The only picture of her on Fontaine’s website was a picture on the bio page. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t know,” Belle said. “Show me.”
Daisy peered at the screen and her eyebrows lifted. “It’s not a picture you want to flash around a table with children present.”
“Then it must not be one of me,” Belle said.
“Oh, it’s you,” Daisy said smugly. “A lot of you, in fact.”
Mrs. Dawson was still gaping at it. “I thought you said you designed business attire.”
Marco leaned over to see the picture. “Wow. Someone must have an interesting Casual Friday policy.”
What were they looking at? Belle reached out her hand. “Let me see.”
Mrs. Dawson handed the phone to Marco. He gave it to Belle. She turned the screen to face her—and saw a picture of her wearing Sebastien’s dress.
She nearly swore out loud, which was also something you didn’t want to do at a table with children present. Why was this image online? She glanced at the site, a fashion blogger’s. How many more of these photos came up when someone googled her name?
What made the picture worse, was that the dress’s beige tone was faded in the shot so that the material blended in with her skin in places, making the dress appear even more revealing than it was. And it had been pretty revealing to begin with.
“I didn’t design that gown,” Belle said, fighting the blush that had crept into her cheeks. She closed the screen to get rid of the image. “I just wore it because a model left us shorthanded. It was a fashion show crisis. And the color is totally off in that picture.” She forced a laugh. “I wasn’t as naked as I looked.”
“No need to apologize,” Flynn said keeping his voice light. “We’ve all said those words sooner or later: I wasn’t as naked as I looked.”
Daisy’s eyebrows jutted up. “You’ve actually said those words?”
Flynn leaned back with a casual grin. “No, but they’re on my bucket list.”
The waiter brought out the meals, and fortunately the conversation moved on.
When she was halfway through her clam fettuccini, Marco looked over at her. “So do you enjoy working in the fashion industry?”
“For the most part.” She had wanted to tell him that she owed her career, at least in part, to him, to thank him for his encouragement. This was as good a time as any.
But before she could speak, Marco asked, “Where are your company’s clothes made?”
“The couture and other high-end pieces are sewn in house. The rest are sent overseas for production.”
“Overseas where?” His hesitant tone made it clear that he was ready to disapprove of her answer.
“Bangladesh, mostly.”
Marco’s lips drew into a line as if he’d eaten something unpleasant. “You use sweatshops?”
“We use factories.”
He shook his head in disappointment. “Doesn’t matter what you call them; they’re still sweatshops.” More head shaking. “The clothing industry takes advantage of people who have no voice.”
Well, it looked like this wasn’t a good time to thank him, after all.
Belle stared at Marco in frustration. She’d always admired his idealism. She’d sat with him during study groups and listened to him bash corporate greed. She’d scoffed right along with him at the shallowness of those who sold out. But she never imagined that one day, she’d be on the receiving end of his scoffing.
“The issue isn’t that simple,” she said. “Although the wages the workers make are lower than what we could live on in the US, they’re still making more money than they would doing other local work. We’re improving their standard of living.”
Marco sighed as though he thought she was stupid, or making excuses, or both. “Do you know anything about those factories? Children work for low wages in unsafe working conditions.”
Flynn broke into their conversation. “Belle, do you want to dance?” He was obviously trying to stop the argument.
She didn’t answer. Marco had to understand that she wasn’t some greedy capitalist taking advantage of the poor. “Our company has age and safety requirements for the factories we deal with.”
“Everyone says that. The rules aren’t enforced. You must know that.”
“The problems come when factories sublet orders to other factories that don’t meet our standards. We have no way of controlling that.”
“Those are just excuses,” he said. “And you could pay the workers more. Your company has control of that.”
“Yes, and higher pay would be helpful right up until the time we went out of business because we’re no longer competitive in the market. Then we and the factory workers would lose our jobs.” She held out her hands, wishing she had the words to make him understand the whole issue instead of seeing only a few slices of black and white—with the fashion industry swathed in villain black. “Our profit margin is thin to nothing as it is.”
Marco waved away her words. “People would pay more if they knew it meant they were providing others with a living wage.”
“Um, have you actually met people?”
He took a drink and shrugged. “We’re talking about a business that’s ninety percent frivolity anyway. No one needs more clothes. We’ve got enough. So yes, I think people would pay a few more dollars for their sparkly flip-flops if it means helping someone escape from a sweatshop.”
Clothing was frivolity? He was serious. He might as well have told her that her life’s work was pointless.
She tried again to make him understand. “Fashion is the second biggest industry in New York. Worldwide it employs twenty-five million—”
“That doesn’t make it a moral industry.”
Belle hadn’t noticed Flynn leave his seat, but now he stood by her, holding out his hand. “I’m stealing you from my brother. Let’s dance.”
She stood to go with him. Flynn was right. If she argued another minute with Marco, his mother was bound to notice and become upset. Belle smiled at Marco as she stepped closer to Flynn and slipped her hand into his. “You just don’t understand the business.”
“Business.” Marco leaned back and folded his arms. “You’ve changed in more than one way, Belle. I can see why you and Flynn get along so well.”
What was that supposed to mean? He’d meant it as an insult. But she wasn’t sure whether she was angrier on her own behalf or on Flynn’s.
Marco assumed that all business was somehow evil in and of itself.
“You’re right. I get along great with Flynn,” she said. “Because he’s not judgmental.”
Before she could say more, Flynn led her to the dance floor. As they maneuvered around tables, her mind kept running through the conversation. “How can he hold me responsible for working conditions in other countries? He just assumes I don’t care about people. I do. A lot. But I have no control over that end of the business, and closing factories would only cause more poverty.”
Flynn kept hold of her hand, leading her around the edge of the dance floor. “I told you Marco had his faults.”
Her heart pounded, and she wasn’t sure whether it was from anger, or frustration, or simply the result of her expectations cracking and crumbling to her feet. “He wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I always thought he was so enlightened, but he’s not. He’s just opinionated.”
They’d reached the far side of the restaurant. Flynn led her onto the dance floor. “Unfortunately, med school doesn’t require classes on economics.”
He took her hand in his and put his hand on her waist. The band was playing a slow song, a soft romantic melody, that she barely paid attention to. As her feet moved to the beat, she glared in Marco’s direction. He was talking calmly with Daisy, completely unaware of how upset he’d made her—or simply not caring.
“Some aspects of the medical profession aren’t scrupulous,” she said, “but I’m not holding him personally accountable for it.”
“And that’s why you’r
e a better dinner conversationalist.”
“Every year we do a charity benefit to fund education programs for Bangladesh workers. We’re not a bunch of heartless fashionistas.”
Flynn squeezed her hand, directing her attention back to him. “I know. Forget about it. Let’s dance.”
The music was too loud, and she felt as though the rhythm was pounding inside her head. “I don’t feel like dancing anymore,” she said. “Let’s go outside.”
He nodded, and they went out the door and headed to the beach. The sun had mostly set. Only its tip peeked over the ocean, and the orange glow in the sky was already fading to gray. The chairs and thatched palapa umbrellas facing the waves were deserted. The few tourists farther down the beach looked as though they were making their way back to their hotels.
Belle stalked across the sand beside Flynn, kicking spurts of it around her sandals. She’d come all the way here to see Marco, had staked so much on it, and their first real conversation was an argument. Granted, she’d never find a man who agreed with her on every subject, but he’d been so unwilling to even try to see her perspective.
He thought she was oppressing children. He’d said her life’s work was frivolous. What happened to the Marco who’d urged her to follow her passions? Had he ever paid attention to what her passions were?
She knew with sudden clarity what the answer was to that question. Of course he hadn’t. She’d been invisible back then.
Flynn was right; she’d put Marco on a pedestal and turned him into the embodiment of all her unfulfilled dreams. But the shine of idolization was gone now. Marco wasn’t perfect. He was a man with flaws, like everyone else.
“Don’t let Marco upset you,” Flynn said as they walked along the beach. “You’re an artist, and your canvas is clothing. No one looks at a Rembrandt and thinks, ‘frivolous’. Be proud of your talent.”
She’d always liked to think of her designs as wearable art, creations that helped people express themselves. But maybe Flynn was only saying things to make her feel better.
“How do you know I’m really an artist?” she asked. “Maybe I’m a failed chemical engineer who listened to bad advice.”
He shook his head. “I’ve known enough artists that I can spot them. Illustrators constantly doodle. Musicians hum. Writers ask about different ways to kill people.”
“Um, what sort of writers have you known?”
“You brought your sketchbook on vacation,” he continued. “You use words like azure and periwinkle. You took pictures of stuff on the beach because it had an interesting texture.”
Belle felt her mood lighten considerably. She liked that he’d noticed those things about her. Marco had told her she’d changed. He was right about that, just like he was right that she and Flynn got along together well.
Why hadn’t she realized before now how easy it was to talk to him, to be with him? Flynn was handsome, smart, hardworking, understanding… And, well, she didn’t need to make a litany of his good qualities. He made her insides shiver. She’d been foolish to choose Marco instead of him.
She took hold of his hand and pulled him over to one of the abandoned thatched umbrellas. It offered a little more privacy on the open beach. She slid her arms around his neck, pushed herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him. Not a light kiss. An I want to be held kiss. A make me forget about my mistakes kiss.
Flynn wrapped his arms around her waist and obliged for a minute then lifted his head and surveyed her. “Are you kissing me because you want to kiss me, or because you’re mad at Marco?”
She leaned against him, resting her cheek against the hollow of his throat. “Both.”
“Both.” He didn’t move his hands from her waist, didn’t try to kiss her again. “You’re sending me mixed messages. You realize that, don’t you?”
She made a trail of kisses along his neck.
His hand ran across her back. “Of course, mixed messages aren’t necessarily a bad thing.”
She kissed the line of his jaw. When she neared his lips, he inclined his head and pressed his mouth to hers. This time he didn’t hold back. They stood there for quite a while, the waves rumbling and crashing behind them. His fingers went through her hair, then caressed her back. She melted into him, forgetting about everything and everyone else. She wanted the moment to go on, wanted this breathless sensation of passion to stay. If she kept kissing him, if she never left his embrace, she’d always feel loved, wanted, special.
Flynn lifted his head again and let out a slow breath. He took a step away from her and raked a hand through his hair. “So what percentage of that kiss was you being mad at Marco, and what percent was you wanting to kiss me? Are we talking fifty-fifty? Eighty-twenty? What?”
“Um…” She wasn’t sure how to put her feelings into percentages. If she told him that ninety-nine percent of her had wanted to kiss him, would she look like she’d switched crushes at the drop of a hat?
She sidled closer to him and ran her fingertips across one of his hands, looking at it instead of his face. “Would you gloat too much if I admit you were right about putting Marco on a pedestal?”
“No.” He took her hands, capturing her fingers with his. “I’ll gloat just the right amount.”
“Marco still doesn’t see me,” she said. “He knows I’m a different person now, but he doesn’t know that person. And I don’t think he cares about getting to know her. You, on the other hand—” She lifted her gaze to his. “You begin figuring people out as soon as you meet them.”
“I try,” he said. “Although I was wrong about you at first.”
She nodded. “You thought I was a gold-digger, when I was really a blind, adoring groupie.”
“Good thing there’s a cure for blind, adoring groupies.”
“Yes, there is.” She kept her voice serious. “Heavy doses of a hot, entrancing brother.”
He laughed and pulled her back to him. “I’m happy to administer the cure.”
Chapter 21
On Thursday morning, the family had breakfast at Marco’s suite again. Belle felt oddly shy around Flynn, like a teenager on her first date. She told herself she shouldn’t feel insecure. After all, they’d already kissed more than once. They should be beyond first-date awkwardness.
But everything was different now. The first few times she’d kissed him, she’d thought she still had feelings for Marco and was attracted to Flynn just because he looked similar. Last night, she’d kissed him impulsively because she was mad at Marco and didn’t want to be in love with him anymore.
It had worked. Really well. Maybe too well. Now she felt smitten and bashful, and she cared whether Flynn had feelings for her in return.
As the family ate and talked, Belle’s gaze kept returning to him with boomerang-like frequency. He had feelings for her too, didn’t he? He must, or he wouldn’t have kissed her so many times.
And he wouldn’t keep looking over at her like he did.
Those looks made Belle so happy that she even went out of her way to be nice to Daisy, complimenting her on the omelets she’d made. As the meal went on, Belle tried to make small talk with her, a peace offering of sorts. Daisy would have none of it. She answered Belle’s questions in as few as words possible, adding nothing to the conversation in return. Then she would start a conversation with Marco and ignore Belle altogether.
Belle shouldn’t have cared, but she did. For years she hadn’t thought of Daisy without the pain of Marco coloring her memories. Now that weight wasn’t pressing on her anymore, and she remembered the good times she’d had with Daisy. The late-night milkshake runs during study sessions, their inside jokes, their talks about life when they were supposed to be sleeping. All of those things were gone, vanished because Belle hadn’t been able to forgive Daisy for being the one Marco loved.
The memory made her feel petty. She should have been bigger than that.
The family went to the Mayan ruins of El Rey and spent a couple of hours wandering through the gray pill
ars and tumbled-down stones. The day was hot and humid, a false summer nestled into February.
Flynn held her hand and helped her up the steps of an eroded pyramid. Belle wouldn’t have thought that going on a family outing would be romantic. But somehow it was. It was as though Flynn was showing her what she could have—acceptance into this noisy tribe, with nephews and nieces bustling with energy. Her mind kept drifting off to fanciful things like bridesmaids’ dresses in hues of the sky. Raleigh and Zoe would look adorable in flower-girl dresses of Caribbean blue organza and lace.
Belle really needed to get her imagination under control, rein in her feelings about Flynn. She wasn’t even sure what the two of them would be after they left Cancun. Did Flynn see her as a fling, someone to enjoy being with now, but wouldn’t think about later? Would she ever see him after this vacation?
Large gray iguanas were everywhere. A couple reclined in the path ahead, watching the group approach. When the children got close, the iguanas scuttled a few feet out of the way, mouths open so they looked like they were frowning in reproach.
Flynn gestured in the iguanas’ direction. “Those make New York’s pigeons look cute and cuddly, don’t they?”
“I like them. They have personality. And an interesting texture.” Really, Flynn was right about her and texture.
He laughed at her response. “So if I, say, showed up on your doorstep with an iguana as a gift, you’d be happy?”
She smiled at the implications of his question. “I hope you do.”
“Give you an iguana?”
“No, show up on my doorstep. You don’t need to bring an iguana.” She almost held her breath waiting for his reaction.
He grinned at her. “I think I can manage that. I enjoy visiting New York. And February in New York is always…”
“Cold?”
“I was going to say charming.”
“Right,” she said. “Charmingly cold. And I like visiting DC.”
He took her hand, and it felt real this time, a gesture of acceptance. She walked along the path, hardly paying attention to her surroundings. Flynn’s hand was warm and strong and holding hers.
How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 18