Page 36 of Not You Again
I fasten one of my pincushions around my wrist and drag the painstakingly cut butcher paper bodice pieces over to the nearest dress form. As I stab the first pin into the form along one of my tape lines, I tell Kit casually, “Heidi’s my best friend.”
“And business buddy,” Heidi adds cheerily.
I nod, informing Kit, “We share clients sometimes.”
“Ah, so the show is rigged.”
I turn to look at him so quickly I tear the pattern I was so careful with earlier. A chunk falls to the ground at my feet. He already knows I’m on the show for the money, and if the producers think we somehow rigged the match, I can kiss that money goodbye.
When I tentatively meet his gaze, there’s a sparkle of humor in his eyes. I let out a puff of laughter. He’s kidding. Of course he is. If the game was rigged, I definitely wouldn’t have paired myself with the only man I’ve ever loved and lost.
I swallow, picking the pattern piece off the ground. To reduce the chance of any more pattern casualties, I grab the dress form by the hips and scoot it closer to my workbench.
Kit jumps into action. He’s around the back of the dress form, his fingers brushing mine as he grips the waist. I shiver.
“Let me help you,” he grumbles over the dress form’s shoulder.
“I don’t need your help, Kit.”
I can’t handle the tender look in his eyes, so I grunt as I tug on the dress form again. “It’s amazing how I’ve done this without you for years.”
“For fuck’s sake, Andie.” Kit moves around the form and bumps me aside with his hip. “Do you ever stop?”
Heidi snorts from her spot on the bench. “No. She doesn’t.”
“Kit,” I complain when he dodges my attempt to get to the form.
He swears under his breath, but his voice is frustratingly calm. “Where do you want it?”
I can’t formulate an answer. My brain pops and fizzles out. I’m frustrated with him, but he is perfectly content with my mood.
I contemplate trying to move another heavy object, just to see what he’ll do.
“Do you want to fight about this now or later?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
Heidi’s purse scrapes over the surface of the workbench as she stands. “And that’s my cue to go. Play nice, you two.”
Before I can beg her to stay and act as a buffer, her Louboutins click right out the door.
Kit lets out a grunt, and I turn my attention back to him. His lips are turned down in a frown, his brows lowered over his eyes. He’s quietly pissed. Great.
The muscles in his throat work. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath in through his nose. When he lets it out, his body relaxes just a little. He opens his eyes and rubs his jaw. “Do you need a ride to your place, or do you have a car here?”
My brows pull together. As I stare at him, baffled by his question, his fingers sink into the dress form, forming little shadowed dents in the sunlight. I feel them digging into my own flesh like it was just yesterday that I had him undone as he drove into—
Damn Heidi and her sex dungeon talk.
My lips part to say something I shouldn’t, then he relaxes his hands and runs one through his hair again. The moment is gone. I shake my head. “My place is here.”
“What?” He looks around, like he’s not sure how he got here.
I roll my eyes and take stock of the place too. Aside from a small kitchenette on the far end of the apartment, it’s mostly dress mannequins and bolts of fabric shimmering in the light. A tall hanging rack at the far end of the room is heavy with bagged-up gowns. There’s a dark blue velvet couch near some of the dress forms, and some stools around my workbench, also draped with fabric. But there’s no TV or area rugs or houseplants or any other signs that someone actually lives here.
It works for me. I make fancy dresses, but I don’t have expensive tastes.
One dress form has muslin pieces pinned halfway around it, some draping all the way to the floor. Kit’s mouth tugs into a half grin when his eyes fall on my drafting table. It’s scattered with torn-out magazine pages, sketches of dresses, and fabric swatches. Right. He’s an architect, so he probably has a drafting table with a ruler and a protractor lined up like little soldiers ready for their battle with physics.
He wanders over to the wall of windows overlooking the Atlanta skyline. Instead of taking in the view, he’s looking at the window frames, even tapping a knuckle against the narrow strips of brick in between them. I don’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed that he doesn’t seem to trust the integrity of the building. I do know that he looks like a god in the golden hour sunlight as it wraps around his face and body. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my thoughts from getting carried away.