“Dammit, fine, but you stop staring at me as if we are an option. This?” he waves his hand between us, and my cheeks heat and embarrassment clogs my throat. “It’s not happening. You’re cute, and I’m sure you’re cool, but you’re not my type.”
“What? You like them easy?” I laugh, trying to dispel the awkwardness and save myself more embarrassment the only way I know how.
Blaze’s eyes harden, and he breathes deeply once before shaking his head.
“No, Evie, I like my women less obvious and slimmer.”
Okay. Well, I feel like a total asshole now as he just stares at me, seeming to now understand that he just insulted the hell out of me. So what if I’m obvious? Come on, I’ve had two boyfriends! Two, and trust me, they were not that great of a learning curve.
I can’t flirt. I have no game as they say, and my body, it’s all I have. I feel humiliated and ready to cry as my nose tingles, signaling just that.
“Well, sheesh, you can’t blame a girl for looking, can you? Thanks, I really needed you to call my ass fat because I’ve never heard that before. Whatever, Peters, just do what you need to do, and me? I’ll do what I can to get you on to those dazzling beauties.”
I rise and leave him alone without another word, ignoring his look and the way he goes to talk, to retreat to my bedroom.
Being rejected? Not great. Being rejected before my lame butt can even think to make a move? Well, damn, I guess white girls really don’t have game, huh?
***
The sun is just setting, and I’m deep in a new sketch when a knock at the door has me jumping. I ignore it, just as I’ve ignored his pacing past my door at odd parts of the day.
This is what I do when I feel bad about life, on those very rare occasions when my cup does not runneth over. I find that keeping at it not only helps eventually but also a lot of my best work has come from times like these.
Don’t mistake me or anything, and don’t go grabbing the hankies because you feel bad for me. I’ll survive him calling me ugly and fat and gauche, I will. I’m not quite pathetic enough to off myself over it. I did cry a little though, I shan’t lie lest I die a horrible death and burn in hell, but I’ve been okay so far, even ignoring my hunger because…yeah…apparently, my fat ass can stand to lose a pound or two.
I keep going, shading in the little bandeau top and pinstriped palazzo pants, making notes in the margins to keep track of the fabric I have in mind for this piece.
The door cracks open slowly, but I keep going, pretending to be absorbed in my work and not letting on that my earbuds are on low enough that I can hear.
Blaze just stands there, as if his mere presence—oh the great and shining light of it!—would attract my attention. I ignore him, keeping my breathing even, my hand movements smooth, as I finish off the shading and move on to the pants. My hand is so tremble free I really should thank Jericho big time for the techniques he taught me.
“I know you’ve noticed me, and I know your earbuds are on low. My hearing is good,” Blaze grumbles, finally forcing me to turn from my desk and look at him.
“Fine. May I help your royal holiness with something, or are you just here to insult me again? FYI, I’m just about full from people being assholes to me, so if you’re here to throw it on thick again, soldier man, you can just turn and leave. I’m all good right here.”
His face flinches—good, I hope you feel like crap—and he reddens, seeming to hesitate before coming deeper into the room, stopping a few feet away from me.
“Look, that came out all wrong.”
“Don’t lie now, Peters. You said it to make your point, and trust me, it’s made. I get it. I’m busy.”
I turn to go back to work only to freeze when his hand plants across the page and he leans over me, his chest just inches from my back.
“I was being an asshole, taking my mood about today out on you, and I’m sorry.”
Huh. That makes me feel so much better. Not. I’ve been here before, and I don’t care if it’s the anniversary of his mother’s death—God, please not that, you know how soft I am. The fact is that he was a jackass, and I do not want to talk to him beyond what I need to.
“Thanks.”
His hand moves, and I gasp when he spins my chair and forces me to face him, his face coming close as he bends over me, my head tilted back. I avoid eye contact as best I can and keep my expression calm, my eyes focused over his shoulder.
“Dammit, Evie, I said sorry.”
“And I said thanks. Now go away. I’m working, or did you want to stay around another day just for shits and giggles?”
I’m totes lying here. My stuff’s already done, just waiting for fittings and adjustments, but I’ll use anything I can to get him to fuck off since just having him here makes my lips long to tremble.
I have feeeeeelings *totally moaned in an agonized, raspy voice*
That means that I get hurt. And I have to say that despite my greatness and cool factor, which is through the charts, I am a crier. It’s a flaw God dealt me to give other humans a chance against me. I can’t help it.
“I caught my wife in bed with her boss on this day three years ago, and I’m having a bad day, okay.”
My heart just melts like an iceberg under a solar flare, and I look up into his eyes with a wince.
“That sucks, Peters.”
“Blaze, my name is Blaze.”
I can’t do the whole “let’s be friends” thing because the man does not want that, actually he wants no part of me if we’re being accurate—burn—and I told y’all I’s a crier.
I have those dreaded feeeeeelings, and they get hurt easily, something I won’t risk just because my lipsickles are hot for him. I’m attracted to him, way attracted, and chances are I will totally make a play for him. I just need some time to get over his words and find that half-full magnum of booze I know is lying around here somewhere.
The proverbial kind, of course, I am way too classy to buy my wine in magnums. Just eww.
“Er, cool, so could you maybe just keep yourself occupied while I work?”
I can feel his breath on my face, and it’s only making it harder not to look at him again, or ask about his wife—I’m also viciously curious. It’s not another flaw, but it gets me into heat at times.
“Evie.”
“Uh, maybe we should just stick to Evaline.”
“Dammit.”
“I’m working here.”
“You haven’t eaten all day. You need to take your pills. Jericho called and reminded me. You need to eat first.”
Screw the pills and the food.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit.”
“Let me rephrase, I will eat at my trough once you’re asleep, seeing as this fat pig is just so darned yucky to look at. Why, I can just imagine your face once I start shoving food—”
I’m cut off with a gasp when he throws me over his shoulder and storms to the kitchen, my yell of anger muffled by his back where I faceplant, unable to keep myself stable and keep my boobs out of my face.
Stupid, sexy boobs!
Blaze is barely winded when he tosses me onto a stool at the counter and shoves a plate of chicken and rice at me, his eyes burning.
“Eat.”
“Fuck off.”
“Goddammit, I apologized. I was out of line. I said something in anger because I was pissed that you manipulated Jericho so easily. I’m sorry.”
An idea forms, a tiny little spark of mischievous glee that I know is not a good idea at all. Too bad I’ve never been too bothered by the good at all since the bad is ever so much more interesting.
“I’ll accept your apology under once condition and one only: you tell me exactly what you see when you look at me, no bull or I go back to my room and you can kiss my grits, jarhead.”
His face, so hard already, turns to stone, and I feel an icy chill blast at me when his eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.
“You’re pretty.”
Liar! Your stomach devoured an organ about two hours ago, and you’ve been dizzy for the last hour.
I could eat a human limb right now...I’m that hungry, but I’d rather die in a diabetic coma from low blood sugar, or whatever, before I eat a morsel of his Judas food unless he tells it to me straight.
I may cry—prepare people—but I will walk out of here with my head held high. Even if I’m struggling to walk from lack of nourishment.
“Evie.”
“Look, Peters, I have always prided myself on my straight talking unless I’m getting ticketed, in which case I will lie like a pro and stock up on sunblock for my hell days. I find you sexy. You know that, you probably saw it when I opened the door. Am I going to attack you? Maybe, before you called me ugly—”
“I did no such Goddamn thing!” he roars, looking ready to snap his leash.
I shrug nonchalantly and purse my lips.
“Basically! I’m not slim, I’m gauche, and that is probably unattractive to you. I get it,” I say clearly, going to slide from my chair to walk past him.
Blaze grabs me instead, and I gasp in shock when he pins me between his body and the counter, his face hard and unyielding as he glares down at me.
I have the urge to lean up on my toes and kiss him, as crazy as that sounds, and just barely quell it before I land my ass on “kill yourself island.”
“You’re not fat! I didn’t… I just meant…dammit, I stick to vapid women with less curves because they’re easier to deal with, okay? I find you very attractive, Evie. What man wouldn’t after seeing you in that shirt this morning? But you’re a job, Jericho’s sister, and not at all my kind of woman. I won’t touch you.”
Is that a challenge I just heard from the ass? Honestly? As in you can’t have something because I deemed it so?
Now Jericho and I may not have grown up together and been all that close, but he and I share a certain trait that we can’t ignore or escape. We never back down from a dare and, as I see it, Blaze Peters just dared me to seduce him.
Hmm. Interesting.
“Okay, fine, apology accepted. Please just put me down. I’ll eat and get out of your hair for the rest of the night then,” I say, knowing full well that he’s not going to like it.
Guilt may be a shitty emotion for me to take advantage of right now, but as far as I see it, this guy might as well have a chipped “brain” for all the emotions he puts off.
I’ll use what I can and count myself lucky for the break. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, no, this is not about my liking him or wanting some emotion-fest to happen.
I simply want to show Mr. Army that I am not some little thing to be insulted, ignored, and bossed around. If we sleep together at some point, well, I can take one for the team and be a good wingwoman.
I ignore my inner snort and school my face as he lets me go, his hands gentle as he helps me slide into the chair. Eating like a human being when I’m so hungry that I want to faceplant in the plate and just gulp is difficult, but I reach deep for my inner lady—someone I hardly know—and take small, slow bites, controlling myself as blue eyes lock onto me.
“So, uh, design, huh?”
The look on his face as he attempts to pull me into conversation is so priceless I have to hold my breath to keep in my laughter. Watching men ask about fashion is like watching a dog eat lettuce. It’s painful, amusing, and you know off the bat the poor thing is struggling not to choke.
I decide to mess with him just because I can, and I smile—my best quality since it comes so easy and I don’t have to force it.
“Yep. Best part of my life,” I trill, as he clears the table and hands me a cup of coffee.
I’d prefer wine, but the moment I open my mouth, he gives me a look and I shrug, choosing my battles.
“What set you on that course?”
For some reason, I feel like he’s really interested in my answer, maybe not because he cares about clothes or anything, but because what I say to this question is pretty telling. He may think he sounds and looks casual, but I’ve pegged him.
Blaze wants to get to know me, if only to satisfy his curiosity, and he’ll do that even if I have to drone on and on about clothes. We’ll see.
“Well, I like clothes. They’re so versatile in many ways and not just to cover yourself or make a statement, you know? Yeah, I see that almost eyeroll, Peters, and I get ya. You think clothes are just functional, and you’re partly right, but they’re also tools.”
“Explain.”
“Okay. Well, take Geek for instance. We design and sell a few lines that are geared toward businesswomen. Now, I bet when you and every other man thinks of a businesswoman, you either see some bimbo in a tight, black skirt suit or a frazzle-haired frump with steel balls and a pinched mouth. For women in business, it’s hard to get men to see us as serious without thinking we’re lesbians.”
He chokes on his coffee, and I find myself grinning as I hand him a napkin to mop up the table.
“Uh—”
“Nah, don’t try to talk it away. I get it. If we’re not airheads, who slept our way to the top, then we’re cold-hearted nut busters with chips on our shoulders. That’s the propaganda about strong chicks at least. I created Geek to cater to women who work their asses off and need to be taken seriously without sacrificing their femininity in the process. This skirt I’m wearing? Look at the way it flows. You see gypsy or hippie, but when I do this”—I stand and cinch the waist using the wrap around belt—“and all the flow becomes a sleek fall of fabric.”
His eyes widen at the sight, and I see grudging respect light his eyes as he looks at me and takes in the new look.
“See? Sleeker without sacrificing the look. Now if I take off the headband.” I do it and use my hairpins to twist my hair into a tight knot and run to my room for a minute to get the matching high-collared button up I left out and some heels.
His mouth drops open when I saunter back in, his eyes taking it all in in silence.
“You look…”
“Completely different? I know. That’s what I wanted with this line. I wanted women to have the option of changing the look at the drop of a hat without losing the softness of the design. That way they can use what they have.”
“Tools,” he mutters, giving me a small smile.
I smile back and nod, glad that he gets it. I showed Jericho once, and you’d have sworn I was pulling out his fingernails with pliers the way he glared at me.
“Tools. This new line is all about the spring colors we missed out on when blue became the leading trend. It may not work, but I reckon I can at least try to honor the pinks and oranges that got tossed to the wayside. I like it.”
“I checked out your site and never saw this.”
“Did you go to the interactive catwalk? No? Well, it’s basically a model that walks and displays all of the clothes and shows the way they would drape on certain body types. Customers can shop and change and mix it up to choose a look they want.”
“Body types?”
“Peters, Peters, Peters, shame on you. No one woman is built like another. I should think you’d get that since you’re so hung up on shape. Hush, I’m not done. We don’t just design for rail-thin, athletic models, you know. Some women are top heavy and small on the bottom. Some are tall and thin, making pants sizing a nightmare. Some have big butts and no boobs.”
I feel a thrill when his eyes fall to my chest and seem to spark before he shuts it down and looks back at me with no expression.
“So, you make clothes for all women.”
“Bingo. Short, tall, slim, curvy, we get it all out there, and we never sell something we ourselves would not wear.” I grin, waving at my outfit.
“It looks good on you.”
“Hmm, thanks. You should see it on Kimber. Now that hottie can wear a pantsuit with flair. She’s tall and slim with a great rack and an ass I could balance a checkbook on.”
>
Bitch, I think affectionately, remembering the way she laughed when we tried on the same outfit and I almost attacked her for looking better. Just not fair. I got the boobs, butt, thighs…
Should I continue since Blaze has already pointed out that I’m on the curvier side of the spectrum?
“So…these meetings.”
“Are my break into the next level. We’ve got a good following with existing customers, and business is good, but we’re limited. For one thing, we haven’t had a show because, while we’re not broke, our clothes must remain affordable, and that means we aren’t rolling in the green all the time. Shows cost money; money I don’t have. My only option to get there is to brand our lines as all encompassing. If your average woman is wearing something that the richest woman finds appealing…”
“Ahh, so you’re trying to become exclusively unique by not being exclusive at all. Smart,” he says, his lips turning up.
“Thanks. It’s taken me a long time to get the boutiques to even give me their time. They don’t want to have to compete with the suppliers for sales, and for some reason, they think we’d shirk them to keep our own orders flowing. I called in a favor with a friend, who works as a buyer, and she got me a meeting with the owners of some great places. So, that’s me this week.”
Nervous. I get nervous and start sweating as soon as I say the words. I hate showing my designs because, yeah, I have an ego and hearing people tear apart my work is not something I look for. It’s necessary though and something I’ll have to get used to if I want to put on a show—something Kimber would crap herself over with delight.
To her, a show is the pinnacle, the thing that either makes you or breaks you. I disagree. It’s not as if we’ll be doing Fashion Week in Tennessee, so I don’t see what she’s so hot under the collar about, but hell, as long as I get to keep us both happy…
“You can’t reschedule?”
“Reschedule? Peters, I’ve waited three months for them to call me back and confirm. One place did that a month ago and then changed their minds only to call back again and put it back on. I cannot turn this down, and if I do, I won’t get another chance. This is it. It’s make-or-break time for me. So please, don’t think I’m being an asshole. I tried to explain this to you earlier and you snarled at me. If I don’t do this, I may as well kiss it all goodbye and settle in for mediocre online sales and bitching from Kimber when we don’t get a show next year.”
THE WATCHERS: 6 Military Romance Bundle Page 34