by Virna DePaul
The sun is bright, and I squint as I head outside. I’m so used to the tall skyscrapers of New York that being in LA feels kind of weird. Then again, it’s always warm and almost always sunny here, so I can’t complain. And Californians are way more chill than New Yorkers. They even smile sometimes. The first time I came here, I couldn’t believe it.
I have meetings all day, but despite my efforts, I can’t stop thinking about a certain designer—one who drives me crazy and makes me hard just thinking about her.
Heather Talina Flint, the most annoying, gorgeous, pain in the ass woman I’ve ever met. Was it just two days ago that we slept together? I’ve never been on my best behavior and have had my string of lovers, but I can’t remember the last time I had sex in a public place like a dressing room. I generally prefer beds. But being near Heather, hearing her voice, seeing her blush and watching her get annoyed with me? I couldn’t stop myself. And the sex had been hotter than I’d ever experienced in my life.
I scowl, even though I’m currently at lunch with a client. Said client asks me if my salad is all right. I shake my head, forcing myself to smile.
I can’t let Heather Flint get under my skin like this. We’re over. Hell, we hadn’t even gone anywhere to begin with. We had a fling, it was hot, I took photos of her designs, and that was it. If I do see her again, it’ll be in a completely professional capacity.
A couple of days later, I have the proofs of the photos from Heather’s shoot, and I have to say, they’re easily my best work to date. I send off the photos to Heather, Rebecca and others at Bella, pretty much expecting everyone’s response to match my own. Who could find fault with art like that? Once again, I’m grateful I stuck to my guns and refused to let Heather run the show entirely. We would’ve ended up with lackluster photos, ones that no one would remember after glancing at them when flipping through Bella.
It’s almost evening, although the sun won’t be going down for a few hours yet. Sitting in my rental house off of Sunset Boulevard, I go out to the balcony, taking in the lights of LA. It’s still warm, and it smells like the sea. The wind’s picked up, and I watch as the palm trees sway in the distance.
That’s when I hear my doorbell ring. I frown, going downstairs to answer it. I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight.
Opening the door, I’m about to tell whoever it is that I’m not interested in what they’re selling, when I realize it’s not a salesperson: it’s Fiona Taylor, fashion designer extraordinaire.
Oh, and one of many women I’ve slept with over the years.
Fiona is of average height, stick-thin, with bleached blond hair that curls about her shoulders. She’s wearing her usual bright red lipstick and her outfit is impeccable. She embraces me, smelling of orchids. A yip sounds from her bag.
“Johnny, I’m so glad to see you.” She comes inside without so much as an invitation, which is to be expected. Fiona doesn’t wait for anyone to invite her. She just does as she pleases. Her bag yips again, and she coos at what can only be a very tiny dog inside of it.
“Fiona, what are you doing here?” I sigh inwardly. Fiona is beautiful, and cultured, and brilliant—and a giant pain in the ass. She’s also demanding and this side of crazy, and after sleeping with her once, I realized she wasn’t worth the drama she brought along with her wherever she goes.
“I heard you were staying in LA doing a shoot for Bella, so I thought I’d drop by. Owen wouldn’t tell me where you were staying, but I remembered Kiss Talent used this place a while back before I moved on.”
Right. She meant before Owen fired her ass because she’d been so difficult to work with.
She reaches up to kiss my cheek. “You should’ve told me you were going to be here, you naughty boy.” Unzipping her bag, she lets out a Chihuahua, who barks at me and growls at my ankles. “Oh, Bertie, bad boy! No barking!”
The dog only barks louder. I wince at the high-pitched sound.
“Would you like a drink? I have wine.” I go to the kitchen, knowing she’ll follow.
“Do you have anything more low calorie? I’m trying to watch my waistline.” She pouts, pushing out her plump lower lip that’s had its fair share of injections. “Alcohol is full of useless calories, you know.”
I pour myself a glass of red wine. “I don’t think I’d ever say that alcohol is useless.”
She titters a laugh. Bertie the dog runs around at our feet before lifting its leg on the corner of the kitchen island. Thankfully, Fiona grabs the dog before it can pee all over the place. “What a naughty dog!” She laughs while Bertie growls again when I get too close.
“Why are you here, Fiona?” I know that unless I ask her outright, she’s going to act like she was just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by. Which is bull, because I know very well that she has a mansion in Malibu nowhere near Sunset.
She makes a sad face. “Have I ever told you that you have the worst manners, Johnny?”
“I’m from New York,” I say wryly.
“That doesn’t mean you can ask me questions like that. Like I want something from you!” She leans toward me, trailing a finger down my chest. “Can’t a girl just stop by to see an old friend?”
I catch that trailing hand, because it’s going southward at an alarming rate. I fell into bed with Fiona once, but I’m not going to do it again. I prefer to keep my cock far away from sharks.
“We both know you never just stop by to see anyone. Either you’re here for something or you’re bored. Or both.” I drink my wine. “So which is it?”
Bertie barks, and Fiona sets him down at her feet. “I just thought that since you were in town—and you know you’re never in LA, darling—that I could use some…inspiration. We both could.” She smiles that smile that has seduced any number of men, including myself. Thankfully, I’m now immune to it.
That doesn't stop Fiona, though. She moves closer to me, pressing up against me so I can feel her breasts and every curve of her body. If I just moved my hands a few inches, I could grab her ass. She does, I must admit, have an amazing ass.
But Fiona’s ass doesn’t hold a candle to another ass—and body, and smile, and woman—who I can’t stop thinking about. Heather’s smile flashes in my mind, and suddenly, Fiona’s perfume and presence is cloying. Obnoxious. I don’t want to listen to her, don’t want to hear her breathy voice and feel her nails scratch at my chest like some sex-starved kitten.
“Oh, Fiona,” I say, “we both know what your kind of inspiration means.” I take her hands off of my chest and step away. “And that’s not the kind of inspiration I’m interested in.”
Her eyes flash. The sex kitten disappears, and in its place is a woman who always gets what she wants, and God help anyone who tries to stand in her way.
“What happened to the Johnny I used to know? The one who’d charm and flirt with me?” She pouts. “I miss that Johnny.”
“That Johnny realized that there’s more to life than sleeping with anything that moves.”
She frowns, knowing that I’m talking about her. She doesn’t step away from me, but she doesn’t try to ensnare me again, either. Instead, she picks up Bertie and strokes his tiny, triangular head.
“I heard you were in town working with Rebecca. How did it go?” She looks at me underneath her lashes, like I’m supposed to think she isn’t fishing for information.
But I also know that Fiona won’t leave until she gets something, so I sigh and reply, “I finished up a shoot last week. Have you heard of Talina Designs & Boutique?”
“It sounds familiar.”
“Bella tapped them for a spread, and I was the lucky guy who got to take the photos.” Sarcasm rang clear in my tone, although I hadn’t meant it to.
Fiona raises an expertly plucked eyebrow. “Have a little trouble with the designer?” She clucks her tongue. “That’s also not like you. Why, how many designers have you wrapped around your finger in no time at all?” She flutters her lashes at me. “Me included.”
“And yet
I remember that you pretty much refused to let me be your photographer ever again.” I raise an eyebrow at her. The last time I worked with Fiona, she got so upset over some small changes that I made that she basically threw a fit that lasted an entire month. She left me so many voicemails that she filled up my mailbox, telling me that I would never work in fashion ever again if I crossed her a second time.
After she had calmed down we had a reasonable conversation, but that was when I knew Fiona Taylor wasn’t a woman I wanted to get involved with again.
“You made me mad. Besides, that’s water under the bridge.” She waves a hand. “Tell me about this designer. Is she pretty?”
I think of Heather, of how beautiful she is, and I swallow. I can’t let on that Heather and I have been involved in some way. Fiona will use that to her advantage somehow. I pick up my wineglass and take a sip, finishing the glass. “Her name’s Heather Flint. She’s pretty new on the scene.”
“And her designs?”
“They’re fine.” I deliberately downplay how impressed I was with Heather’s work, not wanting to prick Fiona’s interest. “But she’s also stubborn as hell, and we almost tore into each other at the shoot.”
“Interesting.” Fiona keeps stroking Bertie, who has since stopped growling but looks at me with his beady dark eyes. “I’ll have to look out for this Heather woman. If she’s caught Rebecca’s attention, then she must be talented.”
I bite back my instinctive reply—that Fiona should stay far away from Heather—but that would just make Heather a sure-fire target.
“Well, look at the time.” Fiona gathers her bag and places Bertie inside it. “I must get going, but it’s been so lovely to see you, Johnny.” She kisses my cheek. “Best of luck with everything.”
She sees herself out, which is fine with me.
Right now, my brain only has room for one designer—and she’s definitely not Fiona Taylor.
Chapter Eleven
Heather
When I see the email from Caleb, my heart pounds with anticipation. I tell myself it’s not because it’s from him, but because it has the photos from the shoot attached. Although I saw the initial shots, these are more official.
I begin looking at the photos, one by one. Since a week has passed since the shoot, my mind has forgotten the specifics of the photos I’d gotten to look at. As I look at each one, I’m torn between two emotions: awe at Caleb’s talent and irritation that they’re even more avant garde than I’d expected.
They’ve now been edited so that they look almost nothing like I’d imagined in the first place. I’m gritting my teeth as I go through every single photo, my ire rising with each one. Why had I let Caleb take the reins like that? These are my designs, not his! By the time I’m finished looking, I’m so angry that I have to take a deep breath. I can’t call Rebecca and lose my temper.
I drink a glass of water, sit down for a bit, and force the anger from my body. Calm, I think to myself. I am calm, I am collected. I am not going to lose it. Because that’s just what Caleb would love to see happen. I think he gets off on making me angry.
My cat, a fat, fluffy Persian, gets on my lap and starts kneading my thighs, purring like a motorboat. I stroke his fur, and it helps calm me down.
“You’re always the best medicine, McQueen,” I say to the cat, named after my favorite designer. “Why can’t people be more like cats?”
McQueen just purrs louder and curls up in my lap, a heap of white fur.
I call Rebecca; she already left me a message about putting together a meeting, so I might as well get this over with. I don’t tell her I’m unhappy with the photos, but I definitely hint that they aren’t in line with my vision. Rebecca tells me that her assistant will set up the meeting and include Johnny as well. My stupid heart thrills when I think about seeing Caleb again, but I stamp down the excitement. I won’t be there to get all starry-eyed around him.
The day only gets shittier from there. Bo calls me, wanting to stop by to pick up a box of his old DVDs and running shoes. I had been tempted to dump them, but Bo would probably kill me if I got rid of his entire collection of Stargate DVDs.
By the afternoon, Bo shows up, and I try my best not to let him get on my nerves. It’s difficult, though, when he comes into my apartment—our old place—without so much as a knock, like he still lives here. McQueen runs when Bo enters, and I can’t say that I blame the cat overmuch.
Bo is a handsome guy, with dark, curly hair and a square jaw. He wears black hipster glasses and thinks that the Gap is basically couture, but I grudgingly admit to myself that he looks good.
“Nice to see you, Heather,” he says, embracing me. “You look great, by the way.”
“You look good, too,” I say, even though I don’t really mean it. He looks the same, to be honest: tall, skinny, handsome in a nerdy kind of way. Not like the heart-stopping handsomeness of another man, a man whose kisses I can’t stop thinking about, or dreaming about, or who I want to see again but know I shouldn’t…
“What have you been up to?” Bo sits down on the couch, and I sigh inwardly. I’m really not interested in chatting right now.
“Just working. Always busy, you know. I had a shoot last week that’s going to be in Bella.” I can’t help but tell him this bit of news in an arch voice, as if daring him to say that it isn’t a big deal. Even a guy as clueless about fashion as Bo has heard of Bella.
“Oh really? That’s cool. So somebody came and took pictures of your stuff? Will Bella be selling your stuff, too?”
“It’s a magazine, Bo, not a catalog. But it’ll be great exposure—amazing exposure. Bella is the most widely read fashion magazine in the world.”
“Huh.” He taps his fingers against his knee. “Well, I’m glad you’ve been keeping busy. I know your career is important to you.”
I grit my teeth. Of course he would bring this up. The biggest reason we broke up is because Bo was convinced I couldn’t have a relationship and a career at the same time. To his consternation, I chose the job over him. Now I realize how bitter he sounds, talking about my job.
“It is important to me. I’ve worked really hard, especially in the past year. Getting an opportunity to be in Bella is a dream come true.”
He nods, but I can see the tic in his jaw. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing well. I need to get back home. Eva’s looking for me. She’s cooking a huge dinner tonight for us.”
I ignore his bragging about his new girlfriend, who apparently loves to play housewife. I hand him his box of DVDs and shoes. “All your stuff’s in there.”
He doesn’t even look at the stuff, and I wonder again why he felt the need to come down here at all. Couldn’t I have just mailed him his stupid DVDs?
“I’ll see you later then.”
Once Bo is gone, I collapse on the couch. McQueen comes out of hiding to sit on my lap again. I stroke the cat, and I can’t help but think about Caleb.
God, why can’t I get him out of my mind? I wish I could act like he means nothing to me, but I can’t. I don’t know what I feel for him, but he’s in my thoughts so often that I feel like it’s a disease almost. The Caleb Disease.
Seeing Bo today, though, has once again reminded me of why Caleb and I could never be more than a fling. I’m not cut out for a relationship and a career, and I refuse to give up my dreams to follow a man to New York or take a second seat to his own career.
I sigh. “I guess it’s just going to be me and you, huh, McQueen?”
My cat just purrs, perfectly content with the situation.
* * *
“Oh Johnny, how nice of you to join us,” Rebecca says, her voice carrying across the meeting room.
I look up to see Caleb, looking annoyed. His jaw’s clenched, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down across from me, not even acknowledging my presence. He doesn’t sound remotely sorry about being late, either.
Before this meeting, I’ve thought
and even written down everything I want to say regarding the photos. At the moment I’m calm and collected, and despite Caleb’s dour mood, I get started.
“Once again I want to reiterate how grateful I am for the opportunity to work with Bella,” I say to everyone at the table, which includes Rebecca, Catherine, Caleb, and a handful of other Bella staff. “Having my designs featured in the magazine is a dream come true, but when I looked over all of the photos, I felt that they weren’t what I’d imagined.”
Rebecca’s gaze is sharp, but her voice is cool when she asks, “What had you imagined?”
“Well, I had initially imagined something less…well, I think the best word is ‘weird.’” When I see Caleb bristle, I add quickly, “I agreed with Caleb—Johnny—that focusing solely on how delicate the designs were with the photos wasn’t the best idea, but in the end, it seems that we moved too far away from what I had envisioned. The shoot doesn’t represent Talina Designs at all, quite frankly.”
Caleb snorts, and I clench the pen in my hand to keep from tossing it at his face. Rebecca glances at Caleb with a stern look.
“You seemed happy with the photos at the end of the shoot,” Rebecca finally says. “Did you change your mind, or is this cold feet? I understand that designers can sometimes be afraid to go outside the box, especially with their first shoot.”
“Yes, please, tell us what happened,” Caleb drawls. “Because I can’t keep up with you at all. One second you’re happy, the next you’re unhappy. Which is it? I’m used to fickle designers, but this takes the cake.”
Now I’m angry. I set my pen down because I’m afraid I’m going to break it in half with my grip. I inhale, thinking of blue skies and the beach. I’m not going to let him get to me.
“This isn’t a matter of cold feet, or fickleness. The photos at the shoot were a rough draft; the editing since then has changed the tone entirely.” I look straight at Caleb now. “Even you as a photographer can agree with that.”