“I’ve been there, remember?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen you in so long I assumed you’d forgotten where I do all my best work.”
“Nice one,” Nolan said dryly.
“See you in sixty. Ta.”
Dial tone.
“Okay. That . . .”
“Went better than I’d anticipated.” Nolan pocketed his phone and stood. “I need to make a couple of calls. Sam, my PA, will fill you in on the LCCO event and I’ll be out shortly.”
For the first time since I’d stormed in here, it occurred to me that maybe I should’ve waited until the end of the business day to approach Nolan for help. He had a high-pressure job. Who was I to barge in and expect him to ditch all his responsibilities and take me shopping?
God. Sometimes I was so damn self-involved.
I stood and walked over to the front of his desk.
He’d already taken his seat and was on his computer. His eyes scanned the screen, but he spoke to me. “Don’t get cold feet now, Gabriella. It’s a done deal. You waffling and feeling guilty will just piss me off. So head out and talk to Sam. He’s waiting.”
Wow. Brusque businessman wasn’t a side I’d seen of this man. What did it mean that I found his large-and-in-charge persona . . . seriously hot?
Means your sense of relief is making you delusional that your attraction is mutual.
I exited his office.
Sam, a sharp-dressed man around my age, had already pulled a chair up opposite his desk. “You are an angel for helping with this event, Gabriella.”
“Most people call me Gabi.”
He frowned. “Nolan knows that?”
“Yes. He insists on using my full name.”
“Hmm. Usually he’s not so contrary.”
“Yeah. Usually he’s much worse.”
Sam laughed. “No comment. I am curious how you and the boss man know each other.”
“I work for Jax at Lakeside. I’m a hockey coach and program coordinator.”
“Wait. You’re the infamous Coach Welk?”
I rolled my eyes. “Infamous. Typical. What has Lund been saying about me?”
“Nolan hasn’t said much. Mimi, however, believes you’re secretly hiding a superhero cape under your hockey jersey. You’re her coach, right?”
“Yes. I love that kid. It’s hard to keep a straight face with some of the questions she asks.”
“I hear ya. I swear everyone knows when she’s in this twenty-two-story building. She insists on visiting her favorite uncle and I get a kick out of seeing her. Kids are just so . . . pure.”
“Until they hit twelve with all the hormones and they’re pure evil. Anyway, what do you need from me?”
I started paperwork while he explained the goal of the event. When he finished talking, I said, “This is an awesome way for older kids to actually see the positives of adults who’ve been through what they’re going through now, living on their own terms.”
“Every little bit of hope helps. Now all I need is to get the L covered in LGBTQ.”
“Low on lesbians?”
He nodded. “None of my lesbian acquaintances are comfortable interacting with a group of teens that hit all the letters, not just the L.”
“I might have a solution. You okay with a lesbian athlete?” I snickered. “She’ll tell you herself that she has no issue being a token.”
“God. Yes.”
I called my former teammate Mariah, putting her on speaker as I finished the paperwork.
She answered, “Gabi Welk. Please confess you’re calling because you broke it off with your boyfriend and you’ve been thinking dirty thoughts about me.”
“You’re too high maintenance for me, Mariah. And Tyson broke it off with me, but that’s another story.”
“Good! Then you should definitely come play for the other team on a trial basis. Not only do we have cookies on the dark side, we’ll eat yours.”
I laughed. “Damn, I miss you. But here’s a chance for us to see each other for a good cause. And BT-dubs, you’re on speaker.” BT-dubs? When did I start channeling Dallas Lund?
I’d barely ended my spiel when she said, “I’m in. These girls gotta hear there’s nothing wrong with likin’ ladies and their delicious lady bits.”
“You are da best, M. Is it all right if I give Sam, the coordinator, your contact info?”
“Sure. This Sam . . . is she hot?”
“He is listening in on this convo, but yes, he is hot. Wrong bits for you though, chickie.”
“Amy would get jealous anyway. Hey. Can she come too?”
I looked at Sam and he nodded.
“Of course. I gotta go. Thanks, and see you Saturday morning.”
Sam grinned at me. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Meet who?” Nolan asked.
“The woman who rounded out our alphabet soup,” Sam said. “Now I have to do actual work today instead of fretting about this LCCO event. Unless . . .” He spun in his chair to face Nolan. “I can go home since you won’t be here?”
“No. But nice try.”
I noticed he already had his coat on. When I stood, he’d taken my coat off the rack and held it out for me.
Ooh. Gentlemanly Nolan gave me a little tingle too.
Stop it.
“I’ll check in before the end of the day. Any crises arise . . . kick it upstairs to Britt.”
“Will do, boss.” Sam mouthed, Thank you, before Nolan herded me away.
He didn’t say anything as we rode his private elevator to the parking garage.
A chirp chirp sounded, and the lights flashed on a white Porsche Cayenne.
“No super-fancy sportscar today, Chewie?”
“Nope. You’ll have to make do with this one.”
Somehow, I didn’t think he’d appreciate it if I confessed I preferred this car anyway.
I waited for him to remind me he was Lando, and that retort never came either.
We’d barely buckled up when the center console in his dash lit up with an incoming call.
He sighed. “Sorry, I have to take this.” He poked a button on the steering wheel and said, “Nolan Lund speaking.”
Maybe I should’ve listened. But corporate doublespeak bored me. Who cared about risk assessment ratios and frequency markers?
But within fifteen seconds of ending the first call, another came through. This time he didn’t apologize, he just launched into another conversation that I tuned out.
Meanwhile, I scrolled through my bank accounts, trying to assure myself this shopping excursion wouldn’t bankrupt me.
We pulled up to the valet stand while Nolan was still on the phone. “No, Gerry, the numbers don’t lie despite you trying to convince me otherwise. Yes, Brady has seen them. I’m the one who brought the discrepancy to his attention. Have the revised proposal to my assistant on Wednesday morning. LI is done dicking around with this. Oh. And don’t ever question my right to speak on behalf of the company that bears my name.” He hung up and muttered, “Fucking amateurs,” as the valet opened his door.
Yikes.
Had Nolan realized he hadn’t spoken to me at all in the past thirty minutes?
He held the building door open for me and I paused inside the entryway. The place looked like a mall with an open corridor and the stores branching off from the center. Airy. Lofty.
Expensive.
A door—polished honey oak, grooved panels inset below the milky glass—was centered between the exit to one store and the entrance to another. Déjà vu hit me. I remembered a door exactly like that in my elementary school in North Dakota.
That line, You’re not in North Dakota anymore, Gabi, nearly caused hysterical laughter to bubble up.
Nolan strode right through that door and I followed.
/> We’d entered a workspace with tables covered in bolts of fabrics. One seamstress ran a sewing machine while another cut pattern pieces—both of them ignored us. Nolan just kept dodging and weaving around dressmaker dummies, equipment and furniture until we were in a center room again. A room that looked like a cross between a tea shop and private study. A split staircase off to the left with twisted wrought-iron railings created a focal point.
At the center of that focal point stood a man. Tall. Burly. Sporting a full dark beard. Big square frames seemed to cover half his face. He had a measuring tape draped around his neck and a pincushion attached to his wrist.
He growled, “You’re late,” as he stomped down the stairs.
Nolan glanced at his watch. “Four minutes is all.”
“Follow me.”
We entered a large dressing area with an enormous three-way mirror. The man faced us. “Given this is an emergency, I won’t invite either of you to sit.”
Nolan nudged me forward with a hand on my back. “This is your client today, Gabriella Welk. Gabriella, this is Jacques Andres.”
This guy was Nolan’s stylist?
His hands looked better suited to cracking skulls than crafting suits.
Offering my hand, I said, “Nice to meet you. Please call me Gabi.”
“Call me Q.”
“Q . . . like in Star Trek?”
“No, Q like the gadget designer in the James Bond movies,” Nolan replied. “I started calling him that because his first name is too close to my brother’s and he doesn’t like being called by his last name. We compromised on Q.”
Q didn’t add commentary. He just demanded, “Well, Gabi, what’s the fashion emergency?”
I bet he got a huge kick out of saying that. “I have an in-person interview on Friday for a position that could change the course of my career. I need next-level styling.”
“What’s the position?”
When I hesitated to answer, Nolan said, “Client confidentiality isn’t an issue, is it, Q?”
“With me? Never an issue.”
“It’s a sportscasting position at Wolf Sports North. Regardless if it’s doing on-air analyzing or if I’m commentating for games, my look needs to be camera ready.”
“What sport?”
“Women’s hockey.”
That’s when he sized me up. “You play?”
I nodded. “And I coach.”
“And she’s won Olympic medals, international and national championships. Come on, Gabriella, don’t sell yourself short. Sell yourself.”
“Why would she need to when you’re doing it for her?” Q said.
Yeah. This was going well.
Not.
Nolan’s phone rang. He swore under his breath and said, “I need to step out for a moment,” and then disappeared.
Jerk.
Q studied me and I sensed he didn’t like what he saw.
Too bad. I met his hard stare straight on.
“So how long have you and Nolan been together?”
I leaned forward. “Let’s be honest with each other, okay? Nolan and I aren’t involved. I’m sure that doesn’t come as a shocker to you, as I am not even freakin’ close to Nolan’s type.”
“You think I would know Nolan’s type . . . how?”
That surprised me.
“I spend a lot of time with Nolan during the course of a year, yet I wouldn’t call us friends. In the years I’ve been his stylist, he’s never once brought a woman with him. Not for her opinion on his clothes. Not to help her choose clothes. So the urgency in this visit has me scrambling for a number of reasons. I’d appreciate it if you’d finish filling in the blanks.”
“I work for Jax at Lakeside Ice Arena and know Nolan by default. He has the kind of style that money can buy and the type of class that can’t be bought. I needed his style expertise because my other fashion-conscious friends were unavailable, and I sort of . . . bulldozed my way into his office and demanded his help.”
“And he just agreed?”
“He agreed to swap favors. I’m helping him with his LCCO mixer for LGBTQ youth on Saturday and he’s helping me with this.” I rubbed my sweaty hands on my sweater. “You should also be aware that I have a budget.”
He smirked. “A foreign concept for Mr. Lund.”
“Exactly. So I’m asking you, Q, to make sure that Nolan doesn’t try and pay for anything else.”
“Else?”
“I’m guessing he’s paying your hourly rate as his part of the favor.”
“You guessed correctly.” He cocked his head. “What’s your budget, dear?”
“No more than one thousand dollars.”
“That changes a few things.”
Dammit.
After a pause, Q said, “You asked for honesty, and here it is.” His eyes gleamed. “I love this challenge. While I adore working with clients who don’t bat an eyelash at the cost of fashion, your monetary constraints will force me to get creative.”
I blinked at him. “And that’s good?”
“Very good. Plus it’ll be fun.”
“Thank you. Seriously. I’ve been worried about this money sitch.” I pulled my wallet from my purse and fished out a credit card. “Payment in advance?”
“Not necessary. I’ll give you an itemized bill after we’ve made final selections. But I’d like for you and me to strike a deal also.”
“What kind of deal?” I asked, returning my wallet to my purse.
“If you get this job, I want to be named your stylist, officially credited at the end of Wolf Sports North programming—Gabriella Welk’s wardrobe courtesy of Jacques Andres Designs. I realize this is all a bit premature, but that is one career bucket list item I haven’t attained.”
I offered him my hand. “You have a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?” Nolan asked as he strolled back in.
“Just finalizing the payment option for Miss Welk.” Q gave Nolan’s outfit a once-over.
Today Nolan wore a dark gray suit paired with a black shirt, and topped off with a silver tie dotted with tiny red diamonds. A little more somber than his usual attire, but the man looked delectable, like James Bond—the Brosnan years.
“There’s lots more color in men’s summer fashion than in years past,” Q continued. “Trend is to match the socks to the shirt. Which won’t affect you.”
“Since I don’t wear socks with my suits during the Minnesota winters, I won’t wear them in the summertime.” Nolan’s gaze zeroed in on me. “You ready?”
Hell no. “Yep.”
Thirteen
NOLAN
Gabriella’s nervousness surprised me.
She oozed confidence in every situation. Even after her boyfriend had dumped her.
I’d intended to ease her into this process of getting styled, but now I decided the fewer decisions she’d have to make, the better it’d be all around.
“Do you need her to strip to get her measurements?” I asked Q.
“No. That’s the benefit of ready-to-wear.”
She relaxed slightly.
“But I will need a 360-degree view of her form as I’m making notes.” He pointed. “Please stand over there, facing the mirror.”
Gabi hopped up on the platform.
Q walked around her. “Pants size?”
“Eight. But they’re usually too big in the waist so I have to belt them.”
“Blouse size?”
“Solid medium for T-shirts. Button-down shirts . . . it depends. I’ve got wide shoulders. Anything with tight arms and chest, I tend to Hulk out and seams get ripped.”
I snickered at the image of Gabi in a Hulk-like rage.
“Bra size?” Q asked.
Perfect, my mind supplied.
Then I gave myself
a mental slap.
“Thirty-six C right now.”
Surprised, Q said, “It changes?”
“Yes. I drop to a 34B if I’m in competition shape.”
“Fascinating. I can’t imagine my male clients telling me that their dicks get smaller when they’re in competition shape.”
Gabi flashed him a quick grin. “I promise you their dicks are smaller if they’re doing ’roids. Their balls too.”
“This conversation has deteriorated,” I said. “To get back on topic . . . do you have any issues wearing heels?”
“That’s on topic?” she demanded.
“Yes. I’ve never seen you in a pair of heels. If you have a sports injury that prevents you from wearing them, that’s one thing. If it’s a personal ‘I hate heels’ thing, we need to know that too.”
“You usually see me in skates, Nolan. Off the ice? I rarely wear heels since it’s not necessary. But I can wear them and walk in them just fine.”
“Shoe size?” Jacques asked.
“Eight.”
“All right, we’re done with that. Now onto the fun part.”
“Yay,” she said without enthusiasm.
“You’re not excited about this at all?”
“I am. Yet . . . I’m unsure if I should even go through with the interview if I’m having this much anxiety about what to wear. Say all the stars align and I get the job. I will have to wardrobe plan. And probably keep track of which day I wore what, so I don’t wear the same outfit too often.”
I set my hands on her shoulders and peered into her face, which had become flushed. Her eyes didn’t want to meet mine. “Hey. Look at me.”
She did.
“Listen.” This close to her, I caught that warm-cookies scent and it totally derailed my thought process. That, along with the fact I hadn’t noticed her eyes were silvery-blue.
Eyes that held absolute trust and that threw my thoughts into further chaos.
“Nolan?” she prompted softly. “You were saying?”
“Don’t borrow trouble. One step at a time.”
“Okay.”
“That said . . .” I cleared my throat and looked at Q. “Let’s assume this won’t be Gabriella’s last interview.”
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