Her legs curled into his, silk into rough, her hands stroked his chest, soft and small, her hair fell over his shoulder, and this time, she didn’t brush it away. He loved the feel of her hair, her hands on his shoulders, her bare skin against his.
He wasn’t a man who stayed for days in bed, but here, with her…he could stay in bed for a lifetime.
When she was here, when they were together, sleeping, talking, making love, everything was at peace. Everything slowed down, and the world felt like such a safe, marvelous place. He liked the peace, he liked the way the anger disappeared, the way happiness stirred.
Ashley was not a woman you doubted. When she loved, he knew it, the world knew it. It was there in her face, her movements, the way she touched him, the way she loved him. It wasn’t that David had gone seeking that sort of love, it wasn’t that he even thought he required it, but there was something so easy about it.
So simple, so peaceful.
Come to New York. Stay here.
She turned her head and he stroked her lips with a gentle finger. “Come to New York. Stay in New York, Ashley.”
Her smile was everything he needed. The light in her dark eyes gave him hope. “It sounds like a lot of fun. And think of all that flying I wouldn’t have to do.”
Already his mind was jumping to the next part of the plan. “We’d set you up with a boutique in…I don’t know, Brooklyn or the Lower East Side, maybe. Soho or the Village, the rent would be nuts, so I wouldn’t do four. Start small, work your way out.”
“You’ve thought about this?” she asked.
“Yeah.” And he had. It had been bubbling in the back of his mind. He had their life completely mapped out. This could work.
“What about Ashley’s Closet?”
“Sell ’em.”
She rolled her eyes. “After all this work? Are you crazy?”
“I guess so.” He wasn’t crazy. He was happy. He was in love.
“You’re not crazy. If things were better, I would do it,” she said, curling toward him. He could feel the warm weight of her breasts, the gentle slide of her thigh against his own, almost distracting him from his perfect idea, but not quite.
“You would?”
“I would,” she told him.
That was all he needed to hear. “So do it. Now that you say it, it doesn’t sound so crazy.”
“I can’t leave Chicago. You come there.”
Chicago? “I did sort of consider it, but I live in New York, the financial and fashion capital of the world, home to the New York Yankees, which you could eventually grow to love. It’s like God planting a sign. David and Ashley belong here. I don’t believe in signs, but Ashley, sometimes it’s stupid not to see the obvious.”
“Don’t do this to me, David.” Her smile dimmed and she shifted, not much, but enough that their bodies were no longer touching.
This time he didn’t try and pull her back. There were fights he could win, and some that he couldn’t. “How long do we stay like this? Forever?”
“No.”
“Then what do we do? What are we supposed to do?”
“Come to Chicago.”
He gave her a hard look. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“No. I’ll figure out something,” she said, and it disappointed him that she couldn’t see the truth in the matter. She wanted the world to be one way, and it wasn’t. The world didn’t bend to you; you had to bend the world.
“No, you won’t,” he told her, wishing that just once he could be smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not smart enough?”
Frustrated, he rubbed his eyes, not liking the hurt in her own. “You can’t leave your sister. She’s thirty years old. You can’t mother her your entire life.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered, and her voice was so sad, so sorrowful that this time he did pull her close.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just want you here with me. All of the time. Or even most of the time. I’m tired of sleeping alone. I’m tired of eating alone. I now hate my cell phone because the reception is never good enough to touch, and thankfully jacking off doesn’t cause blindness because I’d be pulling disability if it did. I love you, Ash. I thought I could do this. I didn’t think I’d fall in love.”
Her mouth pressed against his. “I know.”
“Come live with me and be my love,” he whispered. It was his last, best shot.
“Let me think about it,” she said, and then he covered her, sliding into sex, and he loved her as if this was forever. But it wasn’t. It was only one night.
In the morning, the sun rose, the alarm clocked blared and Ashley took off on a plane for Chicago. After she was gone, David looked up at the bright golden sky, and wondered how one night could seem so damn short.
15
LABOR DAY weekend was the ultimate shopping holiday in the fashion business. Friday, the fun and breezy spring fashions reigned supreme. Come Monday, the darker, more somber styles of the fall season had taken over. Ashley hated Labor Day, hated all the rigid rules that dominated a business that proclaimed in a very cosmopolitan accent that it was free of rules and lovingly dwelled in organic chaos.
Never trust a fashionista.
However, it was the number one weekend for people to peruse the racks, the number one weekend for people to consider what the new world of style should look like, and ergo, it was the perfect weekend for the Next Big Look for Chicago.
The night before, she hadn’t slept, spending the hours alternately stressing between whether anyone would show up—or even care—and then praying that David’s plane wouldn’t be late, since today of all days, she didn’t want him to be late.
There had been a live segment on Chicago This Morning—Friday Edition, in which Ashley was interviewed before the entire hypercritical Chicago metropolis, or at least that’s what it felt like. It had gone well, except for the one moment when she fumbled with an extra “err,” the ultimate media don’t, but she had recovered nicely.
Val had been a trooper, possibly—probably—feeling guilty, but whatever the motivation, Ashley welcomed the help. Even their Mom and Brianna had been there, shoving banquet tables right and then left, then back to right. Three generations of Larsen women doing what they did best—undeciding.
The designers were there at the State Street location of Ashley’s Closet. Enrique in a Haight-Ashbury, clubbish look of black leather paired with a silver paisley vest. Mariah had chosen a beautiful rose-organza skirt and Christian Louboutin heels that made her tower over most everyone, and Horatio had chosen a staid black tux, with dark tortoiseshell nerd glasses, complete with a cigar that he used like a conductor’s wand, pointing and directing and condemning at will.
Now this was organized chaos.
Ashley, on the other hand, was a disorganized mess.
At 10:00 a.m., Christine McLean McLean, aka the bitch, showed up. Sadly, she wasn’t there to gloat, she was only being sweet and supportive, which only made Ashley—who was a wreck—hate her more.
Ashley dodged the caterers who were setting up the warming trays, and casually, carefully introduced Christine to Val, which was like introducing Bonnie to Clyde, Thelma to Louise, and Leopold to Loeb.
Brianna, the little traitor, was entranced by Christine’s matching hair barrettes and shoes. “That is awesome. Are they fuchsia?”
Christine preened. “Why, yes, what a clever child,” she said with a mother-to-be stroke of her still skinny—hate you, hate you—womb.
“You’re expecting?” asked Val, and suddenly there were the likes of Thelma and Louise discussing the ins and outs of morning sickness, at which point, Ashley left for the storeroom where she threw back a couple of antacid tablets to calm her stomach.
She was there for half an hour when Val arrived and sat down on a stack of boxes. “So, that’s David’s ex, eh?”
Ashley held up the tag gun and smiled. “Yes.”
“You s
hould have told me, Ash.”
There were so many sins of omission that Ashley had failed to mention that she wasn’t sure exactly what Val was referring to. “Yes, I’m sure I should have,” she said, pricing with nervy restraint.
“He’s not Chicago stock. What are you doing?”
Ah, yes. The big sin of omission. Ashley put down her tag gun and pulled out a box of sweaters. Quickly she folded them, face down, arms across, one side to the middle, other side to the middle, and voila, everything meets happily in the middle. “I’m not doing anything, Val. Everything is fine. Don’t worry.”
“She’s his ex?”
“Yeah.”
“Divorced men. There’s gotta be something wrong.”
“I’m divorced, Val.”
“I rest my case.” And then she grinned, no harm, no foul. “You know I’m kidding. But seriously, I mean, how well do you know this guy. Just met him, and he’s sending you TVs and stuff.”
Ashley took a deep, calming breathing, feeling the bubble-gum taste of the medicine coat and soothe her stomach. She picked up her tagging gun once again. There was nothing left to price, but she needed the feel of it in her hands nonetheless. “I’ve been seeing him for a while,” she told her sister with easy casualness that she couldn’t believe she’d managed to pull off.
Val’s eyes sharpened because Ashley’s sister was no fool. Yes, they loved to live in denial, but deep inside, nothing got past them. “How long’s that?”
“Since April. We don’t get to see each other that often, but we meet up. Chicago, Miami, sometimes New York. It works.”
“But you can’t build a permanent relationship like that. You’re thirty-two, Ash. Now, that’s not old, but let’s say you stick with him for another four years, because you know that women stay in these relationships that aren’t good for them for a long, long time. Then, after four years, he runs off and marries his hot, twentysomething secretary. There you are, now thirty-six, and officially S.O.L. Statistically, do you know what your chances are? Go out and get hit by lightning, why don’t you?”
Ashley put the gun down and chose her words carefully. “Val, don’t.” Short, but effective.
“Look. I love you. You’re my big sis, and you’re the smart one. Usually. But this time…Seriously, it’s a recipe for disaster, and I say that as someone who has written many disasters all her own.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of this, Val. Not today. Not now.”
Val sighed, and not in a good way. “Okay. Go ahead, wet your proverbial whistle, have a fun time. I’ll be there when you need me, Ash. And you will need me.”
Ashley managed a pained smile. “I know.”
THE SHOW WAS scheduled to start at two, it was noon, the store was starting to fill, and there was still no sign of David. It was official. Ashley was panicked. Christine, bless her heart, was greeting everyone. Enrique and Horatio were stalking around each other’s still boxed-up clothes with a disdainful sneer.
Ashley had hired four models for the day, and they swooshed in with both style, grace and those huge dark sunglasses that were perfect for covering up last night’s excesses. Not that she was being catty—oh, God, she was being catty—but honestly, where was David?
In the back, Ashley had marked off a curtained area where each designer could work with their models in secrecy—Horatio had insisted, Ashley didn’t care. As each went to their respective corner, Ashley went back into the tiny storeroom and tried to find the voting ballots where each customer could pick their favorite within the categories. She pulled out empty box after empty box, when she felt a familiar, bold, yet comforting hand on her rear.
She knew that hand, she knew that smell, she knew that man.
David.
Ashley turned and clung to him with all the neediness of a woman who had officially given up a lot of phobias in the last four months, but was still, in the deepest parts of her heart, terrified.
His arms came round her, his mouth found hers, and she forgot about the scary parts. After a good, blood-pumping interval, she pulled up to breathe.
Man, he looked good. Edible. He’d ditched his khakis and Brooks Brothers shirt for something a little…dare she say it? Dashing? The jacket was a slouchy, soft, tweedy brown-green that perfectly brought out the earthy tones in his eyes. Underneath he had picked a sexy ivory fitted poet shirt sans collar that was unbuttoned casually low, displaying an eye-catching hint of chest, a finger-tempting splash of chest hair. It was entirely too sexy, entirely too strategically packaged, and she knew without a doubt that someone else had picked it out for him. But the pièce d’résistance? The traditional David McLean jeans—well fitted, well-worn, well filled.
“Someone went shopping.”
“You don’t like it, do you? It’s too artsy, isn’t it? I told the guy, give me a suit, something nice, but he said that nobody went to a fashion show in a suit. I told him he was wrong.”
“He wasn’t wrong, David. You look awesome. Tasty, even, and I’m saying that not only as the woman who wants to bed you, but a fashion professional as well.”
He grinned, glanced over her deceptively simple little black dress with its come-hither neckline and heels to match. “Listen to you, sexy shop owner. And did you see all the people out there?”
All those people. Hungry people. Thirsty people. “Have the caterers started to serve yet? It’s a mess. The press is pouring through the door, and I have no champagne. Do you know what a show is without champagne? It’s a dry heave, that’s what it is. It’s worse than a dry heave. Gawd, this is going to be a bust.”
He rubbed her icy-cold hands with his. “Hello, Ashley. You’re going to do fine.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t think I’d be this nervous.”
“You can show me exactly how glad, unless I’m interrupting your regularly scheduled crisis already in progress?”
Temptation was never easy to resist. Ashley didn’t even try.
She tugged at his jacket and ran her fingers up over the tweed, loving the texture of fabric and well-muscled man. Then his mouth was on hers, the taste of mint and coffee and lust…much lust. Much unslaked lust. Her hands lowered to his waist, finding the back pockets of his jeans. Digging her fingers in his pockets, she felt the muscles clench under her hands.
“Oh, damn, Ash. Don’t seduce me now.”
“It’s the nerves,” she whispered against his mouth.
He pulled free. “Oh, honey, I love your nerves. I love your breasts….” She ground her hips against him, and he stopped fighting the inevitable. His hands searched under her skirt. “Wow, you are soaked. Two minutes. That’s all we need.”
He pushed a finger inside her and her heart nearly exploded.
“And you must be David. Nice to meet you.”
At Val’s voice, Ashley’s heart did explode. She jumped back, David jumped back, and there stood Val, eyeing him curiously.
Okay, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. “David, this is my sister. Val.”
Politely he held out his hand, shook hers and look at that…It was like nothing. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt, but the champagne is here. They need to know whether to open it now, or wait until the winners are announced.”
Damn. Ashley stared at Val. “Are you okay?”
Val waved a hand. “I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like she’s falling apart.”
Ashley smoothed her hair, and glanced at David.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
Val smiled at him. “We’ve got it under control. Kick back. Look pretty.”
Ashley shot David another look because sometimes Val didn’t say exactly the right thing, but then, sometimes David didn’t say exactly the right thing, either. Maybe he didn’t notice.
His smile turned a little tighter, and his jaw clenched.
It was going to be a long, long day.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” Ashley paused for dramatic e
ffect. “The winner of Chicago’s Next Big Look is…Horatio Moore.”
Horatio whooped and Enrique glowered, and Mariah’s face fell a little, as the cameras flashed and captured the moment for all eternity. Poor girl, but Ashley wasn’t worried for Mariah. She’d seen the offers to manufacture all three of the designers’ entries, and today there were no losers.
Nope. Not a one. She examined the store, noted the packed crowd, noted the continuous tap of the cash register and grinned happily.
“Ladies, can you bring those gorgeous looks out one last time?” And the models appeared wearing the cocktail dresses. Personally, Ashley loved Mariah’s the best, a neon-blue silk with a fitted waist and a pouf flounce at the knee. But as much as she loved the blue silk, she could see why Horatio won.
The black dress had beautiful beadwork not seen since the ’20s. It didn’t have the sleek lines of Mariah’s, instead it was a graceful drape that forgave many flaws and made every woman look beautiful. In short, it was the perfect dress for the not-so-confident woman.
As for Enrique, he had designed a hideous concoction of red poppies gracing yellow fabric, and it looked more like a two-year-olds’ crayon drawing than a dress you wanted to wear for a night on the town, but still there were people wanting to buy from the New York designer. Somehow, between the three, she had found the exact perfect mix.
She, Ashley Larsen.
After two hours of hand-shaking and smiling, and photo ops and answering questions, and another fifteen minutes of soothing Enrique and bolstering Mariah, the sun began to set, the store cleared out, the caterers cleaned up, and Ashley congratulated her four managers on a job well done.
It was over.
Now all she had to do was keep peace between her mother, her niece, her sister, and the man she loved. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Ha. A piece of cake.
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