Page 37 of Not You Again
His question startles me. “Where do you sleep?”
I scoff, happy he’s brought us back to reality. “Mostly I don’t. But when I’m lucky enough, my bedroom’s up there.”
I gesture to a set of warehouse-style stainless steel steps leading up to a loft above the tiny kitchen.
“Is this also where you meet clients?” He shoves his sleeves up his forearms. I bite the inside of my cheek harder.
My hands need something to do other than tingle with the need to touch him, so I reach for the coffee he brought me. “It’s easier to sleep where I work. I don’t waste time on a commute.”
He frowns. I divert my gaze, because I don’t care what he thinks of my sleeping situation. Do I?
His shoes land in thuds on the hardwood as he strolls to a bolt of fabric leaning against the green couch across the room. I follow like some kind of tether ties us and we can’t stray too far from each other.
I fight the urge to ask him to practice our salsa dancing, if only to break through whatever awkward wall is suddenly between us. Instead, I tell him, “Burano lace. From Italy.”
He looks over his shoulder, the lace between his fingers, and I cross my arms over my chest.
Focus on the lace, Andie, not the godlike man in front of you.
I can feel his eyes wandering over me and get the impression he can see every last piece of my thoughts. Hopefully he can’t see the financial dread snaking its way around my throat every waking moment.
“Five hundred dollars per yard.” I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips at my own foolishness. “I shouldn’t have spent the money, but I couldn’t stop myself from loving it.”
Kit drops the lace like it burned him. He shoves his hands into his pockets and clenches his jaw. Pissed again. But why?
Kit clears his throat and moves the topic away from the expensive fabric. “How many dresses do you make in a year?”
“About ten. If I’m lucky,” I admit, though it feels like it should be more. I scratch the base of my sloppy topknot, afraid to meet his gaze. Ten dresses a year doesn’t sound like much when he creates whole-ass campuses of buildings.
He lets out a low whistle, eyeing the rack of gowns in progress. “That’s a lot of work, Andie.”
My eyes fly to his. Is he teasing me? “You design entire resorts, Kit.”
He shakes his head, his hair catching the sunlight just so. “I create the blueprints and do the math. Check in during certain stages. You do everything from the blueprint to the interior design, all on your own, with each unique design taking months to complete. Your project management skills must be out of this world.”
My lips part in shock. He actually … respects my work? On something as frivolous as a dress that will only be worn once? In thirty seconds, he’s shown more understanding about the complexity of my job than brides I work with for months. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything at all.
Kit meanders to a dress form draped in muslin. Taking in the design from the hem to the bodice, he asks, “How much do you charge for a dress?”
I don’t want to answer that question. He’ll think it’s way too much, and that I’m silly for asking for it. Any respect he just found for me will dissipate into thin air. I chew on my lip and move to toss my empty coffee cup into the stainless steel trash can by the fridge before answering, “Enough.”
“Just like my thighs are average, eh?” He shoots me a half grin over his shoulder as he turns back to the wall of windows.
“Oh my God, you will never let that go, will you?” I roll my eyes but can’t fight a smile, glad our rapport isn’t completely gone.
“Never, sweet potato.” His smile grows brighter. “Never.”
CHAPTER SIXTEENKIT
After wandering awkwardly through our show-provided, already furnished apartment, I heave Andie’s bag onto the bed in the only bedroom. The apartment is maybe six hundred square feet, with modern finishes and some city views. It’s definitely a little cramped with Cassidy and Steve in here too.
I’m still processing how Andie lives where she works, and all I could think as we packed up her few belongings from her loft was that I wonder if she gets cold in the winter. Those windows were older, and I bet when the wind picks up her whole studio is drafty.
Then that fucking Italian lace. The way she’d looked at it—fondly, admiring. Smitten. Being jealous of a scrap of lace wasn’t on my bingo card for today, but here I am.
Andie begins sorting the clothes she’s brought from her place. She lives where she works. It’s sparsely decorated and lacking basic comfort. And I noticed as we packed up her outfits from the tiny IKEA wardrobe in her bedroom that none of her own clothes had designer labels on them. Or labels at all, actually.
I put her toiletries on the counter in the bathroom for her to sort out later. When I return to the bedroom, I lean against the closet door and ask, “Andie, do you make all your own clothes?”