by Avery Aster
“You—” Lex stopped as Clara entered with the salads.
“Sale fino?”
“No salt or seasonings, thank you.” Lex struggled to make eye contact with him.
“No, grazie,” he thanked Clara, while watching as Lex gripped her goblet, unsure if the water inside would end up on his face. He was ready, in case.
Her eyes followed Clara as she left the room then she turned her attention back to Massimo. “You’re planning to compete with me!” Lex fumed.
My my my. “Last year, your sales skyrocketed from ten million dollars to sixty million in twelve months. When you failed to make the payment, it broke the contract’s terms, and we figured we may as well step up and create our own line.”
“You are serious. Ohhh, Jesus.”
“I’m serious but not ruthless. I would not call it competition. We are expanding the category Easton occupies,” he coaxed, hoping he could offer her some peace.
“How so?”
“We are taking the shapewear and apparel and making it more obtainable. We will be selling the new collection to numerous retail channels in Europe, the Middle East, Asia, as well as in the United States.”
The sudden hurt in her eyes at his words troubled him. He knew this was not welcome news, but she would find another supplier and carry on. Entrepreneurs with her determination always did. He bit into a salted red beet and swallowed. The earthy taste soothed his sudden discomfort.
“But there’s a no-compete clause in the contract,” she cried out. Shaking her head, not accepting the truth, she continued, “It states you can’t supply to a competing brand in contemporary, premier designer, active apparel, shapewear, or women’s sportswear.” She rattled off the categories as if she memorized the document.
He was impressed, but wondered if she’d read the agreement’s fine print. “Girasoli is not delivering to a competing brand. We are equipping ourselves. And now, with Easton’s payment default, the exit clause is accelerated.”
“What? What are you talking about?” she asked. Her gem-hued eyes narrowed into slits. She became sexy when mad and was getting sexier by the second.
“The termination paragraph states failure to pay will result in our agreement ending, which expires tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The flittering lashes shadowed her rosy cheeks and flew up with a dramatic allure, one he didn’t expect.
“We assumed you’re here, interrupting our holiday, due to the deadline.” Massimo gave her props for her timeliness.
She stared at him, her face blank as to the article he mentioned. “Wh-wha—” Lex stuttered.
“Our exclusive agreement ran for twenty-four months,” he warned. Massimo sipped his water, hating to see her strain. Poor bella.
Lex studied his lips as her eyes were in a daze, resting her view on his mouth.
Did she want him as he wanted her? Or maybe she would scream in frustration over her sharp tongue’s inability to construct a single sentence.
“Fuck this. I can’t believe you! Fuuuck,” Lex cursed, confirming there was no lustful daze, boiling rage which poured from her mouth in the form of increasing obscenities.
Bella, vulgarity does not suit you. Massimo thought back and revealed, “We didn’t know when you placed the order two years ago the textiles would become such a success. What you have done is commendable. Above all, especially considering how naïve you are to the business world.”
Redness spotted Lex’s neck as she huffed, “I’m not naïve. We have Brill, Inc., the number-one fashion PR firm in the biz, working with us.” She dropped her salad fork.
He hoped she wouldn’t pick up her steak knife. “Lex—”
She interrupted. “Every fashion magazine editor in New York, London and Paris wears Easton Essentials, and they love my designs.” Her eyes met his, curling her pink lips to a devil’s grimace. She made a point. Easton’s platform built on publicity, not advertising—every sale came from client satisfaction. An Oz designer behind the fashion curtain, there were no reality TV stars or celebrity personalities pushing her brand. Girasoli Garment Company’s research on Easton proved as much. He wished they would’ve given him Lex’s bio in addition to the brand’s financial profile. Massimo knew nothing about her.
He speculated she found a perverse pleasure in challenging him. He estimated she made her men lie on their backs while she rode them to ejaculation. He hoped in multiples. Massimo guessed she had a tight pussy, allowing her lovers to climax when she deemed fit and not a moment sooner.
“My press reviews will be outstanding, also. There is room enough for both Easton and Girasoli in this marketplace.”
“I’ll sue you if I have to.” She glared at him with burning eyes and threatened, “Let’s go to court. Girasoli doesn’t stand a chance.”
He about choked. Massimo heard the word “sue” and realized he sat with an American.
The United States of America, otherwise known as the sue-happy nation, a place where legal action became a celebrated sport. No wonder she didn’t agree to a workout with him. She’d rather litigate.
Easton may smear Girasoli in the press. Lex could destroy his current business-to-business supplier company and any hopes for starting his consumer brand.
The last time Massimo and the judge saw eye to eye was a decade before when his father had embezzled his savings and family inheritance. That was back when Massimo gave up his rights to become king. He’d much rather have the publicity focus on his lifestyle—creating fictitious rumors—versus his business affairs, which may run the truth for a change.
Easton would bring to the surface Tittoni’s legal skeletons he’d worked hard to bury.
“Mi scusi?” Massimo sighed. His feet itched as he struggled not to kick the table. Don’t do this, bella.
She leaned forward, issuing him a smile. A glossy, near-perfect white beam—one which broke only for her to utter something a Manhattanite would threaten. “You heard me!”
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