I nod. “Lunas are her favorite butterfly.”
“They’re moths,” he corrects.
“Right.” I twist my lips. “It’s a peace offering. She’s really pissed at me.”
He grins. “Don’t worry, I know Sofi well.”
How well? Jealousy creeps back into my veins. Has he fucked her? The question burns on my lips, but I bite my tongue as my nemesis starts ringing up the paint.
“Sofi doesn’t have it in her heart to hold grudges. She’ll get over it.” He rings up the last jar. “Besides, like I said, she’s hot for you.”
His words flit around my head while he bags the jars of paint. My butterfly sure has a weird way of showing her feelings. Maybe he’s just playing nice to me so I don’t hit him again. Suddenly, I remember the other reason I came here. Before Blickdick hands me the bag and receipt, I reach into the breast pocket of my jacket and retrieve a small unmarked box.
“This is for you.”
He glances up at me. “Huh?”
“Take it.” I hand it to him. “Open it.”
With a puzzled expression, the wiry store manager lifts off the lid. His eyes bug out. “Holy shit!”
It’s not my speeding ticket, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say I thought about giving it to him. Rather, it’s a five-thousand-dollar gift certificate to B&H Photo, the best and biggest camera store in the city . . . maybe the world.
“Sofi put you up to this?” he stammers, still unable to blink an eye.
“Nah. She has no clue.”
He’s speechless.
“It’s the least I could do for breaking your camera.”
His jaw drops to the floor; the poor kid’s in shock. “Man, I can’t take this.”
“Keep it. I want you to have it. Besides, it’s non-returnable and I have no need for it.”
“Wow!” says Vincent under his breath. “Thanks, bro. I thought you were an asshole, but you’re not.”
I chuckle. “I thought you were a dickhead, but you’re not.”
Vincent laughs too. “I still can’t believe this.”
“Buy yourself the best equipment possible. Everything you need.”
“I will.”
“I went on Instagram and checked out your photography. You’ve got real talent, Garcia.”
“Thanks,” he says humbly, handing me the bagful of green paint and my Visa.
“I’d like to work with you on my upcoming collection.”
Vincent’s eyes bug out again. “Seriously???”
“Come on. Do I look like a bullshitter?”
After a silent shake of his head, he meets my gaze with earnestness. “I’m not a bullshitter either. In case you’re wondering . . . I’ve never slept with Sofi.”
I believe him. A giddy mixture of relief and ecstasy floods me.
He throws the receipt into the bag. “Ro-man, she’s strong but fragile. Be gentle with her.”
I try to read into his words. Is he saying Sofi’s a virgin?
When the timing is right, I’m going to find out.
CHAPTER 26
Sofi
There must be something seriously wrong with me. Last night, I was distraught, never wanting to see him again, but this morning I wanted Roman to bang down the door. Barge into my room, swoop me up in his arms, and smother me with apologetic kisses. When the banging on the door ceased and I heard him storm off, I stayed in bed, trying to make sense of my conflicting emotions. I should hate him for how he behaved last night at Harper’s wedding. Instead, I crave him.
Finally, after one long confounded hour, I drag myself out of bed and take off the now creased dress and my stilettos. My blistered feet hurt but not as much as the memory of dancing with Roman in them. And the dazzling gown. The heartache I slept off returns. There’s no way I can face him; I’m going to stay in bed all day. Trading my lacy undergarments for my flannel pajamas, I’m about crawl back under the covers when my phone rings. Thinking it’s my parents—they generally call me every Sunday after church—and confident Roman isn’t here, I unlock my door and retrieve my purse and phone. The ringing stops before I can answer.
Now fully awake, I curl up on a small tufted chair and check all my emails, texts, and missed calls. Every one of them is from Harper. There’s got to be over a hundred. All of them basically the same.
Where are you?
What happened to you last night?
What’s going on?
Why aren’t you picking up?
CALL ME!
The phone rings again. Roman? Begging to see me? Begging for forgiveness? No, it’s persistent Harper and she wants to FaceTime me. Disappointed, I answer, setting the phone to the video chat feature.
Without as much as a “hi,” she goes straight into an endless show-and-tell about her honeymoon, gushing about the amazing hotel she’s staying at—the exclusive Four Seasons Ocean Club—and taunting me with breathtaking views of the sparkling sand and turquoise sea as well as a close-up of her three-hundred dollar red bikini. A wedding gift from some designer. My mind on Roman and last night’s disaster, I half-listen. She turns the camera on Derek, who, in his swim trunks, waves from a beach chair, sipping some tropical drink. We have a rule—no nudity or dick pics.
It’s always all about her. After a half hour of nonstop chatter, I finally manage to say something. Something that makes it seem like I’ve been all ears. “Sounds like you’re having a blast.”
“We are . . . Hey, what happened to you last night? I looked for you when I was about to throw my bouquet, but I didn’t see you anywhere.”
I falter for an excuse. “Um, uh, I must have been in the ladies’ room.”
She falls for it. “And who was that hot guy with the eye patch I saw you dancing with?”
I debate whether to tell her, but decide against it. “Um, I don’t know. Some random guest who asked me to dance. Is he a friend of your parents?”
“Never saw him in my life. And Derek didn’t recognize him either.” My pulse quickens, expecting her to ask about the brawl between Roman and Vincent, but she doesn’t. With her attention deficit disorder, my flighty social butterfly friend obviously didn’t spend much time watching us. Relief washes over me.
“Sofe, gotta go! Derek wants to go for a swim. Keep your phone on! I’ll call you later! And send you photos. Oh, and don’t worry, I promise no dick pics! Mwah!” She blows me a pouty kiss and ends the connection.
Immediately afterward, I get a text. It’s from Vincent. Poor Vincent. My chest tightens as my skin prickles with regret.
Vincent: Hi, Sofe.
Me: Sorry about last night!
Vincent: Don’t be. It’s ok. Your boss Roman came over and apologized.
My spirits brighten. I break into a smile. I had my doubts, but he did it! How I would have loved to have seen that! I reply with a smiley face emoji.
Vincent: He’s a really good guy.
Me: He is??
Vincent: Yeah, he gave me a $5000 gift card to my fave camera shop.
My eyes pop. My heart swells with happiness.
Me: Wow!
Vincent: Plus, he wants me to shoot his next collection!
My smile grows wider, my heart blossoming like a flower.
Me: That’s amazing!
Vincent: He’s a keeper.
Me: Huh?
Vincent: You’re going to end up together.
My heart stutters at his words. My fingers quiver.
Me: NAH! Plus, he’s too old.
Vincent: Bet you.
Me: Bet me what?
Vincent and I have a long history of making bets. So far, I’m ahead.
Vincent: Bet you if you do, I get to be best man and shoot the wedding.
The thought is unfathomable. Ludicrous! But just for fun, I agree to the bet.
Me: LOL! Deal!
Before I can ask what happens if I win the bet, Vincent tells me he’s got to go.
Vincent: Customer waiting! Luv you! Xo
I
set my phone down, my head in a whirl. I’ve underestimated Roman; he has a bigger heart than I thought. And I haven’t been honest with myself about my feelings. My telltale heart thuds against my chest, trying to send me a message.
My phone rings again. Hopeful it’s Roman, I glance at the screen. An unknown number. Maybe it’s a bill collector or some investigator calling about the fire. Hesitantly, I pick it up and hit answer.
“Hola, is this Sofi?” The melodic female voice is heavily accented.
“Yes.”
“Bueño. My name is Consuela Suarez, and I am the mamá of Mariposa, the little girl you met last night at the wedding. I got your number from the Plimpton family, whom I work for.”
I immediately relax. “She’s a darling little girl.”
“Gracias. Mí bebé cannot stop talking about you.”
“That’s so sweet. We really hit it off.”
“Hit it off?”
The charming woman makes me smile. “What I mean is that we really took a liking to one another.”
Consuela laughs. “Ah, sí!” There’s a smile in her voice. “I have a big favor to ask of you on short notice. Mariposa is off from school today, but I unexpectedly have to go into my office and cannot take care of her. Would it be possible for me to drop her off and you can watch her? I will be glad to pay you something.”
My heart warms. “I would love to. And you don’t have to pay me a cent.”
I give her the address.
Mari will be here in an hour. My breath hitches.
Maybe I should have asked Roman first.
Though it’s a Sunday, I’m downstairs in the atelier, seated at a drafting table and hand-painting butterflies on black silk moiré when Roman comes crashing through the door with a Blick bag in his hand. My heartbeat quickens at the sight of him, but as he strides my way, I cast my eyes back down. He’s hard to ignore because his virile presence is so palpable. Hot tingles dance between my thighs as his warm breath tickles my neck. He’s standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“I’m back,” he singsongs, imitating Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
I’m going to pretend like I don’t know what he did. Stay true to my word and give him the silent treatment.
“Aren’t you going to say hi or ask me what’s in the bag?” He teasingly dangles the bag in front of me.
My lips stay zipped. I laugh to myself. I’m having so much fun playing this little torture game.
“C’mon, Sofi. Give me a break.” Frustration is mounting in his voice. “I apologized to Vincent. He’s my new best friend. Talk to me.”
More of the silent treatment.
“C’mon. You’re killing me. A deal is a deal.”
Stifling a smile, I continue to fill in the wings of the butterfly I’ve designed. It’s an intricate green, yellow, and black Chimaera Birdwing that hails from the mountains of New Guinea. What I especially love about this butterfly is that its abdomen looks like it’s fourteen-karat gold. The metallic paint I bought will be perfect for it.
“That’s really beautiful,” comments Roman.
Silence. Not even a thank-you.
“What kind is it?”
Not telling. Guess. I carefully add a little more mustard yellow to the wings with one of my fine-tipped sable brushes.
“Sofi!” Roman’s voice rises with anger. “Am I going to have to spank you?”
My heart jumps and I almost drop my brush. I jerk my head around and meet his fiendish gaze. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Gotcha!” He bursts into thunderous laughter. “And yes, I would, but you spared yourself the pain.”
The beautiful asshole! I want to punch him. Yet oddly, the thought of being thrown over his knee and having his massive hand mark my bare cheeks turns me on. I feel myself heating with arousal. Roman continues to laugh so hard his eye tears.
“Fuck. It hurts to laugh.”
He rubs his shiner, and for the first time, I notice how bad it is. Deep purple and puffy.
“Oh God, Roman. Your eye! It looks terrible.”
“Not as bad as Garcia’s.”
His new name of endearment for Vincent. I can’t help but smile.
“I know what you did for him.”
“You do?” asks Roman, his laughter dying down.
“Yeah. He texted me. Roman, that was beyond.”
“Nah, it was nothing. Just what any good asshole would do.” He glances down at the bag. “Oh, and here’s a little peace offering for you.”
I take the bag from him and reach inside, sliding out one of the three dozen or so paint jars. It’s a gorgeous shade of my favorite color. Almost iridescent. Roman’s eye stays on me as I read the label.
“Oh my goodness! Luna Green! I can finally paint my favorite butterfly!”
“Moth! The color just came in. I bought out the entire stock.”
“Oh, Roman, I love it!” I leap up from my chair and fling my arms around him.
I love you.
Holy shit! Mental retake. Did I just say those three little words to myself? Reality hits me like a bolt of lightning. Every nerve in my body sizzles with electricity. Little fires are everywhere. I flush all over; my mouth goes dry. I’ve admitted it to myself, but can I admit it to him? Just in the nick of time, the intercom buzzes.
“I’ll get it,” says Roman. “I’m expecting a big shipment of fabric from Italy.”
I glance at the wall clock. It’s exactly eleven a.m. It must be my little bundle of joy.
“I’ll come with you, Roman. I’m expecting a package too.”
CHAPTER 27
Roman
“Who’s this?” I growl. It’s definitely not the UPS delivery guy at the door.
A pint-size girl with two long dark braids wraps her tiny arms around Sofi. A thirty-something coffee-skinned woman dressed in business attire, who looks to be her mother, is standing beside her and holding a small pink tote with lots of things inside it. A large teddy bear hangs out from the top of it.
The little girl clings to Sofi, and I notice she’s got some stupid fashion doll in one hand. My muse looks up at me as if a kid landing on my steps is an everyday occurrence.
“Roman, this is Mari. Short for Mariposa. I met her at the wedding last night and offered to watch her while her mom’s at work.”
“Muchas gracias,” says the woman with a smile. “I cannot thank you enough. Mari is so happy to be here with you.”
Jesus. The last thing I need in my life is some kid wreaking havoc in my studio. And with my life. My blood is simmering. Why the hell didn’t Sofi tell me about her? And why didn’t I ever tell her: No kids allowed!?
Letting go of Sofi, the little girl gazes up at me with her big brown eyes, zeroing in on my eye patch. “Mister, are you a pirate?”
While her mother gasps with mortification, my blood goes from simmering to boiling. “No, I’m not a pirate.”
“Then, how come you wear a patch like the Pirates of the Caribbean?”
Her embarrassed mother chimes in. “Mí chiquita, sometimes people have to wear a patch because they have an eye infection or injury.”
“Do you have an eye boo-boo?”
“Yes,” I bite out, getting antsy.
“What happened?”
I stiffen. I try hard to suppress the memory of that fatal day. Twice in twenty-four hours is too much to take. Sofi glances at me, holding her breath in anticipation. I’m not ready to tell her and maybe I never will be. I swallow back the pain.
“I can’t remember.” I don’t want to remember, but that day will never go away.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“What about your other owie?” She points at my shiner. “Does that hurt?”
“Yeah, it does.” And I’m going to give you a matching one if you don’t shut up.
Sensing my growing irritation and unease, Sofi introduces me. “Honey, this is my boss, Roman.”
“Do you make lots of money like my mama�
�s boss?”
“Mari!” chides her mother before Sofi steps in.
“Roman is a fashion designer. He makes pretty clothes.”
Her eyes light up. “Cool!”
“He made that dress I was wearing last night.”
“Ooh! That was the prettiest dress ever.”
Nice. She’s just earned a brownie point, but that doesn’t mean I like her. Or want her here.
Excitedly, she shows me her bigheaded doll whose skin, hair, and eye color match hers. “This is my Bratz doll. Her name is Yasmin. Can you make her a pretty dress like the one you made for Sofi?”
Sofi answers for me. “Roman can make anything.”
Thank fuck, the kid’s mother spares me from replying and tells us a few things about her daughter’s interests and food preferences. I half-listen while Sofi absorbs every detail.
“Señorita Sofi, I packed a few things for my niña.” The woman hands her the overstuffed pink bag. “You have my number if you need to reach me. I will be back at six to pick her up.”
Six! Is she fucking kidding? I do a mental calculation. Christ. That’s seven long hours I’m going to have to put up with this kid.
Kill me now.
CHAPTER 28
Sofi
What started out as an ugly, regrettable morning morphs into a beautiful, memorable day.
Mariposa with all her childhood innocence and spontaneity brings new energy into the studio. She is a ray of sunshine. A free spirit. Unencumbered by judgment or adversity. A little butterfly that Madame DuBois and the Romanoffs fawn all over. She’s also their little helper and mine, helping me paint butterflies while Madame DuBois takes time from her busy schedule to make a gown for her Bratz doll. Diligently stitching away.
I remember when those dolls first came out. I was about six or seven, and I recall being bombarded by commercials for them on Nickelodeon. The girls with a passion for fashion. Knocking big-boobed Barbie off her pedestal, they were all the rage. My mom even bought me one for Christmas. I think her name was Chloe, the blond-haired one. To be honest, I was never really into dolls. I was more of a tomboy who’d rather collect bugs, and already a budding artist, who wanted to paint. Yet, Mari’s girly behavior delights me to no end.
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