by Aven Ellis
I’m about to speak when we get to the men’s section and all of my displays have been changed. All of them. I had a really cool selection of ties in trays on a low, teakwood table, they are gone and replaced with stacks of Jil Sander T-shirts. Yes, T-shirts crammed and stacked in a tray? The motorcycle helmet and aviator sunglasses on another table—oh, no! The glasses are replaced with wallets next to the helmet. That doesn’t even make sense!
“Unbelievable,” I say, putting down the tailoring supplies and picking up a wallet. I look at Harrison, who is studying me with a crease in his brow. “All of my displays have been changed. These were aviator sunglasses,” I say, waving the wallet around. “Like a wallet next to a motorcycle helmet makes any kind of visual connection.”
I put the wallet down and sigh. “Why do I even bother?”
“Who does this to you?” Harrison asks.
I quickly look around then I step closer to him so I can speak softly. “Mona.”
Harrison looks amused. “Go on.”
“She is that lady with the blonde hair,” I say quietly. “She complains about everything every second of every day. And she always says there are things wrong with my visual displays, and when I leave for the day, she rearranges them.”
“Have you confronted her about it?”
I bite my lip. “Harrison, I just started here a few months ago. She’s been here a decade. I can’t challenge her at this point. I’m still the newest person on the team.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes, Kylie.”
I furrow my brow. “I . . . I just can’t. Not yet.”
“Not yet, or because you fear confrontation?”
I blink. “How did you know that? You don’t know me, not really, but how did you figure that out?”
Because it’s true. I absolutely hate confrontations and avoid them at all costs. It’s so much easier to stick things that bug me into my little mental drawer and slam it shut and not deal with it. That idea appeals to me way more than walking up to Mona and having it out with her over my displays.
“Well,” Harrison says slowly, going over to a row of suits and beginning to flip through them, “if you weren’t afraid of confrontation, you would have already taken her aside, told her you’re in charge of visual displays and to quit undermining your work. My guess is if you did that, this shit would stop.”
Dear God, he’s really intuitive.
“Are you sure you aren’t a psychologist?” I ask. “Because you really sound like one.”
Harrison stops and gives me his full attention. A huge smile lights up his face, and he grins.
“You keep telling me that,” Harrison says.
“You’re very intuitive,” I say honestly. “More so than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Really? I—”
Harrison is cut off by the voice of Victor, our in-house tailor.
“Kyleeee,” Victor calls out. I turn around, and he’s walking toward us. “I’m here, I can do the fitting.”
I frown at him, the jovial little man who has been tailoring here since day one.
Part of me wants to tell him, “Nope, Victor. I get to put my hands all over this Hockey God. Take a number.” But that wouldn’t be right. Victor is the tailor.
And I need to KNTBAF to said gorgeous Hockey God who smells like cinnamon and vanilla and is super smart . . . and help me, impossibly hot.
“Harrison, this is Victor Martinez, our tailor,” I say, smiling. “You’ve been saved by the best tailor in Dallas.”
Harrison smiles and shakes his hand. “Pleasure,” he says.
“Likewise, Mr. Flynn,” Victor says.
Harrison then asks me, “You’ll still help me pick stuff out?”
Okay. I’m in the Friend Zone but my pulse just went up fifty beats because Harrison said that.
“I’d love to.”
So we begin looking at suits and putting things together. Harrison really knows his fashion. He knows what cuts he likes, types of fabrics, designers. He explains to me that a lot of hockey players are known for their style, and he likes to look sharp for his public appearances and when they have to travel on the road. I find him a gorgeous, black Dolce & Gabbana suit to try on with a crisp white shirt. And I already know it’ll look amazing on him.
Victor is leading him back to the dressing room, and I prepare to wait in the lounge area, but Harrison stops in the casual wear department and sees a mannequin I’ve dressed.
“Is that,” Harrison says, moving over to it, “a leather long-sleeved shirt?”
I nod. “Isn’t it cool?” I say, admiring it. I’ve put it over a retro “Superman” logo white T-shirt, and paired it with dark wash AG Adriano Goldschmied jeans. “I know the leather isn’t exactly a summer material, but inside, at night, in a restaurant—perfect.”
“It’s wicked awesome!” Harrison says excitedly. “I have to try this on. I want to wear this as my second look.”
“Wicked?” I say, laughing. “You just said it was ‘wicked?’”
Harrison grins and pulls down on his baseball cap. “That’s how us New Englanders say really awesome.”
“Well, I’m glad you think the look is ‘wicked awesome’, Harrison,” I say, laughing. “I’ll get one for you while you try on the suit.”
So while he’s changing, I grab a leather shirt, T-shirt, and jeans for him. I have to run back to the stock room for the right size in the jeans, and by the time I have them, Harrison is standing in the dressing area with the suit on.
I stop dead in my tracks. The suit is straining against his upper back, which is broad and powerful-looking. Victor is making chalk marks for where he can let it out a bit, and Harrison is tugging on the white cuffs of the shirt, looking like the perfect model for a print ad.
“What do you think?” Harrison asks.
I realize he has busted me staring at him in the mirror, and his eyes meet mine.
“It . . . looks perfect,” I manage to squeak, mortified that Harrison caught me staring at him.
“It will be when I’m finished,” Victor says, circling around Harrison and making adjustments. “Hold, please,” he says, going to work again.
“Oh, that is sharp,” I hear Laurel say from behind me. “You look so dashing in that suit, Mr. Flynn.”
She approaches and gives Harrison an admiring once-over.
And even though I know I’m supposed to be KNTBAF, I feel jealousy shoot right through me from the way Laurel is staring at him.
“Thank you,” Harrison says, smiling. But I notice something different. When he smiles at her, or Victor, he doesn’t show his teeth. It’s a curved lip smile.
But I’ve seen him smile differently at me—a full, flashing, show-your-teeth kind of smile.
My heart catches for a second. Could that mean something? That he sees me differently?
God, Kylie, Shut up! Like that even means anything? Stop overanalyzing.
“I’ll have this ready by Wednesday,” Victor says. “Can you come in for a final fitting before the show?”
Harrison turns around. “I think Wednesday is going to be pretty crazy for me,” he says. I can see he is trying to pull up his schedule in his head, but the way he’s frowning, I can tell he isn’t being very successful.
“Oh, that’s definitely not a problem, Mr. Flynn,” Laurel says, laughing her high-pitch flirty laugh. “We’re a full-service boutique, so we can bring the clothes to you, at your home, and do any minor alterations on site.”
Hold on. I know that laugh. That is Laurel’s laugh when she is flirting.
Laurel is flirting with Harrison?
“Okay,” Harrison says, nodding. He then lifts an eyebrow. “So Kylie can bring them to my place?”
I’m about to respond w
ith a resounding yes when I notice Laurel shaking her head slowly.
“Oh, no, of course not. You’re the biggest star in our fashion show, Mr. Flynn. Therefore, I will personally oversee this myself,” Laurel says, flashing Harrison a flirty smile. “So what time would you like me to deliver them to you?”
Chapter 5
The Pop Quiz Question: Uh-oh! Someone you know has made a move on your crush. What do you do?
A) I don’t compete for a guy. If he goes out with her, see you later.
B) If he likes me, the move is useless.
C) Instantly begin wallowing in the pit of despair . . . and mentally prepare a voodoo doll in her likeness . . .
I dash up the stairs to my apartment in Uptown. It’s been a horrendously long afternoon—with me wanting to strangle Laurel for blatantly stealing an opportunity for me to spend time with Harrison—after she knew I’d just met him and he had come to see me.
Then I got mad at myself because I’m the one in the freaking Friend Zone, not Laurel, so I shouldn’t care if she goes to Harrison’s house to deliver his clothes. Friends don’t care about stuff like that.
I bite down on my lip as I turn the key in the lock.
So why does the idea of her going to his house make me absolutely crazy with jealousy?
Arrgh. My life was so uncomplicated a few days ago. I went to work, I came home, I sketched skirt and apron designs on my HP notebook, I made patterns and sewed them, I baked brownies, I went out with Gretchen for a glass of wine at a wine bar . . . Simple. Unaffected.
And within 72 hours my brain has completely short-circuited to thinking of only Prince Harry.
But not the one who is a British royal.
And now, since I’m home and I know Harrison’s full name, I can do what every magazine quiz has ever told me to do about potential dates—er, in my case, friends—before going any further.
Google him.
I go into my bedroom and put down my things. Gretchen is working tonight at the restaurant—she is a sous chef at a chic eatery off McKinney Avenue—so I can do my research in peace. I quickly change into my non-working clothes, a Lululemon racer back pink and black-striped tank top and black yoga pants. I sweep my hair up into a loose knot at the nape of my neck. Then I grab my iPad and take it into the living room.
I drop down on the sofa and take an anxious breath of air. God, this is so weird. Within seconds, thanks to the magic of the Internet, I’ll know loads about Harrison, simply because he’s famous. I still can’t wrap my head around this fact. That I spent hours with a famous professional hockey player and didn’t even know it.
I feel my stomach flip anxiously as I stare at my iPad screen. “Okay, Harrison Flynn, let’s see who you are,” I say out loud.
I go to Google and type ‘Harrison Flynn’ into the search box.
And immediately 6,582,000 results pop up.
Shit. I blink, checking the number again.
More than six million freaking results?
My eyes scan over the list:
Harrison Flynn Dallas Demons
Harrison Flynn Stats News Video Highlights
Harrison Flynn Esquire Magazine Article
My eyes stop on that one. He has been in Esquire! I immediately click on the link, which takes me to an article with Harrison wearing a “wicked”—as he would say—sharp gray designer suit and white shirt, no tie, adjusting a watch, looking deadly serious at the camera with those brilliant green eyes.
As I study the picture, I feel breathless.
He is seriously smoking hot.
Next to the picture is a mini Q&A session, which I eagerly read:
High Point of Last Season: Scoring the game-winning goal in overtime to send the Demons to the Western Conference Finals.
On Fashion: “I really like fashion that fits both sides of my personality. On one hand, I love nothing better than a well-made, fashion-forward suit. I know what works on me. I love the styling of Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, and Tom Ford and wear those exclusively when traveling on the road or doing appearances. But I also love kicking around in my jeans and favorite gray T-shirt on off days. I have one I bought on an off day in New York, one with an architectural design of the Brooklyn Bridge on it, and that is really unique-looking. The shirt is a great fabric and has a story behind it, and I love it so much I called them up and had them ship me five more of them so I don’t wear them out. Pilled, worn-out shirts are one of my fashion pet peeves.”
On Watches: “I normally don’t wear them. But this Cartier watch I’m wearing for this shoot might change my mind.”
My heart is racing as I read his answers. I hear his soft-spoken voice in my head, I see the “Bridge” shirt he had on today and now know the story behind it. I’m staring at his handsome face on my iPad, and I can’t believe I know him. I spent hours with him not even knowing this side of Harrison—the famous athlete—even existed. And that he wanted to talk to me—Kylie Reed, normal girl Kylie Reed—for hours just blows my mind.
I press the back key and start reading some more. I find his web page—this is so weird—and go to it. There are videos of him playing hockey and scoring goals; pictures of him in his suits; his bio—okay, I have to read this. And while I’m reading it, I see that Harrison Wesley Flynn was a child hockey prodigy who went straight to play professional hockey at the age of 18. A sense of surprise washes over me. He didn’t go to college? But he’s so worldly and intelligent. How could Harrison not be college-educated?
Suddenly I bite my lip. I realize how judgmental that sounds. I grew up in a family where everyone went to Southern Methodist University. I was raised in a wealthy Dallas suburb, Southlake, and nearly all of my classmates and friends went to college. Not earning a university degree—well, what kind of future was there if you didn’t obtain that?
But as I study Harrison’s picture, I realize he didn’t need college to be intelligent and thoughtful about the world around him. Or, since I see he has a contract for 150 million dollars—good lord, he has that kind of money?—he didn’t exactly have to get a degree to ensure a successful future.
I feel my face turn red. I realize how superficial and narrow-minded my thinking was on that until I met Harrison.
And I wonder what else Harrison Wesley Flynn is going to teach me.
I read that he has only played for the Demons—drafted as a first round pick at 18, now 27. He’s chasing Mike Modano’s record for most goals scored by an American-born player. My God, I think, he is a superstar. I also see he has played on Olympic teams, All-Star teams, etc.
While processing all that, I go over to the tab for his foundation, the Flynn22Foundation. I see that he’s an active supporter of funding treatment for those who have mental health issues, and the Flynn22Foundation has supported research in the fight against various mental illnesses, providing funding for family support groups, treatment and medications; and mental health access. I pause for a moment. Wow, that’s really unique. It seems to be his determined focus for his foundation. I read what he says about it.
I feel mental illness is something that nobody wants to talk about. People want to make it go away, disappear, ignore it. I don’t feel that way at all. It’s a sickness, no different than any other. And people suffering with it should not have to. They should have access to diagnoses, treatment, and therapy. To me, it is not just a personal or family problem. It is a societal problem. And that is the mission of the Flynn22Foundation. To help those affected by mental illness get the help they deserve.
Oh wow. I swallow as I finish reading his words. Harrison Flynn, you’re one amazing man. And if I wasn’t even attracted to him before, I would be for sure after reading that statement.
I go on to read about his hobbies—traveling, golfing, woodworking. In fact, he used to work for a contractor doing ho
me renovations during the summer when he was in high school. I continue reading. He also loves reading, and even has a tab on his website where he reviews his favorite books . . .
Okay so I know I’m supposed to KNTBAF, but how can I not have a huge crush on him right now? How?
I go back to the Google page and resume scrolling.
And then I see this:
Harrison Flynn dating German Supermodel Claudia Stuhlpfarrer?
Harrison Flynn and actress Sarah Green—just friends.
Harrison Flynn and Veronica Jade Morris—love match?
The Official Flynnbabes Website-For those who worship the gorgeousness that is Dallas Demon Hottie Harrison Flynn.
Oh. My. God.
Now it smacks me in the face how gorgeous and famous he is. With a sinking stomach, I click on the first link. Up pops a picture of a younger Harrison with the gorgeous German model Claudia. They’re at some kind of celebrity event, and they are posing together, and she—all legs and blonde and perfect—looks just right on his arm.
I click to the next one, where Harrison has taken another model, Veronica Jade Morris, to a red carpet event. She’s a stunning brunette and wearing a gorgeous gown that obviously costs a fortune, he’s in a tux; his arm is around her waist, and as I see the women he has been with, I feel bile rise in my throat.
I swallow hard. Of course he wants to be friends with me, I think, reeling. He dates models. I’m so out of his dating zone it’s not even funny. I’m the kind of girl he has a conversation with. Not the kind of girl he wants to kiss.
Deciding I’m up for a round of self-torture, I go to the Official Flynnbabes Website. As soon as it pops up, I gasp out loud.
What the hell? Is that a girl in a superimposed wedding dress photoshopped with Harrison in a tux?
