“May I see?” Dr. Packer asks and accepts Bridget’s phone. “What’s the problem?”

“You said we shouldn’t get involved with other people,” Bridget says testily.

“No,” Dr. Packer replies. “I said you should be careful how it’s introduced to Simone. I admit Instagram isn’t the best way, especially given the past . . . drama that came through social media.”

Bridget clears her throat at the mention of all our trash strewn in the streets via her antics.

“But these photos could be interpreted as mere friendship, too,” Dr. Packer says. She turns her attention to me. “Is this just a friend, or is she someone we’ll need to introduce to Simone eventually?”

Here’s the moment of truth. I could deny it and get Bridget off my back. I could delay this and see Lotus discreetly—avoid this altogether for another few weeks.

Except I don’t want to.

I want to be more than friends.

Lotus’s sweet, husky words have haunted me since Saturday.

Don’t look away.

“We’re seeing each other.” My voice is strong and sure like my feelings for Lotus, and I’ll be damned if I’ll lie about them, about her, to satisfy Bridget’s misplaced, too-late possessiveness.

“I knew it,” Bridget says hotly on an expelled breath. “At the restaurant. You and her in the hall. I saw the way you looked at that little—”

“You will not talk shit about her,” I say with quiet fierceness.

Bridget blinks, her blue eyes startled. It’s silent for a moment while she and I assess each other, neither backing down.

“I think we take this one step at a time,” Dr. Packer says, snapping our stare-down. “Do we want to introduce . . . what’s her name?”

“Lotus,” I say.

“We have several things slated for today’s session,” Dr. Packer says, glancing at her notes and then back to us. “Do you want to add introducing Lotus?”

“Simone has a big recital,” Bridget says sharply. “Let her get through that before we give her unpleasant news like this.”

“It’s not unpleasant news. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Are you fucking her?” she demands, eyes icy.

Dr. Packer’s gasp is the only sound in the room.

“That’s none of your business,” I reply, controlled in spite of the fury clawing at my belly. “And not appropriate for you to ask me here, or anywhere for that matter.”

I stand and head for the door.

“I’ll bring Simone in,” I say. “Since we’re obviously done here.”

Simone joins us and starts talking about dance and her new friends and all the things that seem to be going better in her life. It puts me somewhat at ease. It’s only when I feel Bridget’s baleful gaze on me every few minutes that I wonder if maybe we aren’t done here at all. Maybe the drama with Bridget is just beginning.

19

Lotus

“We have guests coming,” JP says, his tone distracted as he squints at the color swathe splayed across his large glass desk, an anachronistic concession to the modern era in an office peppered with French antique furnishings.

“Guests?” I flip through the fabric samples I brought for him to consider. “Who?”

“I think some of those housewives? Paul coordinated it. They’re coming under the guise of looking at dresses for an event. They’re always searching for pretty places to have their fights and keep it interesting.” He pulls a set of green-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and slips them on. “Where’s this one from?”

“There should be a tag.” I lean forward and flip the sample over. “Here ya go. B&J Fabrics.”

“It’s close, but a bit too yellow, non?” He levels a look over the fashionable spectacles and shudders. “You know how I feel about chartreuse.”

“Of course.” I pluck the offending fabric from his fingers. “Want me to mix a few colors and take something to our guy over on Thirty-seventh? He may be our best shot at a custom match.”

“Good idea.” He looks past me and smiles. “Ah, I wondered when you would descend, Vale.”

His assistant strides in, a study of Icelandic sophistication and cool efficiency.

“We are behind,” she reminds us unnecessarily. “The show is less than two months away.”

“Mon dieu!” JP presses a plump hand to his chest. “I had no idea! Did you know Fashion Week is so soon, ma petite?”

I return the twinkle-eyed grin he aims at me with a wry smile. Angels are already upholstering a seat in the VIP section of Heaven for what Vale endures with JP.

“I’d heard something about it, yeah.” I gather the fabric samples and kiss Vale’s powdered cheek. “I’ll go work on that production schedule due yesterday.”

“That was my next item of business.” Her expression softens and she nods to the vibrantly-colored fabrics in my arms. “Chartreuse may be the color JP can’t stand. Red is Paul’s. We better be in the black after this show. Much work to do.”

That’s my cue to scurry into my own cubicle. Each show is a massive undertaking, and the closer we get, the less time we’ll all have for anything beyond these walls. The week before the show, we’ve been known to camp out here, sleeping and neglecting everything personal, including hygiene, to get it done.

Two heads poke around the sleek divider providing a flimsy semblance of privacy to work.

“What do you two tricks want?” I glance from my laptop to Yari and Billie hovering at the edge of my partition.

“Um . . . we come bearing gifts,” Yari says, glee threading her words.

I hope it’s one of the matcha lattes I love from up the street.

“Not from us,” Billie all but squeals, and pulls a bouquet from its hiding place behind her back. “But we’re dying to know who sent these!”

Billie’s holding a small vase with a few lotus flowers in vivid hues of pink and purple and blue. I know how hard lotus flowers are to come by locally, and they’re nearly impossible to transplant. They’re a lot of trouble to get and only last a few hours. I consider the small vase with a ribbon tied at its neck and a sealed envelope attached. My friends stand with tongues practically hanging from their mouths. Obviously they’re not planning to give me much . . . if any . . . privacy.

Billie holds the flowers while I tug the envelope free and open the card inside. The barely-legible words look like someone flung them on the page.

Button,

I told you I hate texting.

Unfortunately, lotus flowers don’t live long cut off from the soil they’re planted in. This loses some impact knowing they’ll be wilted by the time you come to my place for dinner tonight. Oh. Would you come to my place for dinner tonight? I’d like to see you. I can pick you up from work. You can just text yes . . . or no . . . and what time I should come get you.

“Let me see your face.

Let me hear your voice for your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.”

– Song of Solomon 2:14

--Kenan

Oh, this is bad.

The breath being syphoned from my lungs. The involuntary grin kissing my lips. The fluttering under my ribs. All signs that Kenan, when he sets his mind to it, has major game.

“Who’re they from?” Yari demands, patience nowhere in her voice. “Are they from who we think they’re from?”

With one hand, I take my vase of doomed petals from her. With the other, I press the card to my chest.

“They’re from a secret admirer,” I say, turning my back on them to place the vase on the edge of my desk.

“You don’t know who they’re from?” Billie asks.

“No, you don’t know who they’re from,” I reply with a grin to rub it in. “That’s the secret.”

They both look like they want to strangle me. I sit back down and slip the envelope into my desk drawer.

“We know they’re from Kenan,” Yari says.

“No, you don’t know.” I return to my laptop. “You’re fishing.”

“Well we think it’s Kenan Ross,” Billie says, hands on her slim hips.

“Well you might be right.” I shoo them away with one hand. “We’ll talk about it later. If I tell you now, you’ll have a million questions I don’t have time for. I need to focus.”

“Good luck,” Yari says. “We have guests coming.”

“I heard.” My eyes snap to her face. “I can’t afford disruptions today.”

“I heard Paul talking about it.” Billie shrugs. "They think it’ll be good exposure for the brand.”

Most large fashion houses are barely profitable, if at all, because the sheer cost of production at this level is exorbitant.

“As long as the exposure doesn’t come this way,” I say. “And I can’t imagine why it should.”

“You leaving on time tonight?” Yari asks, already turned to walk away, and studying me over her shoulder. “You on the J with me at five?”

The vibrant spray of color in the vase coaxes a small smile from me, and I shake my head. “Nah. I got plans.”

As soon as they’ve both gone back to their desks, I grab the phone from my purse and text Kenan.

Me: Yes. Six o’clock.

Kenan: See you then.

Me: Am I allowed to text my thanks?

Kenan: No. Thank me later. ;-)

At the start of the day, it seemed to be flying by and too short to get everything done. With six o’clock and Kenan as my finish line, the day is officially taking for freaking ever to end. It’s only three o’clock when I check the time on my laptop and stand to stretch. I grab one of the flowers and press it to my nose, drawing in the sweet scent.

“Some of our team works over here,” I hear JP saying. “But all the sewing happens downstairs, and we keep the clothes for you to view down there, too. Follow me.”