Obviously, there was more to this situation than met the eye, and she was determined to flesh it out.
“I sold one of those frames today. It was the frame that saved the sale, not me.”
Connie stood there, motionless. His eyes no longer angry and brooding, even though his mouth was still a thin line. Evie understood then that he knew all about the frames.
“Someone local must have made them. I want to know who it was.” She insisted.
Connie remained mum, but his eyes scanned her face searchingly. Evie took ahold of his forearms, drawing herself closer, as she pressed, “People want frames like that. With a different frame collection, we could draw more people to the store, increase sales, get the store out of this slump…”
“It’ll never happen, Evie,” his voice was harsh and cutting. Dark in its pessimistic intensity, as he shook his head.
Connie didn’t have to say it for Evie to know why.”Mara will come around. I’ll show her the potential.”
“No.” Connie enunciated the word, trying to step around her and escape, “Ya dinna ken! That doors been slammed but good.”
Evie stubbornly darted in front of him again, as she snapped, “They’re just frames!”
“They’re my frames!” Connie roared.
His voice echoed off the buildings around them, drawing looks from curious onlookers who slowed as they passed them by on the other side of the road. The sound was thunderous, freezing her feet in place. She reminded herself, this anger was meant for someone else.
Connie’s bright eyes were glassy, his brows drawn over them, and his entire body was rigid with tension that he was trying to shake. He searched her face again, as she gave a soft, reassuring squeeze to his muscled forearms. Evie worked to rationalize why the frames were such a big deal, and yet she somehow sensed that this was at the center of the contention roiling between husband and wife. What had Mara done to so strip this man of his dignity and pride?
“I sold your frame today,” Evie whispered, her gaze intent on the willingness in his own eyes to disregard her, “for four-hundred-dollars.”
Connie’s bright eyes told her everything she needed to know. He was shocked. He was elated. He was concerned. And all of this whirled inside of him, like a twister caught in a bottle, not wanting to let an ounce of it out and all of it threatening to burst. Knowing how much this man needed a good old-fashioned ego stroke, Evie asked him, “How can Mara say no to that?”
Connie’s stony veneer cracked. Pride won out, swelling out of him in a great breathy chuckle. Hearing him laugh was like music to her ears. Evie couldn’t help but want more of it. Adding insult to injury, she insisted, “And I intend to sell those frames whether Mara likes it or not.”
Connie cupped the side of her face, and before she could comprehend any of it, his mouth was pressed against hers, hard and demanding. Throwing inhibition to the wind, Evie ran her hands up the front of his chest and rose up on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss.
It was all she had remembered it to be and more.
His mouth was gentle, yet urgent, the scrape of his stubble against her cheeks a thrill. He was hot and sweet, smoky whiskey lingered on his pallet. She savoured this, willing it to extend onward forever, her mouth moving against his with the longing of her own pent up desires.
When they finally parted, it was only to catch their breath. Connie nuzzled the tip of his nose over the bridge of hers, before tipping her head down to kiss her forehead. He crushed her to him, his strong arms about her back and shoulders, his chin resting on the crown of her head as he enveloped her. She clung to him, her nose between the nape of his neck and the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like smoke and mahogany, with that underlying masculine musk that left her sighing amorously. She felt as though she could stay there forever, melded against this man by the intense crush of his arms.
The moment was ruined by a loud groaning complaint from her stomach. Connie’s arms loosened to take her shoulders, holding her out from him, as he eyed her torso with a skeptically cocked brow.
Disgusted by his need to make a big deal out of the ruined intimacy, she capitulated, “Yes, that was me.”
“Did ya not eat today?” he chuckled, twisting her with his arms until she was neatly tucked under one shoulder. They walked away together.
Evie wrapped her arm around his waist as she admitted, “Not since the scone.”
“Well, I think we can cure that wee problem,” he said, “with a bit of Indian.”
“I heard there’s a good Moroccan place somewhere,”
“I know the place. I’ll get it delivered.”
“Delivered?”
“Dinna fash! There’s something I need to show ya.”
They meandered through the streets like any couple out on a date, except Evie spent the whole-time checking street corners and the odd passerby. She had not been worried in the heat of the moment where his wife was, but now that they were sauntering at a leisurely pace back in the general direction of the store, her nerves began to sizzle with a surge of anxiety that quickly burnt up the lust-driven adrenaline high.
This was officially full-blown PDA—the first step in getting caught not just making out with your boss, but making out with your other boss’s husband! This was shaky ground. Every person she saw, regardless of gender, wore Mara’s steely expression. Those dark orbs accusing her of her treachery, firing her, and sicking the authorities on her ass to have her deported!
Turning another corner, Evie saw the dry cleaner and the bakery, alongside the store. Just as she was about to ask where they were going, Connie nipped down a back alley, coming to a flight of metal stairs Evie recognized. It was the flat she had fled after waking up in Connie’s bed.
“You live above the store?”
Looking far too calm with the prospect of walking her into the place he shared with his wife, he simply responded with a quick, “Aye,”
“W-where's Mara?” she anxiously stammered.
“Mara?” he questioned, making it sound like the name was foreign to him.
Evie couldn’t understand why he was so confused. Wasn’t it evident that she did not want to be anywhere near his wife, most certainly not in their home alone with him! Would it not be blatant what was really going on, if his wife came home and found them eating take out together on the couch? The cahoona’s on this guy!
Evie’s panic turned to anger, as she suddenly spat at him, “Yeah, Mara? Your wife!”
Connie’s bright eyes sparkled. The skin around them crinkled, as his mouth went from an ‘o’ of surprise to a giant shit-eating grin. He opened up into a hearty guffaw as he grabbed at his midsection. He swiped at his eyes, ridiculing her, “Ah, lass, the look on yer face! Priceless! Oh, pure brilliant it ‘tis…”
The Scot couldn’t even finish his sentence. He was too busy wheezing, winded from all his mirth. Evie’s brows descended, as her blood began to boil. She felt her fingers balling into fists at her sides, and suddenly her arm lashed out, nailing him in the bicep with a punch. “You aren’t married? Why didn’t you say anything?!”
This only made Connie hooch and chortle more. Evie threw him another one and his massive hand enveloped her fist, using her momentum to pull her off balance. She fell against his shoulder, his arms grabbing the back of her thighs, as her feet left the ground.
“Put me down!”
“Not ‘til I getcha in ta my place.”
Evie was jostled as he took the stairs two at a time—a reverse fireman carry, abducting instead of saving. She felt one of her flats fall loose at the top of the stairs, and Connie cursed, bending forward to put her down. Evie stood like a drunk flamingo, as he reached back and retrieved the lost shoe. When he turned back around, he made the offer to put it on her foot, as though he were her Prince Charming. Then he reneged and waved her off, “I’ll just open the door instead.”
The inside of the flat was not nearly as messy as Evie recalled. The coats and boots were neatly arranged by the fron
t door. The kitchen counters were decluttered, with just a few dirty dishes in the sink to hint at the disaster that she had witnessed previously, and as Connie ushered her into the cubicle sized living room, she could see that the take-out boxes were long gone. Connie picked up a pair of jeans left flung over the back of the couch and tossed them through the bedroom door. Other than that, the place was actually tidy.
Evie kicked her other shoe off, and Connie helped her out of her coat. She sat down on a compact couch as he pulled out his smartphone and used an app to order the takeaway. From the kitchen, he nipped out two glasses filled with water. The redhead was grateful for the drink, feeling parched after the roughhousing and earlier mojitos. When the Scot joined her, she searched for clarification, “So…?”
“Evie, please,” Connie chuckled, shaking his head, “Dinna make me laugh anymore. My sides can’t take it.”
She shot him a pursed-lip glare, not nearly as amused with his response.
Connie placed a hand on her knee, and after moistening his lips, he finally said the words she had so desperately wished to hear. “Mara is not my wife.”
Evie was ashamed at the way she felt the corners of her mouth tug into a smile.
“Not anymore.” He clarified, not nearly as cocky about it as he had been. “We divorced…oh, going on two years now.”
“I see,” she sighed. She was unapologetically relieved.
Connie smiled back at her. “She kept the married name.”
“She was already using it professionally.”
“Aye,” he affirmed. Abashedly, he said, “I told ya to keep mum about what happened between us because I…I made a lot of assumptions that I shouldn’t have...”
“I think we both did,” Evie admitted, as the anger she had first felt in those moments was slowly being sloughed away by the facts now coming to light.
This didn’t have to be awkward anymore. Evie didn’t care now that he was her boss. He wasn’t married! It deleted half the wrong from their equation. How could she let go of the rush she felt around him or the way her heart hammered in her chest at the mere thought of his caress? How could Evie hold back now that she was so horribly addicted?!
“It’s been difficult—ugh, bollox! It takes the piss, and ya know that much, just havin’ been round the two of us. We’re awful together! Always have been. I just didnae see it.” Connie went on, his eyes on the rim of his glass, as he divulged all to her, “I didnae want to see it…”
Connie told her of how they had met; two ambitious young students, trying to get a leg up in the world. A whirl-wind romance, fast, exciting, and adventurous. He dropped out of his degree program so she could pursue her’s, then they married and started their business—living the dream. Mara made connections in the optical community, and Connie began designing. But when the company started to fall short, and the books became unbalanced, Mara blamed him and his frames. Connie, in turn, accused her lavish spending—wine, jewelry, designer dresses and handbags. The arguments grew more heated as the expenditures mounted, further punishing the business until employees became impossible to keep. A fairy tale ending in separation and divorce.
Evie felt a flush of anger that warmed her face as she grit her teeth. Her fingers clenched the glass, as she reminded herself that drawing judgment on Mara, no matter how loathsome her actions, would not bring about any changes. It would only make it harder for Evie to see the optometrist at work every day and still remain professional. Knowing was almost as confusing as not knowing what had caused the canyon-sized rift between the two business partners.
“I don’t want to make assumptions anymore,” Evie said, as Connie’s gaze lifted to meet hers.
“Aye,” he agreed, as his palm settled over her fingers, “nor I.”
Evie felt her body leaning towards his, as her mind raced with a blaring mantra of love declarations that she barely held at bay. All she could think about was having her mouth pressed against his.
Connie darted back, retrieving his phone from his back pocket, “Food’s here.”
The meal was on the couch, eating vegetable couscous and lamb tajine straight from the boxes.
After they had finished and cleaned up, Connie came out of the kitchen, offering her an outstretched hand. “Come.”
Evie was helped from the couch with a soft kiss on the back of her hand. The Scot drew her towards the bedroom, making her heart hammer. She was flooded by a heady mix of emotions. The memories of their previous foray flashed in her mind, sending moths loose in her belly.
Connie turned, opening closet doors. He rummaged, reaching what he needed without even stretching, and brought down a stack of black cases. Evie had seen these many times. Excitement thrummed through her.
This was it. This was Connie’s collection. His designs. His frames.
“This,” he said, in a tentative voice, as he opened the flap on one of the cases, “is what I wanted to show you.”
The optician gnashed her teeth into her bottom lip as her eyes greedily roamed the plethora of colours and styles. Every last one was as new and as unique as the frames she had discovered hidden away in that dusty cupboard at the store earlier that day. “They're beautiful!”
“I’m glad that you think so.” Connie said in a voice that tried to mask an underlying current of sadness, “Many others certainly don’t think so.”
Evie shook her head, “Their loss.”
The Scot chuckled as he replaced her black frame with his. She tossed her own onto the bed and watched his smile grow.
“Good?” she asked, her voice chipper with the charge of her excitement.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed as he grabbed her waist and spun her round to face a long mirror beside the doorway.
The warm hands on her hips pushed her forward until they were both standing a foot back from her reflection. The half-frame swooped across her brow, following their outline seamlessly. It was the same frame she tried on at the store, the yellow bright and unapologetic.
The girl felt the man behind her inch closer, his head leaning forward against the side of her own. His hands left her hips, slowly trailing up her sides, making goosebumps race across her skin. They reached her shoulders, his fingers moving to the length of her neck, teasingly slow. Finally, they met with her jawline, and he drew his forefingers up on either side of her face, in a V-shape, as he began to explain, “See how the temple post draws the eye here? This slims the face, exaggerating the feminine V-shape. The lens is rounded toward the outer corner, drawing up the corners of the eyes and brows.”
The girl could see it, the way that the frame showcased her features just as she had seen with Donna earlier. He smiled at her in the mirror, as his hands pulled back loose strands of her red hair. “Most people would never consider wearin’ yellow, and yet, it is one of the few colours that match every skin tone. If you’re only brave enough, lass.”
“The yellow brings out the golden tones in my hair,” she continued for him, as his hands gave a playful and appreciative tug at length in his hands.
“What else?” he encouraged, his hands drifting down over her shoulder blades, to settle back down at her hips again.
Evie’s smile broadened, as her gaze darted between his face in the mirror and her own reflection. She assessed herself, embarrassment and anxiety battling in her gut. “The colour also makes my skin appear more tanned and crisps up the blue of my eyes, making them brighter. The little bit of white mixed in with the blue brightens the whites of my eyes.”
“Making ya appear as healthy and as beautiful as ya alr’eady are,” he continued, his chin brushing against her cheek. The scrape of the soft bristles preluded the soft press of his gentle kiss on the turn of her jaw. Then another lower on her neck, and again at the collar of her blouse.
The dusting of dark stubble tickled her skin and the redhead instinctively curled her chin into her shoulder to block his advances. The Scot’s strong arms enveloped her from behind, his chin resting on the crown of her head, as he g
rowled low in the back of his throat, “You canna escape that easily,”
“Escape? I just got started.” She teased, moving past him to the end of the bed. She bent over the frames in the trays, flipping back the other lids so she could admire the entire collection. Each tray held nine frames. Each model had four colour variations. She wanted to try them all on. “How many are there?”
Connie settled close behind her, gesturing to the trays spread out on the bed. “I started off at first with twelve models, and by the time I quit, there were 48.”
That meant there was a total of 192 separate frames. As Evie’s eyes moved through the cases, she found the pomegranate frame that she had sold to the pediatric nurse, next to the lime-green variation that Rockstar Roy rocked. Meaning that these frames were the demos, the initial frame prototypes that the manufacturer would use for production. The box she had found in the store must have been stock.
Evie noted that overall, the glasses did not seem to have any definitive separation between children’s, women’s, or men’s as she was accustomed to quickly picking out. They ranged in size from extra wide to very petite.
“What’s your men’s to women’s ratio?”
“There isna one,” he replied, with a chuckle. He gestured over her shoulder at the tray, as he added, “the frames are all unisex.”
Evie’s brows lifted. In the optical world, it was almost universally understood that there was no genuinely unisex design. Women could wear anything, and men were restricted by their fashion and social-sex boundaries. Yet, as the girl looked over the frames again, she could see this dogmatic way of thinking was defied. Amongst each of the designs was a truly masculine colour variation, as well as an inherently feminine one. The others remained to be a mix of the two, halfway between the boundaries. This left the individual open to decide what suited their sense of sex. Truly androgynous. It was genius.
“Your sizes vary greatly,” she moved on, pointing at a very petite frame and then a very wide frame, “what standard sizes did you use?”
“I didnae,” he replied, his chuckle deepening.
Evie straightened and laid the man with a condescending glare, feeling patronized. “You didn’t?” she said firmly, feeling the need to emphasize her point by enunciating the ‘T’ that his lilt excluded.
Seeing Colour Page 14