m not discussing Sofia with you. Are you almost done?”

  “Yes, I think this one may actually fit.” I wriggled to zip up the back. “You can come in.”

  Steven entered the dressing room and glanced over me approvingly. “This works.”

  The weight of the geometric-patterned beading made the gown pleasantly slinky. I had to admit that the modified Empire cut of the gown flattered my shape, the flared fullness of the skirt balancing my proportions.

  “We’ll have alterations cut it to knee-length,” Steven said decisively. “Legs like yours should be flaunted.”

  “It’s a nice dress,” I admitted. “But the color is too bright. It competes with my hair.”

  “It’s perfect with your hair.”

  “It’s not me.” I turned and gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m not comfortable in something that makes me look so…”

  “Confident? Sexy? A dress that encourages people to look at you? Avery… nothing interesting ever happens to people who stay in their comfort zones all the time.”

  “Having gone outside my comfort zone in the past, I can say with authority that it’s an overrated experience.”

  “All the same… you’re never going to get what you want if you refuse to change. And we’re not even talking big changes here. These are clothes, Avery. It’s minor stuff.”

  “Then why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

  “Because I’m tired of seeing you dressed like a Viking nanny. And so is everyone else. You’re the last person on the planet who should be hiding her figure. Let’s buy you a nice dress, and maybe some designer jeans and a couple of tops. And a jacket…”

  In no time at all, Steven had enlisted the help of two saleswomen who proceeded to fill the dressing room racks with a rainbow of garments. The three of them informed me that I had been buying bigger sizes than I needed, in styles that were the opposite of what someone with my body shape should wear. By the time Steven and I left Neiman Marcus, I had bought the aqua dress, a print blouse, a couple of silk-blend tees, designer jeans and slim-fitting black pants, silk shorts, a plum-colored leather jacket, an open peach cardigan, an eggshell-white skirt suit, and four pairs of shoes. The outfits were sleek and simple, with waist-defining silhouettes.

  Aside from making a hefty down payment on the warehouse in Montrose, I had never dropped so much money at one time in my life.

  “Your new wardrobe is smoking hot,” Steven informed me as we left the store with bags in each hand.

  “So is my credit card.”

  He checked his messages. “We’re going to the optometrist now. After that, the salon.”

  “Just out of curiosity, Steven… is there anything about my personal style that you do like?”

  “Your eyebrows aren’t bad. And you have nice teeth.” As we drove away from the Galleria, Steven asked casually, “Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Joe Travis at the Kendrick wedding?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “If that were true, you would have told me right away. But you haven’t said anything for a week and a half, which means something happened.”

  “Okay,” I admitted. “You’re right. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine by me.” Steven found a soft-rock station on the radio and adjusted the volume.

  After a couple of minutes, I burst out, “I slept with him.”

  “Did you use protection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  After an uncomfortable hesitation, I admitted, “Yes.”

  Steven lifted one hand from the wheel to high-five me.

  “Wow,” I muttered, returning the high five. “No lectures about one-night stands?”

  “Of course not. As long as you use a condom, there’s nothing wrong with commitment-free pleasure. That being said, I wouldn’t advise using someone as a fuck-buddy. One of you always starts to have feelings. Expectations. Eventually someone gets hurt. So after the one-night stand, it’s better to pull the plug right away.”

  “What if the other person asks to see you again?”

  “I’m not a Magic Eight Ball.”

  “You’re smart about these things,” I insisted. “Tell me – is there any chance of a relationship after you’ve had a one-night stand?”

  Steven gave me a wry sideways glance. “Most of the time, a one-night stand means you’ve both already decided it wasn’t going to be serious in the first place.”

  It was nine o’clock before Steven finally brought me back home. The stylist at Salon One had worked diligently on my hair for three hours, subjecting it to a regimen of relaxing chemicals, creams, and serums, heating and drying in between each step. She had proceeded to cut off eight inches, leaving me with a lob that fell to my shoulders in loose, silky waves. The salon’s cosmetician had done a mani-pedi in pale taupe, and while the polish was drying, she had shown me how to apply makeup. I had subsequently bought a small bag of cosmetics that had cost as much as my monthly car payment.

  As it turned out, the salon visit was worth every penny. Steven, who had decided to have a rejuvenating facial during the last hour of my treatments, emerged just as my makeup was finished. His reaction was priceless. His jaw dropped, and he let out a disbelieving laugh.

  “My God. Who the hell are you?”

  I rolled my eyes and blushed, but Steven persisted, walking a full circle around me, finally pulling me into his arms for a rare embrace. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured. “Now own it.”

  Later, as we walked into the studio with a multitude of bags, Sofia came downstairs from her third-floor room. She was already dressed in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She gave me a questioning look and shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “We’re bankrupt,” I informed her with a grin. “I spent all our money on hair and clothes.”

  To my consternation, my sister’s eyes welled up. Erupting into a stream of fluid Spanish, she embraced me so tightly that I could hardly breathe.

  “Is it bad?” I asked.

  She began to laugh through her tears. “No, no, you’re so beautiful, Avery…”

  Somehow, in the confusion of hugging and rejoicing, Sofia ended up kissing Steven on the cheek.

  He went still at the innocent gesture, looking down at her with an odd, flummoxed expression. It lasted only a second before his face went carefully blank. Sofia didn’t seem to notice.

  I
f I’d had any doubts about whether Steven felt something for my sister, I knew what a Magic 8 Ball would have said:

  Signs point to yes.

  Seven