by Virna DePaul
But with Heather, I just know that wouldn’t happen. Mulling the idea over, I find myself needing to say the words in the quiet of the morning.
Fingering a strand of her hair, I say, “I’ve had a nice time with you, these past few weeks. Despite all the fighting, of course.”
She laughs softly. “Yes, all the fighting. I guess it’s our kind of foreplay.”
At the mention of foreplay, my body decides to wake up. Again. But I tell it to calm down, because I need to say this.
“How about we make this official?” I continue touching her hair, probably because I’m kind of obsessed with it now. Seeing her face, I try to lighten the mood. “I mean, we can even update our Facebook relationship status and everything.”
I wait for her to smile, or laugh, or say yes. But she doesn’t say anything. I watch as the blood drains from her face, and her freckles seem stark against her cheeks.
I touch her cheek. “Now you’re freaking me out.”
She shakes her head and sits up. “It’s nothing. I just realized that I need to be somewhere. I have a meeting this morning that I can’t be late for.” She gets up and starts getting dressed.
I sit up on my elbow, watching her, confused. My stomach clenches. Did I move too fast? But she sure as hell seemed as into me as I’m into her. She fell asleep in my arms, for Christ’s sake!
She seems so agitated that I finally get out of bed and touch her arm. She pulls away.
“Look, we don’t have to do anything,” I say, trying to feel my way through. “We can keep doing whatever it is we’re doing. I just thought maybe you’d like to make this more than a friends with benefits kind of deal.”
Her lips thin when I say friends with benefits. She puts her shoes on. “You know, I told myself this wasn’t going to work, and guess what? I was right.”
I pull back. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what I said: this isn’t going to work.” She looks around for her bag before seeming to remember she left it downstairs. “I have to go.”
She rushes out of the room and down the stairs, and I follow her, mostly because I refuse to let her go without some kind of explanation. I grab her elbow before she can bolt.
“Heather, wait. Can’t we talk about this?” When she doesn’t move, I let her arm go, but she doesn’t look at me. “Look, we don’t have to do anything. We can keep hooking up, if that’s what you want. I just know that most women aren’t usually into that.”
She whirls on me. “Because you’re some kind of expert on women, and on what I want? You’re so full of yourself, Caleb.” She points a finger at my chest. “What happens when you start to hate me for working all the time? When you decide I should stay home and make you dinner instead of pursuing my career?”
I stare at her, at a loss. “When have I ever said anything like that?”
“You don’t have to. If you know women, then I know men. I know that they expect any girlfriend they have to cater to them first. And you know what? I’m not going to do it. Not this time.”
I’m about to ask her about what happened last time when she grabs her bag and stalks out of the house.
I follow her outside. She rubs her arms in the cool of the morning.
“You want a ride?” I ask, because she looks so miserable, standing there waiting for a cab.
“Leave me alone, Caleb. Just leave me alone. This is over. I’m not going to change who I am for any man.”
Rage spills inside of me, and I can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “Fine, run away. But I hope you enjoy that cold bed at night, because we both know that your pride isn’t going to keep you warm at night. Run back to your store and tell yourself what we had was nothing. I won’t stop you.”
She inhales, a flush climbing into her cheeks. Looking like she’d happily slap me, we’re both saved when a cab pulls up to the curb.
She doesn’t say goodbye before the cab drives off.
17
Heather
“Can you move a little to the left? Keep going…right there. Perfect.” Caleb raises his camera and begins taking shots, maneuvering around the models without missing a beat.
Standing off to the side, watching everything, I have to stop myself from clenching my jaw. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Caleb—that horrible morning when he asked me to make things official—and despite the time apart, I can’t concentrate with him here. He looks so handsome and cool-headed. I have to wonder if he was at all affected by my refusal.
When he walks close to me, our gazes meet. His eyes flash with anger, and my heart pounds. But he turns toward the models again without saying a word.
Okay, so he’s pissed. I can’t blame him. When he sprung that question on me, I was so surprised that I know I didn’t react very well. I freaked out. I thought of Bo and how he dumped me, and the thought of Caleb doing the same was so unbearable that I felt as though it’d be better to end things completely.
Now I know what a stupid decision that was. I should’ve at least let him explain what he meant. But no, I basically told him to go to hell and ran out on him without a backward glance. I stifle a groan at the memory.
“The next models, please. Yes, you and you. Get to your places, everyone.” Caleb checks the lighting and the models’ first poses, and I have to admit, he’s merged our two visions beautifully. No longer am I feeling as though my designs have gotten lost within the shoot itself.
After I ran out on Caleb that morning, we briefly emailed to discuss the upcoming shoot. His replies were professional, if not a little terse, but we haven’t spoken or texted each other since then. I’ve missed him—I’ll admit it. At night, I dream of his kisses, and his smiles.
My heart hurts looking at him now.
“You doing okay?” Tanya touches my arm. I’d told her about Caleb and me when she caught me crying at the store some time last week.
I shrug. “As good as expected. Did you get that inventory done?”
She doesn’t comment on my change of subject, thankfully. “I did, and it’s on your desk. You want it now?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you, though.” My gaze goes back to Caleb, like I can’t stop watching him.
“He’s a great photographer,” Tanya murmurs.
I just sigh. “Yes, he is.”
As I watch him continue to photograph, though, memories of how Bo dumped me rear their ugly heads. You don’t love me enough, do you? he yelled at me that last day together. You love your career more. Admit it! We both know it’s true.
Those memories give me the resolve not to give into Caleb in making things official. We can either continue as lovers, or we can end things completely. Turning whatever it is we have into a relationship would be a huge mistake. Besides, Caleb is known for his playboy past, and I as well as anyone else know how many notches he has on his bedpost.
Rebecca speaks with me briefly about the shoot, but I hardly hear what she’s saying. My entire focus is on Caleb.
Why can’t I get him out of my head—and my heart?
As the day unwinds, I go to the back to get a moment of privacy. Being so close to Caleb was more painful than I had expected. I press my forehead to the wall, inhaling deeply. It’s almost over, I tell myself. After this, you’ll never have to see him again.
“You sick or something?”
I turn to see Caleb standing right behind me. He looks me up and down.
“What? No. I’m fine.” I move to walk past him, but he won’t let me.
“So you’re just going to avoid me from now on?”
I refuse to look at him. If I look at him, I’ll just give in. “I think that’s the best idea for the both of us.”
“Bullshit.”
I wince. Looking up at him, I ask softly, “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to tell me the reason you ran out on me that morning. And none of this shit about how you have to choose your career over a relationship. We both know th
at’s just some lame excuse.”
I bristle. “Just because you think you’re some sex god doesn’t mean that every woman wants to be with you. Now let me go. I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
I can feel the tension radiating from his body, and when he kisses me, I’m not even surprised. He kisses me hard, almost bruising my mouth, and I just kiss him back. I can’t help it. I’ve missed him, and I’ve missed him doing this. But I also know that this is just about him being pissed that I didn’t jump into his arms. He has something to prove, and knowing that, my heart cracks even more than it already had.
“Try to act like what we have is nothing,” he growls. “Like you didn’t want me to kiss you the second I walked into your store today.”
“And tell me that you want to kiss me because you care about me.” I shake my head, stepping away. “You don’t, Caleb. This is about you winning some kind of twisted game. You’re pissed that I told you no. Well, I’m saying it again: no. I’m not doing this because I know it won’t work. Please leave me alone from now on.”
His lip curls, and he seems like he’s going to say something else. But he just turns away in disgust, muttering underneath his breath.
My shoulders sag. So that’s it then. It’s over. I leave the backroom and force myself to act like nothing happened, but it’s a struggle. I know Tanya senses something is up, and it doesn’t help that Caleb comes back into the store acting like a riled lion.
It’s a miracle that I manage to finish the shoot without bursting into tears. By the time I arrive home later that evening, I don’t even get to my door before I start crying in earnest.
That weekend, I wander around my place in a daze. McQueen meows at me plaintively, sensing that something is wrong. I pick him up and he purrs, which only makes me cry harder. By Saturday evening, I’ve cried so much I wonder if I have any tears left.
“I’m so pathetic,” I tell McQueen that evening, drinking my second glass of wine and staring at my computer screen. I planned to watch something on Netflix, but I can’t pay attention to anything. It’s like no matter how hard I try, I see Caleb: in a toothpaste commercial, a billboard near my place off the highway, in every fashion magazine I pass at the store. It’s unbearable.
I begin paging through various fashion blogs like I do normally, mostly because I want to try to stay focused. I can’t fall out of the loop because I’m heartbroken.
“Let’s see what’s happening over at Fabulous Fashionista.” I click on my favorite blog, slowly scrolling through each of the posts. I drink in the images of runway shows and photo shoots, hoping the beauty of it all will calm me down. I start reading one post about next year’s trends, and I make mental notes to do more research on all of them.
I’m about to close my laptop and get some sleep when my gaze catches on an article just published about the designer Fiona Taylor. I’ve never worked with her, but I’ve heard plenty of stories. Apparently she’s rather crazy and tends to backstab, even more than other people in this industry. Fiona’s also designed some memorable pieces and collections, and for that, she’ll always have her foot in the door.
I click on the link to take me to the full article, when my breath stops at the slideshow at the top of the page. Reeling, I begin to page through each image, trying to figure out what I’m seeing. I glance at the headline below the images: Sneak Preview of Fiona Taylor’s New Spring Line.
They’re just sketches at this point, although one is an actual gown that’s still unfinished. When I see that gown, I almost drop my glass of wine on McQueen’s head. I quickly place it on the side table and move my cat off of my lap, needing a closer look at this gown.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Fiona Taylor stole my designs. Looking at this gown, I’m certain that she did exactly that.
The gown is a different color from mine—green instead of red—but the overall design is unmistakable: long sleeves, beading down the torso, bias cut, a mix of chiffon and satin. There are smaller details that resemble the gown that I created that I know it’s not just coincidence.
I go through the rest of the images, and I pick out three others that are just like mine.
Closing my laptop, I sit back, staring out into my living room.
How could Fiona Taylor of all people steal my designs?
I snap my laptop back open, searching for anything online that would provide an answer. The first thing that pops up is a photo of Fiona, and my heart stops when I see it.
It’s the woman who came into my store. Since I’ve never met Fiona, I had no idea what she looked like, besides the fact that most everyone in this industry has so much plastic surgery that they have a tendency to all look alike. Gazing at the photo, I try to put the pieces together.
I remember, then, how I saw Fiona reaching over my counter at the store. Did she find my designs there? I shake my head. I was fairly certain I left my portfolio in my office. Besides, how would Fiona have known to look for my designs in the first place? I’m a nobody in the grand scheme of things. Why would she come to my store at all?
When the pieces finally come together, I feel like I’m suffocating.
Caleb. It has to be Caleb.
He’s the only one—besides Tanya—who I showed my designs to. I remember how he paged through the portfolio, how he complimented me on the sketches. Then, I thought he was just being kind. But had he had an ulterior motive?
I begin searching for Fiona Taylor and Caleb Johnson, hoping against hope that they’ve never even met. When I find a blog post from over a year ago that includes a photo of Fiona and Caleb with the headline—The next hot couple?—I can only see red.
It’s not that I expected him to tell me about every woman he’s ever slept with, but the fact that they dated and are connected proves that he had to have some hand in Fiona finding my designs and then using them for herself. There’s no way Fiona would’ve found out about them otherwise.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. I close my laptop for good, picking up my glass of wine and draining it in one gulp. McQueen gets back onto my lap, kneading my thighs with his claws as he purrs, completely unaware of the turmoil swirling in my gut.
I told myself getting involved with Caleb Johnson was a bad idea, and look where it landed me. Another designer has stolen my designs and Caleb is more than likely how she managed to do it.
I’m so angry at this point that it takes every bit of self-control within me not to storm out of my house and go straight to Caleb, demanding to know what the hell is wrong with him. Instead, I force myself to consider all of the facts and not to do anything hasty. That doesn’t stop me from trembling with rage, though, and I end up petting McQueen so hard that he hops off of my lap in a huff, giving me a disgusted look.
“Sorry, McQueen. I’m kind of freaking out right now.”
The cat just gives me a look that says humans are very stupid and begins grooming his coat.
I don’t sleep a wink that night. I toss and turn, trying to understand why Caleb would do this.
It’s when I get a text from him early the next morning, like he’s done nothing wrong, that I’m all out of self-control. Gathering my things, I storm out of the house and head straight to his place to confront him.
18
Caleb
I shouldn’t have texted her. I know I should leave her alone. But I can’t—not anymore. I send her a quick good morning text, but I hear nothing back. This doesn’t surprise me. I know Heather’s put up her walls, and it’s going to take a lot of effort on my part to get her to knock them down.
I’m about to pour myself a cup of coffee when there’s a knock on my door. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it’s Fiona come to torment me for a third time, but to my surprise, it’s Heather herself.
My initial reaction is to kiss her, but one look at her expression tells me I’d be gutted for trying. A storm cloud is hovering over her, and she looks fit to be tied.
“Want to come in?” I open th
e door wide.
She practically stomps inside, and I follow behind her as she goes into the living room.
“Want some coffee?” I don’t hear anything in reply, but I need some caffeine to deal with whatever this is. I pour myself a cup and bring her one for good measure. Maybe she just needs some caffeine, too.
I hand her the steaming mug, but she just looks at it like I’ve given her a mug of poison.
“Okay, what is going on?” I watch as her bottom lip trembles. Did someone hurt her? At that thought, rage fills my vision. I’ll kill anyone who’s tried to hurt her.
“You really have no idea?” she counters, her tone scathing. She sits down on the couch, setting the coffee on the table in front of her.
I sit down next to her, although I don’t push my luck by trying to touch her. “I have many skills, sweetheart, but mind-reading isn’t one of them.” Sarcasm practically drips from my voice, and it makes Heather’s eyes narrow.
“Then I’ll give you a clue: Fiona Taylor; my designs. Ring a bell?”
“What the hell does Fiona have to do with your designs?” I’m completely at a loss. As far as I know, Fiona hadn’t ever heard of Heather until I’d told her I’d photographed her collection. Beyond that, I doubt Fiona’s remotely interested in Heather’s existence.
“She has everything to do with them. You see, last night I was online, and imagine my surprise when I saw some of Fiona’s upcoming designs that are almost exact copies of mine. The designs you saw.” She reaches inside her purse and pulls out her phone. Handing me the phone with the website in question, I look through the photos.
I recognize the designs instantly. My eyebrows rising, I stupidly say, “So you’re pissed at me because Fiona is a backstabbing bitch? Not sure I understand your logic here, sweetheart.”
I can practically hear her growling. “Stop acting like you have no idea what happened. You’re the only person who’s seen those designs. You’re the only person who could then have told Fiona about them, or even leaked them to her.”