Sophia snapped a look up at him, a new resolve—absent a smile—on her face. "Ready."
"Badges?"
Sophia lifted hers for the guard's inspection. "He's with me," she added.
The security guard stationed at the entrance held firm. "No one gets in without a badge."
"But he's here to help me with my booth. I'm sorry. I don't have a badge for him."
The guard shook his head
Christian said, "Go in and find Meg. I am confident that when you two put your heads together, you'll figure out what to do—even if that's nothing at all." He pulled out his phone. "I know you're not sure yet if you're speaking to me, but I'm sending you my hotel information right now anyway. Call me later."
He was right. She wasn't speaking to him yet, exactly. Though she could not deny the thought that running into him on a crowded sidewalk in the City had to have been some kind of divine setup. He was right in another respect too—this was not his battle to fight. She, with Meg's help, needed to huddle together and think this new development through.
Sophia stepped back inside and into the maze. The bustle of people had grown into a throng. She realized that getting out into the fresh, though humid, air had helped her step back in here with new perspective. Maybe ... maybe the discovery was for the best. At least she knew what she was up against. It was just a dress, she reminded herself. She had buried it once, along with a memory that should have stayed covered, so perhaps this moment in time would serve as its last hurrah. The simple, colorful dress that had drawn her stepfather's ire for reasons she would never know had now been knocked off. So, in a way, it could no longer be attached to her, like a weight that continually dragged her down.
Sophia turned the corner, fully expecting a heavy weight to drift from her shoulders when she again took in the view of what, for all intents and purposes, was her dress—in someone else's display.
Of course the very first person she saw when she stepped into view of the offending display was Meg. Fuming mad Meg.
"Where've you been?"
She cringed. She had made her sister-in-law angry and inwardly started to curse herself for the way she'd run off without telling a soul, but then she heard Christian's voice in her head. "Don't talk to yourself that way, Sophia!" So, instead, she simply said, "I needed a walk. I'm sorry I upset you."
Meg pressed her lips together in a sort of frown. "You didn't upset me. I knew you had gone for a walk."
"Oh. Then why the fury toward me now?"
Meg stole a look behind herself and then grabbed her by the arm, pulling her close enough that she could hiss in her ear. "I think someone has copied your design. I'm so sorry."
"I know."
"What? You know? How ...?"
"I saw it when I was leaving for my walk."
"And you didn't come right over and tell me? Sophia! We need to strategize about this."
Sophia exhaled and rolled her shoulders. "I don't know what we can do. It's difficult to prove that something's been knocked off. They only need to make three differences in their design to make it their own—in a court's eyes, anyway—and those could be simple things."
Meg blinked her eyes several times, her nearly black eyelashes beginning to shimmer. "I hate this."
"Doors will be opening to buyers in an hour. There is nothing more we can do."
Meg straightened, an almost-sinister glint to her eyes. "Oh yes, there is!"
"You're scaring me ... a little."
Her sister-in-law grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the space they had set up with all of their samples. Meg thumbed through the rack of dresses and plucked out the raspberry dress.
Sophia shook her head. "No, no, that doesn't go there. Remember? That's the original dress, not one of the samples." She laughed ruefully. "Nobody wants that."
Meg held the dress's hanger by the crook of her forefinger, her elbow jabbed into her hip. "Are you kidding me? Nobody wants the dress that you were wearing when your picture went viral?"
"But you don't understand. I made some modern updates to the stitching, and also to the bows on the back ..."
"Put it on."
Sophia tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
Meg swung the dress in front of her. "You will wear it. You're the one who was in the picture ... so you're going to wear it like you did that day—and wow those buyers."
"I'm not a model, Meg."
"You are today. We will have our own mini-runway." She thrust the dress at her. "Do it."
Though Sophia sensed her lungs closing up as rapidly as the time ticked away, she obediently grabbed the hanger carrying her years-old dress and headed for a nearby restroom.
Sophia slipped out of the restroom, bloodied and raw. Figuratively speaking, that is. When had her creative outlet turned into such a cloak-and-dagger affair? Into something that had begun to cause her daily worry instead of a shower of blessings?
Still, Meg's call was brilliant and Sophia had taken it a step further by upsweeping her hair in a similar fashion to the way she'd done it in the picture. Rare for her, but she had been told in the past that an updo reminded people—and the wearer—of times past.
"Perfect," Meg said when she'd re-entered the showroom. "If this fashion design gig doesn't work, you could turn to modeling."
"Hush!"
Meg laughed. "I'm serious, except you'd probably have to wear heels since you're just under the mega-height requirement."
"Please."
Meg's face lit up, and Sophia realized she was looking past her. "Welcome," she was saying.
The woman looked Sophia up and down. "Spin around," she said, making a circle with her pointer finger. "Hmm."
Meg motioned the woman to come closer to the rack of samples. "The dress Sophia is wearing is the prototype. Here you'll find new and modern twists, as well as a variety of colors to choose from."
"They are lovely," she said.
Meg continued. "These dresses have a past, really they do. My sister-in-law designed them all. She grew up in Italy, you know."
"No, I had no idea."
"Oh, yes. You could say that these dresses were inspired by the Italian countryside ..."
"In summer," the woman added, with a laugh.
"Absolutely. Quite hot in the summer."
"Oh, don't I know it!"
"Sophia toiled away in her small studio. Her mother and an Italian neighbor taught her to sew when she was quite young. Years later, the family moved back to America, the land of Sophia's birth—and that is where she found her success."
"A true American success story!"
"Yes, truly. Dresses made right here in New York, on American soil!"
The woman slapped her leather folio onto the counter. "I'd like to place an order. I have six stores to fill."
Sophia stood speechless as Meg deftly handled the woman's orders, chatting like they were longtime friends. She did the same thing many times over, each buyer leaving with a new friend in her sister-in-law. Meg never stopped moving and talking, admittedly embellishing Sophia's upbringing here and there to the point that Sophia herself felt homesick.
The visits from hungry buyers made her dizzy. So many questions!
"Can I touch the fabric you're wearing?"
"Do you have all sizes?"
"What is the fabric made of? Is it a blend?"
When the last buyer had left and the din in the showroom had dimmed to a whisper, the enormity of it all—the viral post, the sudden and lavish interest in her designs, the last-minute scrambling after Raven's departure—all of it began bearing down on her until she could no longer stand.
Meg frowned at her. "Sit down, Sophia. Here." She reached beneath the table and handed her a bottle. "Have some water. You look like you're not feeling well."
Sophia downed the water like a woman who had just traversed the desert. "I'm feeling great. Overwhelmed. Happy ... but exhausted."
Standing next to her, Meg bent to give her a side hug. "Aw, my beautifu
l, sweet, introverted sister-in-law. I read once that extroverts gain energy from interaction with people. While introverts—"
"Not so much," Sophia cut in, laughing. When her laughter had died down, she said, "I owe you so much, Meg. Thank you."
Meg squatted to her side and put her hands on Sophia's shoulders. Her eyes glistened. "I'm so, so incredibly proud of you. And ... and I'm forever grateful to have found you."
Sophia blinked away her own tears. "Now you've got me started!"
Meg smacked a kiss on her cheek. "Let's get this place cleaned up. I'm ready for a nap."
"Okay, and then we'll do dinner. My treat—of course."
Meg touched her hand to Sophia’s cheek. "If you don't mind, all I really want to do tonight is get into my jammies and slip under the sheets."
"You sure?"
Her sister-in-law nodded. "Don't worry about me. After a good night's sleep, I'll be all ready to tackle this again."
Sophia threw her head back and gasped, more laughter spilling from her. “Oh, that's right—tomorrow. We're coming back here again tomorrow."
Chapter 13
Christian considered the purple of twilight that fell across the sky. He'd been standing at his eighth-floor window for several minutes, his mind skipping from topic to topic. He had a book to finish. A home to find. And an ex-publisher to inform about his decision regarding her offer.
Yet his mind continued to land on the same question: Had Sophia dealt handily with the offending brand at the showroom?
Something told him that, once she learned of the issue, Meg wouldn't let Sophia sweep it under the sales rack, so to speak. He hadn't known Jackson's wife too long, but from what he'd observed, she was no shrinking violet.
Not that Sophia was either, but she had a gentleness about her that made him thankful for Meg's solidarity with her at the booth. Sophia could not have survived her odd upbringing or lighted a candle this bright for herself if she had been overly timid. Yet, like him, she had found solace in hours upon hours of creating her art while alone, with only the thoughts of her mind as distraction.
A ding from his phone announced an incoming text.
Hello CJ! Britt Jones here from Fifth Avenue Books. I heard you are in town and wondered if you'd like to stop by the store and sign some stock. Hope you don't mind the text, but you are welcome to come in anytime. I hope you do! Thanks!
"That was ... unexpected," he said aloud.
His phone rang in his hand, startling him. Lisa Caldwell's name flashed on the screen and he pressed the answer button.
"This is Christian."
"Hello, it's Lisa Caldwell calling."
"It's not midnight yet."
She laughed roughly. "I'm not twenty anymore, Christian. Beauty sleep is calling. Have you made your decision?"
A picture sprang to his mind of watching the pages of that contract fall into a city garbage can. Seemed like days ago, his mind focused fully elsewhere ever since he'd made his decision.
"As a matter of fact, I have."
"Fabulous."
"I thank you for the offer, Lisa, but I have decided not to accept it."
She paused before answering. "I see."
"I will also be informing Burns that my project will be independently published, as I have previously stated. I expect you will be seeing a retraction post soon."
She laughed uproariously at this.
"You have something to add?"
"I thought you were kidding."
"Far from it, Lisa. Your offer was generous, and I thank you for it, but I meant it when I said that I will not be publishing my book with your company."
"Oh, I know that. That's what I'd hoped you'd say."
"It is?"
"Christian, we can't give you what you want. That story ... well, it's gutsy, and that's not something I, as your editor, can support. But as your fan... I fully believe in it."
He paused. "I'm surprised to hear you say that. You pressed me pretty hard."
"Yes, well, I'm good at my job. Off the record, though, I'm proud of you. Go blaze your trail."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Much appreciated."
"But don't expect Burns to back down nicely." She cackled again. "It's going to take some doing to pry his boot off of your rear end. I'll be watching it happen from afar, though. Mark my words."
He laughed now—whether from the imagery she'd created or the relief at closing this door, he wasn't sure. After they'd hung up, he wandered back over to the picture window that provided a view of the Empire State Building. The purple evening deepened into an inky sky, and tonight the powers that flipped the tower's nightly light switch had decided on the color blue. Rich, cascading blue. The colors of that tower changed regularly, always a surprise to him. Sophia probably knew the meaning behind the color key, if there was one.
His desire to discover how Sophia fared continued to gnaw at him. He hated to admit this, but he hoped she would call him. He had received zero promise from her that she would, though, and now the walls around him had begun to close in.
The growing gap in his belly reminded him to eat. He could wander the streets of the city that never slept or call room service, but the latter would mean staying in this suddenly oppressive room. Neither of those options cheered him much. Agitated, he ran his hand across his face, startled. He'd meant to shave that off. Whatever.
He checked his phone again, but a rapid knock on his door caught his attention. Early for turndown service ...
He threw open the door and blinked. "Sophia?"
She stood on the threshold, breathless, flushed, beautiful. Her long hair upswept, lips berry-red, and a dress that followed each and every curve with perfection.
"I-I ..." She struggled to get words out, as if she had run all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor. "I wanted to tell you what happened."
He opened the door wider now and ushered her in, the sweet and citrusy scent of her perfume trailing behind her, that eerie oppression lifting and quickly being replaced with something heady and altogether ... different.
She didn't know why she had come, other than a pulsating desire to tell Christian ... everything. She stopped and whirled around. "This is your room?"
He nodded, a quizzical look on his face. "It is."
She turned away and took in the view of the Empire State Building from his corner suite. It blushed in the color of blue, mesmerizing her. The tower lights had been around since she was a little girl, although not as many variations existed back then. Whenever they were in New York, her stepfather would ask her and Gia to guess what color the building would be that night and he would look up their answers in the newspaper to see who won.
She stared at the iconic building, marveling at its strength and resilience, until she felt Christian's breath on her shoulder.
"I'm glad you're here," he whispered.
She steadied herself with a breath of her own and curled a gaze over her shoulder. Oh, he was tall. "Thank you. Um, you gave me your hotel info and I thought, well, I thought I'd come here and tell you what happened. You know, since we ran into each other earlier."
"Would you like to sit down? Are you hungry? I could order us some dinner."
She was famished. Had not eaten a morsel all day, even though a tray of something yummy had passed her by several times that afternoon.
She shook her head no, though, her head too scrambled at the moment to think about food. She took a seat in one of the two brown leather-like chairs placed strategically near the corner windows. Though the room screamed upscale, this was still New York and space came at a premium. He may have the semblance of a high-end parlor overlooking the Empire State Building, but his bed took up the rest of the square footage and Sophia realized she had unwittingly stepped into his private space without an invitation.
She looked up at him. "On second thought, perhaps we should go out."
He took the chair across from her. "Tell me your news first."
She tried to
control her smile, but it had a mind of its own. "My sister-in-law is brilliant! She talked me into putting on this dress. I didn't want to, but she insisted."
He leaned forward, arms on his knees, watching her intently.
"When I got back to the showroom, Meg had the idea that I should wear the dress that I was wearing in the picture that Liddy took. Like I said, I really didn't want to—I'm not a model or anything—but I slipped it on and, oh Chris! We had so many sales. Hundreds and hundreds of orders, mostly for the dress in this shade, but many in the others as well."
He chuckled. "A perfect idea. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're a writer not a marketer." She laughed. "Meg's tough. She was calling people over, saying things like 'See the inspiration behind Sophia's line!'—I could have died on the spot, but she just kept smiling and talking and taking orders."
"You look happy."
"I'm encouraged, elated, and yes, pretty happy." She leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh that sounded girly to her own ears. "And to be perfectly honest, I am very, very hungry."
He stood and reached for her. "Dinner, m'lady?"
She snapped him a smirk. "Okay, this time, I'm in."
Despite nightfall, the sidewalk teemed with people rushing about as if it were still morning and they had long to-do lists to tackle. They wandered past restaurants overflowing with diners chatting and eating and sipping cocktails. With each doorway they passed, her stomach protested a little more.
Christian's hand found her elbow. "Let's go uptown," he whispered. "I have a place."
He flagged a cab and whisked her inside.
Their driver swore and swerved his way through Manhattan, while still able to carry on a conversation. "You goin' to dinner?" he was asking. "Lots of fine dinin' up by the park. Or Lincoln Center's good too."
"Thanks. We'll stick with Midtown."
The hostess with the plunging neckline at the entrance of the restaurant gave Christian a grin that had a language all its own. The woman barely glanced in Sophia's direction, but after a day of being scrutinized constantly, she had no complaints.
Windswept Page 15