“I . . . I just need help all over,” Mags muttered. “I can’t really afford something expensive. Do you think you might know where to get something ch—I mean, simple?”
She’d been about to say cheap, and then thought better of it. Good girl. Cheap was never the goal. Inexpensive and budget-conscious did not equal cheap. “I’m new to the area, but I’ve done some research.” It had gone along with her master plan for her newest business venture . . . not the personal-shopping one. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“I’m carless at the moment, so pick me up at Trey’s in thirty minutes, okay? I’ll do some more quick research and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay.” Her words were a bit shaky, nervous, maybe scared.
“Mags?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got this. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” the other woman said again, more firmly now. “Okay. Thanks.” She hung up, and Anya grinned. This was her first test. She prayed she would get it right.
* * *
Ninety minutes later, Anya was ready to use a hanger to bludgeon her newest client to death.
Holding her breath, she held up another gown . . . only the thousandth one so far. “How about this?”
“Maybe.” Mags wandered over, careful to avoid brushing by any of the other racks in Cynthia’s, the small resell boutique. Instead of admiring the line, the daring cutout back that would make her porcelain skin gleam and Stephen trip over his tongue with desire, and the gorgeous sheen to the fabric, Mags reached immediately for the price tag. “Four hundred dollars? That’s more than I’d pay for a new one at Penney’s.”
Deep breath in, deep breath out. “It’s a Badgley Mischka,” she said, managing not to choke on the words. “That’s like, half the price at full retail. And if you go into Penney’s for anything but to use the restroom I will strangle you with this hanger.”
“Anya, look.” Mags gave her a pained expression. “I’m not one of the socialites you’re used to dressing. I’m on a budget. Like, a still have to eat and make a car payment budget, and if I go over, there’s no rich husband waiting in the wings to pat me on the head and say, ‘Good try, dearie. Next time let’s not spend the national deficit on your wardrobe, shall we?’”
Anya wanted to laugh—the woman was seriously hilarious, even when edging perilously close to a breakdown—but went for tough love instead. “The national deficit? I know these are a bit on the pricy side—”
Mags snorted at her, looking none too pleased.
“—but they are quality.” She continued to flip through the rack, looking for some hidden gem she might have missed that was labeled ninety percent off. “They are couture. They are timeless. They will not look like you got them off the rack at Target.”
“Target rocks.”
Target did rock. She shopped there often. But . . . “Target is for hand soap, pizza bagels, and five-dollar flip-flops.” Starting to get worked up now at Margaret’s inability to compromise, she started shoving aside dresses more forcefully than before. “A black-tie wardrobe was not meant to be found in the same store where you can find greeting cards and windshield-wiper blades.”
Mags was quiet behind her, and Anya had a moment’s satisfaction, believing she’d finally broken through the concrete wall of stubbornness.
“I can’t do this,” her friend whispered from behind her.
“What?”
“I can’t do this,” Mags said again, then wandered over to a settee in the corner and sat down with a heavy thump. “I can’t afford this stuff. I can’t find something that will be presentable. I can’t show up on his arm looking like a Target pizza bagel.”
Oh, look, a breakdown, right on schedule. Anya edged closer, not sure if Mags would burst into tears or bite her head off. It was a toss-up. “Oooookay, and we’re spinning.” She risked it and sat, draping her arm around her new friend gently. “It’s not impossible. Trust me, I won’t let you walk out of the house looking like a Target pizza bagel.”
When Mags said nothing, Anya cleared her throat. Delicate subject approaching. “I might be out of line for asking, but since you’re Stephen’s date, and I know Stephen can afford this, why doesn’t he—”
“No. Just . . . no. I have to do this myself. I have to make it work.”
Anya’s “aha” moment dawned. She’d been pushing her so hard to find something glamorous, forgetting that the woman was on a tight budget that wouldn’t easily accommodate something suitable for a black-tie affair.
She couldn’t blame Mags for wanting to do it solo. Pride was a major motivator.
“We’re about the same shoe size, so you could borrow a pair of mine.” When Mags looked at her, she shrugged. Why did everyone think it was so odd she brought so many shoes with her for potential occasions? “I like to travel prepared. You’re definitely not the same bust size as me, though, so borrowing a dress of mine won’t work. And Cassie is way too tall.”
“Are you ladies finding everything all right?” A saleslady who looked to be in her fifties approached. She wore a black pantsuit, with a crisp white shirt underneath, sensible black heels, and her pearly-white hair was cut in a flattering bob around her naturally tanned face. Her makeup, too, played on the “elegant and sensible” theme.
Bingo. The woman’s outfit screamed I know quality, but I don’t have to name-drop to get it done. Here was the help Anya needed.
“Are we having trouble finding what we want?”
“We’re fine,” Mags said quickly.
“Actually, could I speak with the owner a moment?” Anya stood, putting a hand on Margaret’s shoulder to keep her down.
“That would be me. I’m Cynthia, and you are . . .?”
“Anya Fisher.” With a beaming smile, she looked back at Mags. “Keep looking, okay? Find a few pieces you like and you think would work with your personality. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Chapter Five
Anya followed Cynthia to a small office, well-organized but still full to the brim with paperwork. Her department-store manager’s office in Georgia had looked similar, just more messy.
“What can I do for you, Miss Fisher?” Cynthia asked, looking a bit wary.
To name-drop or not to name-drop . . . She’d have to play it by ear. “I currently work as a virtual fashion consultant. Formerly, I worked in a major department store as a personal shopper. Dressing people is my passion.”
“We’re not hiring at the moment,” Cynthia began, folding her hands on her desk.
“Oh, I’m not looking for a job.” Anya smiled in a way that she hoped reassured the woman about her motives. “I’m moving to Santa Fe for a change, but will continue working as a virtual shopper for people across the country. My idea, though, is to dig deeper in the local area. I want to start a nonprofit organization that provides formal wear to those without the funds to buy their own.”
Cynthia sat back in her chair, fingers laced over her stomach. “Go on.”
“You are not a nonprofit, as you do not accept donations, but rather consign items. Correct?” When the older woman nodded, Anya went on. “I’m sure you often receive items that you know won’t work with the clientele you are selling to. Either they are a little out-of-date, or they aren’t name brand, or the size isn’t something you sell enough of to keep. What happens to those pieces?”
“Sometimes the owner picks them back up when they come to collect their check for the rest of the sales. Other times, they ask us to donate them so they don’t have to deal with it. It’s a service we provide.”
“What if,” Anya said, warming up, “instead of carting those donations off, they were set aside for a specific nonprofit to use? Separate from your own business, but housed in the same location?”
“I suppose. But what for?”
“A sort of mobile closet. Taking
dresses to, for example, local high schools and having girls who can’t afford to buy a dress for the prom pick one out. They’d have someone who is familiar with fashion—that’s me—working with them to make sure they look beautiful on their special night. Chance to Dance . . . it’s what I’ve wanted to name it.”
Cynthia’s eyes warmed. “That sounds like a lovely idea. But . . . a mobile closet. A lot of work. Partnering with schools in the area, taking the time to go out there and develop a relationship with the administration, taking several hours with the girls from each school . . . that’s something you want to tackle?”
Anya grinned. “Yup. I could see eventually expanding, maybe, to work with other areas. Brides who can’t afford a wedding gown, for example, or mothers of the bride. That sort of thing. Maybe even working with a local career center to help women pick out a professional outfit for interviews to get them back on their feet. But for now, I think teens and formal dances is a good place to start.”
“Not to sound mercenary . . .” Cynthia stopped, then chuckled a little. “Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I’m a business owner. Of course I’m mercenary.”
Anya smiled at that. She liked this woman.
“What’s in it for me? If this is taking up room in my place, and taking up time from my staff, who have to cull out what would be appropriate for a teenager instead of just a big donation pile, I’d like to know the return on investment.”
“Makes sense. But wouldn’t it be awesome if your store’s name was painted on the side of the trailer being driven to each school? Parked out front while the moms and daughters walked past. While other moms and daughters, some of whom could afford your merchandise, drive by during school pickup. If we could get the word out that donations from this store are filtering down . . .” Anya held up her hands in a think about it sort of gesture.
Cynthia nodded, quiet now. Absorbing, Anya knew.
“If you’re amenable to it, I’d like to recommend you start now. It’s sudden, I know,” she added quickly when the woman lifted one silver eyebrow. “But that woman out there? She’s going to a black-tie fund-raiser with a Bobcats player this weekend. You and I both know what that means.”
She watched as Cynthia’s pupils all but turned into dollar signs.
“If Margaret happens to mention a time or two she got her dress from your store, and then gush about the nonprofit you’ve partnered with . . .” Another vague gesture. “I can’t help but think what the women who are attending that fund-raiser might think. Some might consider your store a new donation spot. But others might want to use it as a way to trade around their black-tie wear. Especially those girlfriends who don’t want to use their man’s money, want to do it themselves.”
“Good for them,” Cynthia murmured. “And I suppose you want me to loan out this dress to the woman sitting out there, looking miserable.”
“It wouldn’t hurt. I can promise she’ll bring it back in impeccable condition.” If anyone knew how to properly care for fabric, it had to be someone who cleaned for a living. “But even so, it’s a small price to pay for that kind of word-of-mouth, don’t you think?”
“You’re shrewd,” Cynthia said after a moment. “I like shrewd women.”
“Thank you.” Anya settled back in her chair, realizing she’d been leaning forward on the edge for nearly the entire conversation. “So?”
Cynthia’s manicured fingers drummed on the desktop for a moment. “I believe you have a partner, m’dear.”
Anya wanted to jump up and do a fist pump. She wanted to booty-shake, scream out a huge “Yessssss!,” and break a plate while shouting “Opa!” all at the same time. But she stood and shook the woman’s proffered hand with as much dignity as she could muster. Her own hand shook visibly while they clasped hands.
“Now let’s find that beautiful young lady something to make her man drool,” Cynthia said with a grin.
“Amen.”
* * *
Josiah scowled as his phone rang. He’d just sat down after a grueling practice. Could the world at large not just leave him be? When he grabbed the phone and checked the screen, he lifted a brow. Not a number he recognized. He silenced the phone and let it drop, slumping back down on the couch.
A few moments later, the voice mail pinged. He ignored that, too. What he couldn’t ignore was Trey’s ringtone a few minutes later.
“What?” he answered, covering his eyes with his forearm. “Did you not just get home yourself? You can’t miss me already.”
“I don’t miss you, asshole. Answer Anya’s calls.” His friend hung up without another word.
So the voice mail was from Anya. He debated a moment, then decided not to listen to it. Two minutes later, the same unknown number called. With a sigh, he swiped and answered, “Hello?”
“So?”
He waited a beat. “So, what?”
“You didn’t listen to your voice mail.” Her tone implied the added idiot on the end. “I was asking if you wanted to schedule a time to do errands for the wedding.”
“Errands,” he repeated dully.
“Yes, errands.”
Frills and shiny stuff and glitter, oh my . . . “You know, I think this is really more your thing than mine, so—”
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Her sharp tone had him sitting up.
“You aren’t going to weasel out of it. If you think using that country-honey charm and soothing voice is going to get you an ‘excused’ note from coming along, you’re sadly mistaken, Mr. Walker. You spend half your day being beat up by men twice your size or outrunning them. I’m pretty sure you can tackle a tuxedo-rental shop.”
It wasn’t a flattering thought to realize that her little put-down had made him both annoyed and hard as stone. “Stop,” he hissed under his breath toward his cock.
“Stop what?”
“Not you.” Hopefully she thought he had a dog or something. “I’m only going to slow you down.”
“You’re one of the fastest running backs in the league. The day you slow someone down is the day you’re being buried. Get over it.”
Either she was guessing, or she knew his stats. That was sort of hot, in a scary sort of way.
“This Sunday is our season opener. We’re going to be a bit busy for the next few months.”
“Who isn’t busy?”
Willing to bend, because he loved Trey, he said, “Mondays are typically our off days.”
“Fine. Monday it is. Can you come pick me up, or do I have to rent a bike of my own to pedal with you?”
Her superior tone had caused the same double-edged reaction her put-down had. Bizarre. “I’ve got a car,” he said through his teeth. “I just choose to bike when possible.”
“Well, it’s not possible for errands all over the city. Pick me up at Trey’s on Monday, please.” After a short pause, she added, “Thank you.” And then hung up.
He let his phone fall back down to the coffee table. Super. He had a date with a woman who thought spending hours matching shoes and bracelets was a viable career, and who had no hesitation in skinning his hide when she was annoyed. And gave him an erection faster than any woman he’d ever met before.
This could be interesting.
* * *
Anya climbed into Josiah’s SUV on Monday morning with a to-do list that rivaled some countries’ war plans. “Let’s do this.”
Josiah gave the paper in her hand a wary glance, then pulled out of Trey’s driveway. “Do I want to know?”
“You’ll have to know, you’re driving us. Oh, stop looking so glum. Your best friend is getting married to a pretty awesome girl. That’s got to put you in a good mood.” She bounced in her seat a little, unable to contain herself. “Cassie’s dress is amazing. I can’t quite believe we managed to find it on the first trip out. Not the first store, mind you, because that woul
d have been a little too good to be true, but still. Some brides search for months before they find the one.”
“I thought the guy was the one,” he muttered, turning out of Trey’s subdivision in the direction she pointed.
“He is, definitely. But there’s only one guy, and there are a ton of dresses that could be the one. Not to mention you have to consider the dress fitting with the accessories you’ve chosen. Is a veil important? Then the back of the dress will change. How about something sentimental, like your great-grandmother’s broach? It has to factor in so it doesn’t clash.”
“Where am I going?” he cut in quickly, before she could get up to full steam.
She gave him the address of their first errand and he plugged it into his GPS, sighing with relief when the automated voice gave him clear directions.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said slowly, not wanting to bite the hand that gave her a ride around town, “but you don’t really seem like the SUV type. Especially not one tricked out with bells and whistles.”
“It’s a hybrid, and a few years old now. Why? What’d you picture me in?” he asked, making a turn.
His hands were confident on the wheel, with a grip that didn’t choke, but also wasn’t so loose it made her want to grab something for safety. Chad had choked the wheel often, as if that were going to make the traffic behave for his unreasonable demands.
“I pictured you in something you could pedal . . . like Fred Flintstone’s car.”
That surprised a laugh out of him. “Not quite that bad. I’m all for conservation. A big believer in not leaving the planet shittier than we found it, in not wasting what we’ve been given, in thinking ahead on the ramifications of our actions. But I’m also a practical guy. I’m tall, so a tiny Smart Car was out. I’ve got friends I drive around sometimes, and they’re not exactly a small crew, either. Plus the cargo I sometimes carry around . . . extra pads and such. And if I want to take a trip out to bike somewhere, it’s nice to have a sturdier vehicle to strap the bike to.”
“Wow, you’re like . . . nature dude, aren’t you?”
Romancing the Running Back Page 5
