Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Newsletter Sign Up
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
Copyright 2020 Four Petal Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without express written permission of the authors, except for quotations used in an official book review.
Cover design by The Red Leaf Book Design www.redleafbookdesign.com
ISBN 979865316728
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Your friendship is a gift
I cherish daily.
Chapter One
Dani
Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
I rounded the corner and pushed through the coffee shop door, the numbers on repeat in my brain. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
“Hey, Dani,” Chloe, the barista at the counter, said. “What’ll it be today?”
I smiled. “I’ll take a number four, a seven, an eight, two thirteens, and a fourteen.” There. Done. God bless the owner of Java Jean’s for numbering their coffee shop menu. “Wait. Did I say fourteen? I meant fifteen. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.”
Chloe grinned. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t question me! If I have to repeat them again, I’ll definitely forget.”
“The fifteen’s for Sasha?” Chloe asked. “The coconut milk macchiato?”
Of course it was for Sasha. My boss lived on air and coffee and little else. “How’d you guess?”
“It’s her second one today. She stopped by on her way in this morning.”
“And it probably won’t be her last.” I leaned against the counter and waited for Chloe to make up the drinks. A basket of peaches sat next to the register and I reached for one, lifting the fruit to my nose. I frowned and put it back in the basket. The fruit smelled less like a fresh peach than the scented lotion my roommate slathered onto her legs every night. But then, my standards for fresh peaches were high. I was spoiled by my childhood in South Carolina, roaming my grandma’s orchards, eating peaches seconds after I’d pulled them from the tree.
A swell of emotion rose in my chest. It had been years since my grandmother had died, but I couldn’t think of home without remembering her.
Granny wouldn’t have liked Java Jeans, with its endless options and ridiculous names. “There’s only one way to drink coffee, sugar,” she’d said to me countless times, the r so soft, it all but completely fell off her words. “With lots of cream.” The same rule also applied to peaches. I didn’t disagree with her on that point. Fresh peaches and cream was a part of my Southern heritage I’d never surrender.
But I did love Java Jean’s. It made me feel like a New Yorker, like I truly belonged in the city. I mean, I had the entire menu memorized. Surely that balanced out my lingering Southern accent and affinity for pastel floral prints, even in the sea of blacks and grays that filled New York City streets.
“Seriously,” Chloe said, handing over the first tray of drinks. “You need to feed that woman a cheeseburger. She’d probably be happier.”
I offered a tight-lipped smile. Sasha maybe had a bit of a reputation. She was a woman who knew how to get what she wanted and didn’t back down no matter the sacrifice. How else could she have climbed to the top of an elite fashion house design team in less than three years? Naysayers claimed she’d slept her way to the top—she was engaged to marry brand originator and CEO Alicio LeFranc, after all—but I’d seen the way Sasha worked. She was a cutthroat, for sure. But she had gumption.
An administrative position had gotten me through LeFranc’s front door, but it was Sasha’s recommendation that would get me designing. I couldn’t afford to be anything but loyal.
“Just add those to the company tab,” I told Chloe.
She nodded. “Sure thing. That’s a great dress, by the way. I love the color.”
“Yeah?” I looked down at my dress. The pale blue Oscar de la Renta Guipure lace had been a splurge at Mood, my favorite fabric store, but the tiny geometric pattern had been perfect for the A-line I’d been sketching. I’d dropped a third of my weekly paycheck without even flinching. I had spent the first two hours of sewing cursing my decision—there’s definitely a learning curve working with guipure—but in the end, I had been totally stoked with the results. The lace kept it feminine, but it wasn’t too frilly. Cinched at the waist, with a tiny black belt and a boat neck, I loved it. Still, that’s different than someone else loving it. “I just finished it,” I said to Chloe. “You really like it?”
“Wait, are you serious? You made it yourself? I’ve never wished so much that I could afford to wear LeFranc.”
My cheeks warmed with her praise. I’d been designing clothes a long time, but it still surprised me when people liked my stuff. “Oh, I didn’t design this for LeFranc. Designing is . . .” I hesitated. Designing was my life, my passion, my everything. But that felt a little heavy for small talk with the barista. “It’s still just a hobby for me,” I said. “But who knows? Maybe someday.”
“I take it back then. The fact that they have you making coffee runs instead of designing clothes makes me hate LeFranc,” Chloe said as she slid a lid onto Sasha’s macchiato. “I’ll never wear it in protest.”
“Give me a few more months,” I said with a wry grin. “Every day I’m a day closer.”
“I like your attitude.” Chloe turned back to the cappuccino machine behind her. “Just a few more to go.”
I nodded and pulled out my phone, scrolling through the to-do list Sasha had texted over that morning. I’d already made it through the first half—not bad for a morning’s work.
A minute later, a text came in from my brother, asking if we were still on for dinner that night. I inwardly groaned. I’d almost forgotten about dinner.
I should have been excited to see my twin. He still lived in Charleston, so we didn’t see each other very often. But Isaac and I—we couldn’t be more different. I was Gucci and New York Fashion Week. He was cargo shorts and . . . the couch in his basement. We’d done okay as teenagers. We’d tolerated each other, at least. But then he’d opted out of college to stay home and focus on the YouTube channel he’d developed while we were still in high school. I’d been furious
at the time. Colleges had offered him money to come use his brain and Isaac had picked . . . YouTube?
Still, family was family. I keyed out a quick response, confirming the restaurant and time.
When the bell above Java Jean’s front door jingled, I didn’t even look up. But then I heard a voice that made the blood in my veins run New York-winter cold.
“I completely understand. I’ll take care of it right away. Right. Sounds good,” the voice said.
I gripped the edge of the counter, grateful it was there to hold me up. Because hearing Alex Randall’s voice? That was enough to put me flat on the floor.
Chloe leaned toward me. “Dani? You okay?”
I forced a breath in through my nose, and out through my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was some other Southern guy that just sounded like him. Some other guy who didn’t have wavy chestnut hair or perfect brown eyes or an incredible dusting of freckles across perfectly chiseled cheekbones. I closed my eyes, a sudden swell of anger surging to the surface, making my skin feel hot, prickly. I could envision those eyes like it was yesterday. Like it hadn’t been twelve agonizing months since he’d left New York. Since he’d left me.
I snuck a brief glance over my shoulder, my heart tripling its speed as soon as I determined that yes, the one and only Alex Randall was standing less than ten feet away from me. At once I felt both elated to see him again—I’d loved the man, after all—and furious that he felt like he had any right to place himself within a one-hundred-mile radius of where he knew me to be. Java Jeans was my territory. Maybe he’d introduced me to the place, but he’d ceded it when he’d left. He was the guilty one. The heartbreaking, dream-crushing, soul-stabbing, vanishing act that had nearly been my undoing.
A year-long relationship and he’d left without even sending a text.
If not for my job at LeFranc, and my close friends rallying around me, I might have left New York altogether, but I couldn’t have run home even if I’d wanted to. Home was where Alex had gone. If I had tucked tail and gone to Charleston, it would have looked like I was running to him.
Alexander Ellison Randall III had eased into my life with the grace you might expect from someone named like they belonged in the pages of a Civil War-era romance novel. We’d met at a fancy party on the Upper East Side where anyone who was anyone in fashion was in attendance. From the cultured southern accent that made me feel homesick and at home all at the same time, to his stories of spending his summers in New York with his stepfather, the legendary Alicio LeFranc who I’d idolized since childhood, it hadn’t taken me more than a minute to fall for him.
I couldn’t stand there gripping the Java Jean’s counter forever.
I had to face him. Unless I wanted to vault over the cash register and belly crawl my way to the backroom. And there was no way my guipure lace was belly crawling anywhere. Taking one last breath, and willing my nerves to calm, I turned around.
We made eye contact. At once, I was grateful I’d heard him come in, that I’d at least had a few seconds to prepare. I’d clearly caught him by surprise; the shock of the moment was written all over his face. He froze, his jaw hanging open, and his cell phone, once secure in his hand, clattered to the tile floor at his feet.
He scrambled to pick up his phone, wiping it on his sleeve before quickly dropping it into the inside pocket of his suit coat. And oh, what a suit. The color was good. Blue, not too bright, just bold enough to give him an edge over the more conservative grays and blacks. The fabric was expensive, the tailoring impeccable. His tie was great. Silk. Purple. And his shoes? Sweet tea and cornflakes. Medallion toe oxfords in a rich brown leather I immediately wished I could touch. I’d forgotten how good he made clothes look.
“Hi,” I managed to say.
For all the scrambling I’d witnessed seconds before, he recovered quickly and was suddenly as poised and polished as ever. “Hey, Dani,” he said, the words smooth and soft. “It’s great to see you.”
I admired and hated him in the same second for having such control over his emotions.
I closed my eyes and swallowed. Not many people made Southern sound as good as he did.
“What are you doing here?” I realized as soon as the words left my mouth how filled with hurt they sounded and I hated myself for being so transparent.
He dropped his eyes and I winced. He’d picked up on it too.
“Work,” he said. “I’m just here for a few days.”
“Work,” I repeated, curious about what that actually meant. Accounting work? Something different?
He’d been an accountant at LeFranc right up until the week we’d broken up, the same week he’d left the city altogether. Office gossip was that he’d been fired after a disagreement with his stepfather. I believed the disagreement part—Alex hadn’t been happy at LeFranc for a while—but my guess was that he’d left willingly, on his own terms.
Alexander Randall was not the kind of man who got fired.
A few weeks after he’d left, Isaac had texted me and told me he’d hired Alex to help him with his taxes and some other business stuff. He and Alex had met a few times while we’d been dating, and they’d liked each other enough to exchange numbers; Isaac had texted Alex money questions all the time before we’d broken up. Isaac had worried I’d be upset when he’d told me, but I’d mostly pretended not to care. I’d been firmly in the rage stage of my post-break-up grief at the time, when the mere mention of Alex’s name was enough to send me flying into a fit. And it’s not like they were hanging out. Alex was doing his taxes. That only took minutes of interaction.
Alex took a step forward. “How are you?” he asked, his tone so sincere, a spark of anger flared in my chest. He didn’t get to care about me anymore. Not here. Not now.
“Here are your drinks, Dani,” Chloe said softly behind me. I gave her a brief nod and mouthed a silent thank you.
I looked back at Alex and shrugged. “I’m fine,” I said. “The same, really.”
He nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
We stood there, the air between us so full of awkward and uncomfortable, I half-expected everyone else in the coffee shop to get up and walk out just to save themselves. When Alex didn’t say anything else, I picked up the drinks Chloe had left for me and started for the door. I held them up as I walked past, evidence presented before a judge. “I should get these to the office.”
“Of course.” Alex stepped to the side, but then he called after me. “Dani, wait.”
I turned around.
“I feel like we should . . . talk.”
Talk. Now he wanted to talk? A full year of silence and he suddenly decided he wanted to work it all out in the doorway of Java Jean’s? I almost laughed. “We should have talked a year ago.”
He closed his eyes. “I know. You’re right about that. I’m sorry—”
“Alex, stop.” I cut him off. “Just stop. I can’t do this here.”
His jaw was tight, his brow creased, but he nodded his understanding. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
Countless times I’d imagined what I would say to Alex if I ever saw him again. In my mind, I was always witty and clever, my insults perfectly crafted to hit him where they’d make the biggest impact, like sharpened razors homing in on the tenderest flesh. But now that we actually stood face to face, my words were dried up. All I really wanted to do was cry. Since crying in front of him was not going to happen, I did the next best thing.
I fled.
“I gotta go,” I said. I turned and blindly pushed toward the coffee shop’s front door, with little heed to anything—or anyone—in my way. Until the someone in my way crashed into me, upending four of the six coffees I carried, splashing them all over the front of my dress. I stood there in shock, coffee dripping off the ends of my hair, soaking all the way through to my skin. It was even pooling up in my shoes.
“Watch where you’re going, lady,” a gruff voice said. I had half a nerve to punch the guy. I was the one covered in coffee, not
him.
Of course, it only took a second for Alex to reach me. He pulled the two surviving cups out of my hands and set them on the table beside us. “Are you okay?”
I sniffed. “A little damp, but undamaged, I think.”
“You’re not burned, are you?”
The coffee was hot, but not so hot that I felt anything more than a temporary sting.
I shook my head, my shock finally giving way to embarrassment. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Can I . . . help at all? Maybe get you a cab to take you home?”
“You know how long cabs take around here. I don’t have time to go home, but it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”
Chloe appeared beside us, a mop and bucket in hand. She handed me a stack of napkins. “I’m so sorry, Dani,” she said. “I can remake the drinks you lost.”
There wasn’t much that sounded worse than standing next to Alex, coffee dripping in between my breasts and into my belly button, long enough for Chloe to make another round of drinks. I looked at the surviving coffee cups, noting that one of the two was Sasha’s macchiato. “It’s really fine,” I said. I used the napkins to wipe off my hands and arms then tossed them into the trash can by the door before grabbing the remaining drinks from the table. “You can owe me next time.”
With that, I pushed through the door, the heat of the late August morning matching the fire that filled my cheeks and burned in my chest. I thought I heard Alex call my name as I crossed the sidewalk and rounded the corner. But this time, it was me who didn’t look back.
Chapter Two
Alex
It had been stupid to go to Java Jean’s. I should have expected the possibility of running into Dani, knowing full well that she worked right next door. But then, I was an adult. Avoiding her intentionally would have been childish.
I felt childish as I walked slowly back to the studio where Isaac was finishing up his photoshoot. I carried a bag of Java Jean’s breakfast sandwiches—our flight had landed early that morning and neither of us had eaten—but any appetite I’d previously had was gone. Seeing her, hearing the sound of her voice, had left me . . . derailed.
Love Redesigned Page 1
