Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  I couldn’t help smiling. “It was nice of you to come by. Would you like a cup of coffee and the grand tour?”

  “Yes, I would.” Looking into my eyes, he smiled, and my heart did a little bounce. Stop it, I told myself. He’s off limits.

  I cleared my throat. “This is Maggie Andersen, my business manager and personal assistant.” She gave him a smile that really was no more than a tiny stretch of her thin, glossed lips. I couldn’t blame her. I’d been frantic since he’d had me served, and she was a very loyal person.

  He extended his hand. “Ms. Andersen.”

  She grudgingly shook his hand, then turned back to the spreadsheet on her computer monitor. Before he could peer at my private business, I took his arm and steered him away. “This is Adam Covarrubia, one of our top models.”

  Adam uncoiled himself from the armchair like a snake preparing to exit its lair, then stood to give Fletcher’s hand a limp shake.

  “Let’s get you your coffee now.” I led Wolf to the north side of the loft past my bookshelves. He paused to admire my collection, which included thick, colorful volumes of art and fashion photography, decks of tarot cards and other memorabilia. I can’t call myself a collector, but I do enjoy oddities. Like anthurium flowers.

  “You have some terrific books here.” Wolf pulled out a thick volume on the history of costume, idly flipping through the pages.

  “Thank you. I look through them when I need insight.” I walked toward a bank of windows set into the brick wall. Below it, a long table contained a motley assortment of mugs, as well as three glass coffee machines, one of which held steamy hot water. “Unleaded or regular?”

  “Caffeinated is fine.” Fletch sniffed. “Irish crème?”

  Was that contempt I heard in his voice? Why? “We take turns bringing coffees. This week Maggie brought flavored. I can live with it, though I usually stick to plain French roast. Want anything in it?”

  He shook his head. In the background, I heard Adam renewing his pitch to Maggie. I shut them out of my mind.

  “Let’s start the tour here. This is my loft. Maggie and I work up here, but my set-up really doesn’t differ much from any of the other designers, except for some of the computer equipment.”

  “Why does a fashion designer need a computer?”

  “A lot of them don’t use one. But after I create a design, I input it into the computers using a scanner. Any one of the designers can access it to make a floor sample, which they’ll then use to draw a pattern. After sewing a couple of test outfits, the patterns go to a factory to make the ready-to-wear clothes.”

  He looked confused, so I said, “The off-the-rack stuff. The clothes that go to Macy’s or wherever. As opposed to couture.”

  “What happens if someone wants a unique dress, something that you make personally and that no one else owns?”

  “That’s couture. Funny, Mr. Wolf, but I could have sworn last night that you had no interest whatsoever in couture.”

  “Ms. Fletcher. Cara.” He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. Not necessarily a smart move. His touch affected me as powerfully as the dreams last night. I didn’t feel the mythical electric zing that one finds in romance novels, but I did get a thrill. A definite thrill.

  I removed my hand.

  He continued, “For what I hope is the last time, I’m very, very sorry about last night, and I’m doing my best to make amends. We’ve really gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  I raised my brows. “Yes, Mr. Wolf. I would say that suing someone qualifies as getting off on the wrong foot.”

  “Look, I’m trying to do what we were ordered to do, which was find a way to settle this mess.”

  “You told me last night you didn’t think that was possible.”

  “I said a lot of stupid things last night. Can’t you just drop it?”

  He was gritting his teeth. That was bad, even though he was saying all the right words. Okay, so he was making an effort. If he could, so could I, but only because it might help the case, not because I liked or trusted him.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll try. I’m sorry, but I’m really not at my best this morning. Shall we continue?”

  He appeared to relax a bit. “Please. Would you be offended if I asked you why your workshop is in such an unusual neighborhood? I thought designers clustered around Seventh Avenue.”

  I grimaced. My workshop was located in a renovated brick warehouse in what could politely be called an “iffy” part of town, an area where no one should venture after darkness fell. Hell, you could run into problems during daytime, for that matter. I kept my atelier immaculate inside and out, never allowing graffiti to mar its walls. Instead, “Cara Fletcher Couture” was painted outside in ten-foot-high letters. A security system protected all the equipment, fabrics, and clothes inside.

  “I’m not at all offended,” I said. “My workshop is here as a cost-cutting measure. I rent a small showroom in the garment center on Seventh along with other couturiers, but the work gets done here.” I gestured toward the lower floor, noticing that Maggie was leaving with Adam, way before her regular lunchtime.

  I was dismayed. I might need her as a buffer between me and the Wolf. “Hey, Maggie. Where are you going?”

  Maggie turned and looked up at me. Her expression hardened as her gaze passed to Fletcher Wolf. Whoa. She really had taken a dislike to the guy. “Adam and I are eating lunch early today.”

  Given her attitude, I said, “Okay, fine. Let’s review the press list again when you return.” Smiling at Fletch, I waved a hand at the staircase. “Shall we?”

  “Press list?” he asked.

  “Yes. My April show is in just a few weeks.”

  “Aha. May I attend? And my mother would love it.”

  “Really?” I paused at the top of the stairs.

  “Yes, she’s a fan of the Seventh Avenue crowd. She told me that suing you would be a big mistake. I still don’t dare tell her that I actually filed.”

  “I’m with your mom. You are making a big mistake. Both of us know I have every right to use my own name.”

  He sighed. “The issue isn’t Fletcher. The issue is Fletcher’s Gear. Unless your attorney is blatantly incompetent—and she’s not—you must know about our gearshifts.”

  “I’ve told you that only an idiot could mix up clothes and tools.” I trotted down the stairs. “Why are we even discussing this? We get along so well if we ignore the horrible reason we met.”

  “That’s true.”

  Score one for the good guys, I thought. Maybe being nice to the Wolf will get him off my back.

  On the floor below, I stopped at a dressmaker’s dummy draped with canary yellow silk. The seamstress seated next to the mannequin set small, perfect stitches in the fabric’s fluttery edges, embroidering a leaf-and-vine pattern in turquoise, violet, and emerald, following a drawing on her table.

  “This is Esme. She’s from Pakistan.” I smiled her as her tiny, gnarled hands moved with a sureness and speed at odds with her aged appearance. Esme lifted her head from her work and smiled back. I turned to Fletcher. “Esme is my ace in the hole. No one can embroider like her. Craftsmanship like hers doesn’t exist any more. This is part of the value of couture, Mr. Wolf. Arts like Esme’s would die out because there are very few people who can afford handmade clothing like the dresses we make. Couture keeps this craft alive.”

  “Who drew this pattern?” He gestured at the paper on Esme’s table. “It’s fantastic.”

  I tried not to preen. “I did. These are all my designs.” I moved along to another worker.

  He followed me over to another dummy, where Santo seemed to be having some issues with the fabric I’d picked. He had potential, but he needed more grounding in the basics. Like how to handle different materials.

  “What’s this?” Fletcher asked.

  “Santo is creating a prototype of one of the jackets in your favorite line of clothing, Fletcher’s Gear. How’s it going, dude?”

  �
��Not so good,” Santo replied. “I can’t get this wool to drape properly.”

  “This looks like an expensive fabric, Cara,” Fletcher said.

  “Oh, it is. A good gabardine can cost thirty dollars per yard, or more, if manufactured to designer specifications.” I twitched the fabric so it lay smoothly across the dummy’s “chest.”

  “Why are you using something so costly for a prototype?”

  “It’s true that other designers use muslin for samples,” I said. “But I believe that’s a false economy. Muslin drapes differently than any other fabric. I want a prototype to tell me if an outfit’s gonna work. If it isn’t in the right fabric, how can I assess appearance and performance?”

  ~*~

  The wolf was in the fold, and I tried my best to be cordial while limiting my statements and hiding my nerves. Plus, I was terrified that I’d lapse into a panic attack. Why had Maggie deserted me? I needed her. After last night, I was exhausted and mentally limp. My brain felt like lettuce left too long in the crisper.

  Worse, the man could charm Little Red Riding Hood right into Grandma’s bed. After less than a half-hour, Fletcher Wolf had seen every corner of my atelier, chatted with the staff, snagged two tickets to the show and had gotten everyone to fall in love with him. The women, and some of the men, looked at him as though they wanted to eat him up for dinner.

  Including me. As Fletcher left, he took my hand and gazed into my eyes with those unfathomable orbs. My body started to melt, and I hoped my hand didn’t tremble in his. Every time I looked at him, dammit, I remembered the seductive brush of his lips over my cheek, that almost-kiss, to say nothing of the vivid dreams that had lit up my night.

  “I’ll instruct my attorney to get a continuance. No need to rush to judgment, is there?”

  “Oh, no,” I said gratefully, glad I’d been friendly to the Wolf. The longer I could put off the litigation, the more chance I’d have to pay off my debts and gather a war chest to pay AnnMarie’s costs for the upcoming legal battle. I didn’t want to take advantage of our friendship, but even with discounts, the case would inevitably get expensive.

  “Come to Wilmington and see my corporate headquarters sometime.” He smiled. “I’d like to show you my...tools.”

  “You want me to check out your tool?” Giddy with joy, I gave him a wink and a grin. This case might not gut my business after all. “I’d be happy to.”

  Chapter 5

  The Cloisters, New York Metropolitan Museum of Art

  “People, listen up!” Windmilling my arms, I tried to calm the tumult in the Cuxa Cloister. The normally placid garden, surrounded by medieval colonnades, was a maelstrom of color, light, and movement caused by gesticulating figures dressed in elaborate couture. Racks of clothing competed for space with make-up artists, hair stylists, dressers, and fancifully attired models in silk and sequins. And everyone chattered at once.

  I climbed up onto the central fountain’s wide rim, teetering. I’d again worn stiletto heels, but this time, they were on killer thigh-high leather boots. In keeping with the setting and the eclectic themes of the show, I also wore tights, a parti-colored leather tabard that just skimmed my butt, and had dyed my hair black and red, the striking style that had first caught Fletcher Wolf’s attention. “Hel-lo!” I called to the models.

  The crowd noise didn’t diminish a hair. I clapped several times, cupping my palms to increase the decibel level. A score of well-coiffed heads finally turned toward me as the horde quieted.

  “Thank you in advance for your work today,” I said, aware that models, unless they were stars like Gisele, Kate or the Covarrubias, were often handled like meat, so I always made a point of treating them with extra courtesy. “Our guests will arrive soon for the show. Please be quiet and respect the surroundings. This is a museum, and we’re lucky to be here.”

  “We pulled every string to get even two rooms,” Maggie told everyone. “Usually the Met only rents to its own corporate members for business events.”

  “So look hot, be good, and let’s have a great show!” I jumped off the fountain.

  “How’d you get the space, Cara?” The question came from the male model I’d hired for the Fletcher’s Gear print and T.V. ads.

  “My loan officer at First National helped. I told him if the show was a washout, I couldn’t repay the loan.” I grinned, cheeky on the outside, scared within.

  “Yeah, and it’s not far from the truth,” Maggie muttered into my ear.

  “Thanks for reminding me.” My smile twisted into a grimace. The seven-figure loan, borrowed to finance my foray into ready-to-wear, had radically overextended Cara Fletcher Couture. My fall collection had to be a hit. This show cost a bundle, and if the orders didn’t come in, my financial house of cards would crash and burn. Plus, the Fletcher Wolf situation made everything worse. Knowing he was in the audience today made my stress level shoot to the stratosphere.

  I flexed my taut muscles. Boulders in my shoulders yet again? A veteran of six couture shows since I’d opened my atelier, I ought to be used to the pressure. Instead, I was impossibly tense. When would I learn to handle this anxiety? Maybe I needed another Xanax.

  “Is everyone here?” I asked Maggie.

  She flipped through a clipboard fat with notes. “Um, the Covarrubias are late.”

  Frustrated, I ground my teeth. “You know, sometimes those two are more trouble than they’re worth. Did you hear about the stunt they pulled last week?”

  “No. What now?” Her expression was guarded.

  “Andrea shot up some bad smack and had to go to the hospital. She claimed later it was something she ate.”

  “It’s still early. Maybe they’re sleeping in.”

  “Oh, please. At two in the afternoon?”

  “Face it, hon. They’re the hottest models in the world, and right now, you need them.”

  That’s what irritated me so much. Despite the rumors swirling around them, the Covarrubia twins, at the ripe old age of twenty, were the current spoiled darlings of the smart set, at least in the narrow world of high fashion. Alienating top models and their agent wasn’t a recipe for success, so I’d hired Adam and Andrea for the runway show against my better judgment.

  A burst of giggles erupted from the swarm of children dressed in Cara’s Kidstuff. They surrounded Natalie and a classmate, who practiced their handsprings and cartwheels up and down the graveled walkways. I sucked in a tense breath as the kids barely missed bashing their brains out on the stonework. Outflung arms and legs whirled close—too close—to the expensive clothes sported by the chic, sleek models.

  I grabbed Natalie by the arm. “Hey, remember our deal. No cartwheels in the Cloisters.”

  “Mom, don’t be a jerk!” She wrenched away.

  “What did you just call me?” My voice rose.

  “Aw, jeez.” Her voice rose to a whine. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

  I laughed to myself, hugged her, then leaned in close to give her a big smacky one.

  “Mo-om!”

  “Come with me, sweetheart. You can be my little helper.”

  “Your ‘little helper?’ What am I, one of Santa’s elves?” She rolled her eyes but followed to watch the final check of clothes and hair.

  Chuckling, I stopped by a rack of outfits in the west arcade to say hello to Ella Langer, a plus-size model with plus-size blonde hair and a plus-size Texas twang.

  “Honey, this suit is a masterpiece. Every size eighteen businesswoman in Manhattan is gonna want one.” She fingered the lapels of the surplice jacket she wore.

  “Have you tried the evening outfit?” I asked.

  “The one with the palazzo pants?”

  “Yep. The layered silk georgette.”

  “Makes me feel nekkid and sexy. I want it!”

  I smiled. “I hope everyone wants one, sweetie.” Eyeing her hair, I whipped out a rat-tail comb from my leather satchel and poked the long plastic end through her bangs, lifting them a tad, then
nodded. “You’re glorious, darling, an asset to this show.”

  She grinned. “We’ll make you proud, babe.”

  I continued down the disordered maze of clothing racks and personnel, checking each model’s hair, make-up and outfit. Nat wandered behind watching and, I hoped, absorbing. I didn’t particularly want my daughter to become obsessed by the rag trade, but she needed to develop interests which would take her mind off her father’s betrayal. She was doing well, but every little bit helped. All females love clothes... It doesn’t matter how old or young they are! I thought, watching Nat stroke a satin evening gown.

  As I adjusted the fit of a model’s gabardine coat-dress, someone tugged at my leather tabard.

  “Hey there, Cara baby,” a male voice with a thick Jersey accent crooned.

  “Don’t look now, but it’s Adam and Evil,” Natalie murmured into my ear.

  I beetled my brows at her before confronting Adam Covarrubia and his sister Andrea. Both models looked even more disreputable than usual. Identical bird’s-nests of midnight hair surmounted chalky skin. Enormous waif-like eyes, dark and rimmed with smudged kohl, peered blearily at me, the Cloisters, and the other models, as though they’d just dropped in from outer space and didn’t know quite where they were or what they were doing. Taking yesteryear’s Goth look to an extreme, both Covarrubias wore unrelenting black: leather motorcycle jackets, jeans, and boots. I inhaled the miasma of stale cigarette smoke surrounding them, wrinkling my nose. Never again, I thought. I don’t care what Maggie wants. Never again.

  “Just where have you been?” I asked. “We’re ready to go.”

  Adam pouted, his Jersey accent taking on a resentful whine. “You told my agent that I got the wrong look for Fletcher’s Gear. I didn’t think you needed us until later.”

  “You were supposed to be here at two. I’m paying you for your time as of right now, not forty minutes ago. Please get cleaned up and dressed. The rest of the men are in that corner, behind the tapestry.” I pointed. “Get that garbage off your face, comb your hair and get into a tux, pronto. Andrea, come with me.”