by Score, Lucy
Christian grinned at me, and I gave myself permission to bask in that lovely warmth, ignoring Dominic’s chilly glare.
Sure. Maybe my outside-this-building situation was a complete disaster. But right this second, enjoying the company of two very attractive men—in sexy vests no less—I could afford to feel pretty dang positive about life.
“Those are part of a pet project,” he told me. “An inclusion line.”
“I’m new to the industry,” I explained apologetically.
“I’m sure he can guess that,” Dominic said uncharitably.
I shot him a dirty look over my shoulder, and the man actually managed to crack the slightest of smiles. And there went those goose bumps again. I was an Ally sandwich with very handsome bread.
“An inclusion line is a series of designs created for individuals with disabilities,” Christian explained, gesturing me forward. He demonstrated the hidden elastic waistband.
“Why is it a pet project?” I asked, intrigued.
“The demand isn’t there,” Dominic said, once again answering a question I hadn’t intended for him.
“Yet,” Christian and I said together.
It earned me another smile from the man and an eye-roll from Dominic.
Christian held up one of the pant legs to me, and I ran my fingers over the material.
“Wow,” I said. The material was soft and buttery, luxurious even.
“It started with my mother. Diabetic neuropathy robbed her of sensation in her fingers. It makes buttons and zippers difficult. But she still wants to look her best. So I dabble in garments that make it easy for someone with disabilities or handicaps to dress themselves and look good doing it. We do hidden seams for people with sensory issues. Magnetic closures, extended sizing, wrap it all up in good fabrics and strong colors.”
“She must be very proud of you,” I guessed.
He grinned. “I tell her that every Sunday. She says she’s holding out for me to get married and have babies before she’s officially proud. It’s the Cuban in her. Are you married, Ally?” he asked, giving me a sinfully flirtatious wink.
“Let’s get back to what pieces you foresee using in the spread,” Dominic announced, steering the conversation back on course. When Christian led the way into another room, Dominic handed me his phone again. “Maybe if you take some pictures, you’ll be too busy to drool over the designer,” he growled.
I smiled up at him just to annoy him. “Doubtful, Dom. Very doubtful.”
14
Dominic
I hated to admit it. But Ally had an annoyingly excellent eye. I’d spent another hour getting schooled on color and texture by an ex-pizza server who had entirely too many opinions for an admin.
And Christian James seemed all too happy to eat it up. Smiling at her. Complimenting her taste. And I didn’t like the way his gaze kept landing on the hem of her short knit skirt.
If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had tried to talk her into drinks, dinner, and a quick fuck. Not that he’d have to coerce her. He was a charmer. Ally apparently enjoyed being charmed. And that set my teeth on edge.
I made a mental note to make sure not to include her in any further meetings with him. I didn’t need that kind of distraction.
“Why isn’t Label using the inclusion line in the story?” Ally wanted to know as soon as Nelson brought the SUV around. Her skirt rose indecently high as she climbed into the back, and I tried not to notice. But the desire to push her facedown and flip that skirt up was so strong I had to wait a beat and take a bracing breath of winter air before joining her in the backseat.
“That’s not our target demographic.” I kept my answer short and terse, hoping she’d leave me the fuck alone.
“I get that,” she said. “But what’s the harm in including it?”
Her questions annoyed me. “Fashion isn’t exactly known for being inclusive. It’s more about being special, exclusive.”
“But aren’t things changing?” she pressed, clearly warming to the topic. “Other luxury labels are doing it. The population is aging. Wouldn’t it follow that more people would be willing to buy clothing that allows them to keep their independence?”
“Have you ever read Label?”
“Don’t be snippy. I’m asking the creative director a serious question. If the point of your magazine is to highlight what’s special, you’re missing the boat by ignoring Christian’s inclusive line. It’s human interest. It’s highlighting the diverse buyer. And it gives you an opportunity to use a model or two who aren’t the cookie-cutter clothes hanger type. It’s real.”
“People don’t want real,” I argued. “They want the fantasy. They want the dress that’s going to change their life. They want clothing that makes them feel beautiful, sexy, special, one-of-a-kind.”
“And you can’t feel that in a wheelchair?”
“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”
“Maybe. I’m also trying to figure out if you really believe what you’re saying or you just like arguing with me.”
“You have too many annoying opinions.”
“Take it up with your mother,” she said cheerfully.
“Why don’t we play a game where we sit in silence for the entire ride back?”
She grinned and wrinkled her nose. “I’m just trying to make the point that Label has historically been at the forefront of change. You led the transition to digital without making a giant plummet out of the black. Why not consider inclusivity as your next history-making foray?”
“We sell a fantasy. Clothing that reminds readers about illness or disabilities isn’t fantasy. It’s real life, and they’ve got enough of that.”
She frowned thoughtfully.
I didn’t like defending Label’s brand. Not when I was still learning all the subtleties of it. Fantasy and image were essential to our brand. “Don’t you have something else to do, like find a new victim’s life to ruin?” I asked, changing the subject.
“You talk a good game, Charming, but I think you don’t hate me nearly as much as you pretend to,” Ally said airily.
“Wanna bet?” I sighed.
“Sorry. Broke.”
A shrill ringing erupted from the depths of her backpack.
“Christ, what is that?” I asked as the sound pierced my eardrum.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she frantically pawed through her bag.
“Hello?” she answered, breathlessly clutching her idiotic phone.
Her entire body seemed to go rigid while she listened.
“Is he okay?” she demanded. The hand gripping the phone to her ear went white-knuckled.
She looked pale as she shoved a hand through her hair.
“Okay. What hospital? Is it a precaution or…” she trailed off, nodding.
“I can be there in—” She leaned over Nelson and glanced at the GPS display. “An hour. Two tops. Hello? Can you hear me?”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and peered at the screen. “Dammit! Of course it goes dead.”
“What’s wrong? Where do you need to go?” I demanded.
She gripped the door handle like she was going to vault into traffic, and I clamped my hand over her knee to hold her in place. She was trembling, and it was killing me. “Ally.”
“Family emergency,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Nelson, could you pull over? I need to catch a train.”
“We’re five blocks away from the closest subway station,” I told her.
“I can walk. I need to walk.” In short, jerky motions, she was zipping her backpack and then trying to shoulder it.
“Take the car, Ally,” I said.
She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. Really looked at me. Her brown eyes were wide. She looked scared, and I decided I fucking hated that look on her.
I squeezed her knee, hard. “Breathe,” I commanded.
She took a slow breath and let it out. “I can’t take the car. I’m g
oing to Jersey,” she said, her voice calmer.
“Nelson loves Jersey,” I told her.
“I live for it, sir,” Nelson chimed in.
That got a shaky smile out of her.
“He’ll take you to Jersey, and he can wait and drive you home,” I said.
She started shaking again and reached for the handle. “I can’t. The train will be faster. But thank you,” she said.
“Ally,” I said again. I couldn’t let her just jump out of the car and disappear.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” There was nothing in her tone that remotely reassured me.
Nelson signaled as he changed lanes, inching toward the subway station.
“Here. Take this,” I said, yanking out my wallet. I threw a fifty at her. “Take a cab when you get to Jersey.”
She looked at the money in her lap and started to shake her head. Newly and temporarily poor but permanently, stupidly stubborn.
“I c—”
“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘can’t,’ I’m going to insist on personally seeing you to your destination,” I threatened.
She looked at the bill in her lap again then up at me. I dared her to defy me.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said. Her voice was tight, and those golden eyes looked a little watery to me. I didn’t want her to go.
“I’ll fire you if you do. Take the car. Please,” I added, not liking how the word felt in my mouth.
“Train’s faster.”
Nelson roared up to the curb. He hopped out from behind the wheel.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked her.
“Everything’s fine. I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you, Dom.”
I didn’t expect the thank you. Or the chaste, friendly kiss she pressed to my cheek after.
Nelson opened my door, and Ally climbed right over me and hopped out.
I watched until she and that ridiculous backpack disappeared down the stairs.
“Back to the office, sir?” Nelson asked, sliding behind the wheel again.
I was still staring at the space that Ally and her backpack had occupied. “Actually, I have a stop to make.”
15
Ally
“Dad?”
I poked my head around the curtain that provided a sliver of privacy in the small room. It was like every other hospital room. Beige tile, industrial gray walls, and that stomach-turning smell of antiseptic and illness.
Dad’s bed was next to the window, and he was staring listlessly at the gray world beyond while a nurse fussed over him. He was conscious, upright. And some of the knots in my stomach loosened.
An untouched tray sat in front of him.
His roommate on the other side of the curtain let out a tremulous snore over the Judge Judy episode he’d left on at full volume.
Thank God for health insurance. Judging from the IVs and brace on my father’s leg, we’d already be bankrupt otherwise.
“Mr. Morales?” the nurse tried. This time my father glanced up.
His weight loss had slowed, thankfully. But he’d never be back to the pleasingly plump guy he’d been just a few years ago. The mustache he’d had forever was gone, too. They shaved it for him weekly at the nursing home.
I missed the man my father had been even as I tried to build a new relationship with who he was now. It was mostly bitter and not enough sweet in this new dynamic.
“Do you recognize your visitor?” the nurse asked.
Dad gave me a cursory once over and a careless shrug. “Should I?”
Logically, I knew it was a disease. But every time the man who raised me, the man who’d handsewn sequins on my jean jacket in fifth grade, the man who’d corralled six female neighbors in our living room the day I got my first period didn’t recognize me, it felt like I lost another little piece of both of us.
The man who loved me most in this world was gone. And most days I was erased from his memories. Like we’d never existed. Like I’d never existed.
“Hi, Mr. Morales,” I said, pasting on a bright smile that I didn’t feel. “I just came to see if there’s anything you needed from home.”
“Home?” he harrumphed.
I nodded and waited.
He shrugged. “See if Bobby mowed the lawn. I pay the kid ten dollars a week, and he does a five-dollar job. Oh, and bring me my term papers. I can at least grade finals while I’m stuck here.”
It was a C+ day. Grumpy but not too agitated. In Dad’s world, if there was an Ally Morales, she was eight years old, and it was almost summertime.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Would you like any snacks? Your music?”
He didn’t answer. He was back to staring out the window where a slow, icy drizzle had begun.
The nurse tilted her head in the direction of the hall, and I followed her out.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“He suffered a broken tibia when he fell out of bed this morning,” she explained.
“Did he break anything else?” I asked, leaning back against the wall.
Falls were especially dangerous with my father’s diagnosis.
“Some bruising and swelling, but no other breaks,” she said.
Thank you, goddesses of gravity. “How’s his pain?”
“With dementia patients, it’s hard to tell.”
Everything was hard with dementia patients, I’d come to learn.
“We’re administering low doses of pain medication every few hours and monitoring him. He’s slept a bit since he got here, and we’re doing our best to keep him in bed for now. Our PT and OT teams are coming in to evaluate him in the morning.”
“How long will he be here?” I asked. At this point, unexpected hospital bills had the power to do more than bankrupt us.
“It’s hard to say at this point. It depends on the therapy teams,” she explained.
“Where’s my wife?” my father demanded from inside the room.
I winced. I’d stopped wondering that decades ago.
“Will your mother be visiting?” the nurse asked me.
I shook my head. “No. She won’t.”
“I’ll let you visit for a while. Try not to get discouraged if he’s agitated,” she said, patting me on the arm.
“Thanks.” I returned to the room where I was a stranger. My father was back to glaring out the window, his food still untouched.
“That looks good,” I said, pointing at the soup on his tray.
He grumbled under his breath.
I pulled out my phone and cued up my Dad Playlist. There had always been music in our house. Dad’s Latin roots combined with his love of BB King, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald created the soundtrack of my childhood. He played the piano well and the guitar a little less well. But his enthusiasm made up for it.
He’d given me the gift of music appreciation. And so much more.
Now I was failing him.
Dad’s fingers drummed out a beat to Tito Puente’s “Take Five.” At least it was one thing the disease couldn’t rob him of.
“Did you know that Tito Puente served in the Navy during World War II and paid his way through Julliard on the GI Bill?” Dad mused.
“Really?” I asked, pulling the chair up to his bedside.
“You look familiar. Are you Mrs. Vacula’s daughter?” he asked.
“I am,” I lied brightly and felt my neck flush red. Mrs. Vacula had lived across the street for twenty years—gracefully enduring hundreds of Dracula jokes—before moving to Mesa, Arizona. I’d learned quickly that correcting him, reminding him of the things he didn’t know anymore, only hurt us both.
“Your mother makes the best beef vegetable soup, you know,” he said.
“It’s true,” I said. “Let’s see how this recipe measures up.” I picked up the spoon and held it out to him.
* * *
It was late when I let myself into my father’s house.
I nudged the thermostat down a degree or two and wandered into the kitchen
, helping myself to a bowl of ramen and a stale bagel from yesterday’s work snacks. Emergency carbs that I’d snagged before they’d thrown out the leftovers. I’d thought a fashion magazine would have had nothing but juice cleanses being passed around. But the sheer amount of food in my department alone was the only thing standing between me and being too hungry at night to sleep.
I yawned. I’d get through this. I had no choice, and it was stupid to lament about it.
Heading upstairs, I stepped over the weak spot on the landing and continued into my childhood room. Too tired to worry about neatness, I left my clothes in a pile on the floor. My legs were red from the cold and itchy from the synthetic lace of the tights.
After bundling into a pair of sweat pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, I climbed under the covers on my twin bed.
Wearily, I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to my catering boss, apologizing again for missing my shift that night. It was definitely going to hurt being out that money.
I should boot up my laptop. See if any invoices had been paid. Go through the bank account and see what I had to work with for next week. Not that I needed to. I knew down to the penny what was in there. It wasn’t hard keeping track of three figures.
At least the hospital bills would take weeks before they started to trickle in. Because I wouldn’t see a paycheck from Label for another week or two, I’d estimated low there just in case I’d calculated the taxes or the health insurance withholding wrong.
A full-time paycheck was going to make all the difference to me. I just had to hang on until payday, and then I could reassess everything and make a new plan.
For now, I’d just tighten the belt one more notch.
My phone buzz-clunked in my hand.
The text came from an unknown number.
Unknown: Did you make it home? By the way. This is Charming.
I stared at the text as I chewed stale bagel. What the hell was Dominic “I Hate Your Guts” Russo doing texting me at 11 p.m.?
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the text was meant for someone else. Someone else who also happened to nickname him Prince Charming.