Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever Afters Collection (Eight Fun, Romantic Novels by Eight Bestselling Authors)
Page 55
âIâll just browse.â I grin. âAnd look,â I show her my palms. âSpotless.â
âOf course you know,â she beams.
I leave her snapping at the students, and drift down the main aisle. All around me, reams of fabric are stacked fifteen feet high, samples draped enticingly in swathes of silky satin and stiff, architectural canvas.
Itâs heaven. I can browse here for hours, lost in the possibility of this swatch of fabric, or that print, imagining what I could transform them into given a few daysâand an unlimited budget. A cute, funky club dress, or an elegant, sweeping skirt? A tough denim vest, or a wild patterned shirt? Under this roof, anything is possible.
I got bit by the fashion bug early as a kid, as much out of necessity as anything. There wasnât any money for new clothes, so my mom would raid the Goodwill in the next town, and beg black trash bags of castoffs from her friendsâ kids. Looking back, it sounds tough, but the days she came home with a fresh haul were like Christmas to me. Iâd tear through the piles, excitedly pulling out an old sweater or some embellished shirtâI knew that on their own, they looked way out of date, but if I chopped off those sleeves, and fixed those rhinestones to that collarâ¦
I would spend hours working to transform the old clothes, graduating from a needle and thread to an old secondhand sewing machine. My early attempts ended in disaster most of the time, but by the time I started high school, I could whip up a cute tank from an old sweatshirt, and turn an oversize pair of jeans into a cutoff skirt. I would never be one of the popular girls in their fashionable jeans and store-bought shirts, but at least I didnât look like I was desperately trying to keep up with them and be something everyone knew I wasnât.
These days, Iâve moved on from just altering stuff. Now my sketchbooks are filled with wild, outlandish designs: amazing dresses, bold and crazyâand totally impractical for life in Beachwood Bay. I keep most of them in my imagination, but some, I canât help but try to recreate. I sew them from scratch, painstakingly cutting patterns and mock-up canvas until finally, I can risk it with the real fabric and bring to life something that once only existed in my mind.
I daydream half the afternoon away, until Emilia finds me, poring over lace samples to use as a trim on a camisole top. She clucks her tongue, guiding me away, âThis is no the good stuff. I have some, I put aside special for you.â
âYouâre a gem.â I smile, following her to the back of the store. Emilia always saves me the good stuff: the odd-sized ends of a roll, and scraps of expensive fabric other buyers donât think to bother with. Good materials cost more than I can afford, so I make do with what I can find, and usually, a slip of silk will inspire some new design in my sketchbookâeven if I canât afford to make the whole thing a reality.
Emilia digs out a basket from under the table, and spreads her wares for me to see: thin swatches of the lace Iâm looking for, delicate as silken spiderwebs but bright in black and red; ribbon trims; a length of bold, orange printed satin; and more of the stiff, scratchy canvas I use to mock up my designs and fix the patterns before I graduate to real fabric.
âThis is perfect,â I tell her, stroking the lace. Iâve been doing more lingerie-inspired pieces this year, adding flashes of lace and silk trim to camisoles and bra tops. I love how wearing something bold against my skin makes me feel extra-daring, like I have a secret nobody knows. âYouâre the best.â
Emilia waves away my compliments with a smile. âWhat you work on now? Something pretty, maybe. You always so dark, aggressive. Try a little lightnessâ¦â She offers me a cotton in sprigged pink, but her suggestions fade as I look past her to the next table.
âWhen did these come in?â I ask, drawn forwards as if Iâm pulled by some magnetic force. The table is covered in bolts of silk, every color of the rainbow, shimmering and lustrous even under the cheap lights.
Emilia follows, looking at the fabric proudly. âJust this week, my guy in India.â
âItâs beautiful,â I breathe, stroking the silk. Itâs soft under my fingertips, draping and folding in a gorgeous, heavy sway. I lift a length of the purple. Itâs deep as midnight, with a rosy-colored sheen. I could drown in the depths of the color. I feel a shiver of anticipation. I can see the dress already: simple, floor-length, strapless. Timeless.
âHow much?â I ask.
I know from Emiliaâs pause that itâs more than I can afford, but I donât care. Suddenly, I have to have this fabric. âIâll take it,â I tell her, before she can answer. Itâs probably more than my earnings for a month, but itâll be worth it. This fabric is made to be mine.
Emilia gives me a knowing smile. Sheâs probably seen it a hundred times, the spell a piece of material can cast over you. âIâll go cut,â she tells me, whisking the bolt away before I can have second thoughts. Before I know it, Iâm out on the street again, my heart racingâhalf in shock at the amount of cash Iâve just parted with, and half with nervous exhilaration at my find. But as I drive back to Beachwood, the excitement takes over, and the thought of what those bags hold. Dresses have never really been my thingânot unless theyâre cut to stun guys into submissionâbut this fabric is crying out for something sweeping and elegant. Not a fairytale princess dress, all frou-frou and glitzy, but something bold: the kind of dress that would stop you in your tracks.
Iâm still swept up in plans for my precious bolt of silk when I pull into the drive back at the beach house and find a strange truck already parked up front, this one even more dusty and battered than Garrettâs.
And behind it, sitting on the front porch steps, leaning back on his elbows like he owns the place, is Hunter.
âHow did you find where I live?â I demand, slamming the car door behind me.
He unfolds his limbs and stands, coming down the steps to meet me. âI asked around.â Hunter replies. Heâs wearing another of those preppy Oxford shirts and a pair of jeans that fit way too good. âSmall town hospitality,â he grins happily, âIt really canât be beat.â
âItâs a treat, alright.â I mutter. This is something else I wonât have to deal with when I get out of town: people dropping by unannounced, without any warning.
Without any time for me to prepare.
âThe lady at the café even wrote me out directions.â Hunter holds out his hand to show pen marks scribbled on his palm. Heâs so casual and relaxed, itâs like heâs totally oblivious to my hostility.
His gaze drops to my bags. âBeen shopping, huh?â Hunter reaches to help, but I duck past him, heading inside. He follows me through the hallway and back to the living room, which Iâve set up at my temporary studio. Fabric samples are piled on the table, my sewing machine sits under the window to catch the best light, and thereâs a dress form in the corner wearing an unfinished negligee.
I dump my bags on the table and turn, my hands on my hips.
âWhat do you want?â
The edge of Hunterâs mouth quirks in amusement. âWhat do you want?â he echoes. âThatâs it? No, âHow you been?â âWhat are you up to?â âSorry for ditching you three years ago?ââ
Is he for real?
âIâm fine, thanks for asking.â Hunter continues, glancing around the room. He wanders over to the corner, looking closely at the nightgown Iâm working on. âFinished college, the folks are doing great. What about you?â
âSpectacular.â I bite out. âWill youâdonât touch that!â I leap across the room to stop him from pulling my work-in-progress apart. Hunter stands back, hands up in surrender.
âSorry. This is great, you do all this yourself?â
âHad to do something to pass the time.â I drawl, crossing
my arms protectively over my chest. âI donât spend my life waitressing, you know.â
âI didnât think you did.â Hunterâs smile fades, and he looks at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. âItâs good to see you again, Brit.â
The sound of my name, soft on his lips, does something to me. A shiver rolls right through my body, delicate and sweet. I remember the touch of those lips, kissing their way across my skin. Suddenly, this room is way too small, and Hunter is standing way too close.
Close enough to kiss.
âSo now weâre all caught up, maybe you can answer my question,â I snap, retreating behind the safety of my sewing table. âLike I said before, what do you want?â
âIâm just being neighborly. I took over my grandpaâs ranch,â he explains. âYou remember, itâs a couple of miles that-a-way.â He nods in an eastward direction.
My heart drops. âYou moved here? You mean, youâre staying?â
Hunter seems amused by the shock in my voice. âLooks like it. Wait, I brought you something.â
While Iâm left reeling from that bombshell, Hunter disappears back out to the porch, re-emerging a moment later with a familiar green-patterned bakery box.
Krispy Kreme. A full dozen.
âYou bought me donuts,â I mutter, my head spinning.
âI thought about flowers, but I remembered, you always had a sweet tooth.â Hunter grins at me, proud as a little kid as I dumbly take the box. The scent of sugar and fried dough drifts up, and despite myself, my mouth starts to water.
He brought me donuts. I donât think any guyâs ever given me a thing, save a warm six-pack of beer and a morning after filled with regret.
Hunter watches me. âSo, you want to have dinner with me to say thanks?â
Wait, what?!
âDinner?â I repeat. âLike, a date?â
And I thought this encounter couldnât get any stranger.
âYou say it like itâs a dirty word.â Hunter teases. âYes, a date. Weâll go eat some food, make small talk, fight over who pays the check.â He strolls closer, just the narrow table between us now. âJust so you know, Iâll win that one,â he adds, reaching over to take a cruller from the bakery box, still open in my arms. He bites down and smiles at me, his lips dusted with powdered sugar. âI donât care what you say about equality and womenâs lib. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and a gentleman always pays.â
I blink at him, stunned.
Hunter Covington. Here in my living room. Munching on a donut, and asking me out to dinner.
Thereâs only one thing I can say to this.
âNo.â
Hunter chews thoughtfully. âWhy not?â
âA girl doesnât need a reason to turn you down.â I reply archly, struggling to cling on to my last shred of control. âI donât want to, thatâs enough.â
âBut you do want to.â Hunter reaches for the bakery box again. I snap the lid shut.
âOh yeah?â Iâm getting pissed at his arrogance now. Or maybe itâs because heâs not buying my âkeep awayâ act, when every other guy in town would have cut bait and bailed for an easier target by now.
âYeah.â Hunter fixes me with a knowing look. âYou want to spend time with me. You want to hang out, and laugh over a couple of drinks, and have me kiss you senseless on the front porch out there when I bring you home. So why donât you drop this bullshit tough girl act, and give me one good reason why not.â
Kiss me senselessâ¦
My mind races. How can he see through me like this? What can I say to make him leave me alone?
âIâm working!â I finally blurt, but the words make me glance over to the clock above the mantle, and I realize that my excuse is true. âShit, Iâm late. Garrett!â I exclaim.
Hunterâs face darkens. âIs Garrett your boyfriend?â
Iâm tempted to lie, but that would only drag this out longer. âMy boss.â I drop the donut box to the table, grab my purse and head for the door. âOr rather, soon to be ex-boss, if I donât get my ass to Jimmyâs in the next five minutes.â
I steam outside, this time glad that Hunter follows on my heels. âYou need a ride?â Hunter offers.
âI can take care of myself.â I lock up, and head for Garrettâs truck without another look.
âThink about what I said,â Hunter calls after me. âYou, me, a bottle of wine, the lame excuse for fine dining this town has to offer. Youâll have fun, I promise.â
âDonât hold your breath.â I yell back, starting the engine. âIâd rather pull teeth.â
Hunterâs laughter echoes after me as I squeal out of the driveway. When I glance in my rearview mirror, heâs standing there on the front porch, golden in the setting sun, reaching intoâ
Damn. He took the donuts.
CHAPTER THREE
I RUSH INTO THE BAR, breathless and apologetic. âSorry, sorry, sorry!â I yelp, grabbing my apron and yanking the ties into a knot around my waist. âI know, Iâm late.â
âThatâs OK,â Garrett sounds chill, and when I get it together enough to look around, I realize why. âThis is Jade,â he says, introducing me to the cute, African American girl already wearing her work apron. Sheâs standing by the bar, gazing adoringly at Garrett. âSheâs going to be helping out now that Melissa is gone.â
âI bet she will.â I give Garrett a glare, then switch on a smile for poor Jade. She doesnât know what sheâs in for. âWelcome to Jimmyâs. You need me to show you around?â
âAlready covered.â Garrett interrupts me, flashing Jade an irresistible grin. âWhy donât you head on back and grab me some paper napkins from the store room?â
âSure thing, boss!â Jade disappears down the hallway.
Garrett watches her go. âI like the way she says that. Boss.â
I lean over the bar and punch Garrett in the arm.
âOww!â he glares. âWhat was that for?â
âThat was for Jade.â
âI havenât laid a finger on her!â Garrett protests.
âAnd sheâs been here all of ten minutes.â I roll my eyes. âYou must be getting sloppy.â
âYou make it sound like Iâm some lecherous old perv.â Garrett puts on his wounded, puppy-dog face. âI canât help it if women find me irresistible.â
âWhat a dreadful curse, my heart breaks for you!â I slide his keys across the bar. âHere, boss. The truckâs right outside, I even filled her up with gas.â
âThanks.â Garrett takes the keys and sets about taking down the chairs from the tables and getting the bar ready for opening. He pauses, looking over at me. âYou good?â he checks.
I nod.
âSure?â he asks, awkward. âBecause if you want to talk about itâ¦â
âAnd then we braid our hair and paint our nails and talk about boys?â I joke, trying to change the subject.
Garrett laughs, clearly relieved. Heâll happily beat Trey to a pulp for me, but heâs more the playful, joking typeâtalking about feelings is definitely not his thing. âI donât know how much braiding youâll get done with this,â he runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair.
âI donât know,â I pretend to muse, setting out ketchup bottles and mustard. âI think youâd look cute with a couple of barrettes, maybe some highlightsâ¦â
âShut up!â Garrett throws a dishtowel at me. I duck back, laughing.
âWait, whereâs Jade?â I look around. âDonât
tell me she got lost on the way to the storeroom.â
âIâll go check.â Garrett starts towards the door, but I cut him off.
âOh no. Iâm not leaving you alone in there with her. That room has history.â
Garrettâs eyes widen in recognition. âThatâs right, Em and Julesâ¦â
I shudder, remembering the time I caught my brother in a very compromising position with Juliet, back before they were even officially together. âDonât even talk about it.â I order him. âSome things, you canât unsee!â
I SPEND THE FIRST half of my shift hidden away in the back office going through purchase orders. At least, thatâs what I tell myself Iâm doing, but the truth is I need a moment to myself, to process everything thatâs happened over the past twenty-four hours.
Hunter.
It was only supposed to be one night, thatâs how I justified it to myself at the time. One night to taste a world I knew I couldnât own; one night to surrender to a feeling far beyond my control.
The last night of summer.
Iâd just turned sixteen and the Covingtons were back in town again. Iâd always stayed out of the way of the rich kids before. I had a gig waitressing at Mrs. Olsonâs diner, and the closest Iâd come to them was serving pancakes on a Sunday morning, or laying out on the beach a few towels over from their nonstop party crowd. I kept my distance for a reason. Iâd seen the damage the summer people could do. My brother, Emerson, had his heart ripped out by a girl who left town and never looked back.
But something was different about Hunter.
It felt like we were circling each other, all summer long. We never said a word to each other, but I would catch him staring when we passed on the street, and one day when I was down by the docks I saw him, taking in the sail on their boat. He was stripped to his swim trunks, the muscles of his shoulders and torso gloriously defined in the midday sun as he reached to haul in the heavy fabric. I watched him from behind the safety of my shades, and felt something flicker to life Iâd never known before.