Love Handles Page 2

  As I walked through the door, the saleslady looked up and smiled at me. “Emilie!” she gushed. “How nice to see you again.”

  I smiled in return, lifting my hand in a little wave, though I was already turning my attention to the new arrivals.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Just looking for now, Danielle. Thank you, though.”

  “If you need anything, just let me know,” Danielle said warmly, and then she was gone, off to help someone else.

  The fact that all the salespeople knew me by name was probably a sign that I spent too much time in this store, I reflected as I ran my fingertips over the smooth leather of the purse in front of me. But then, was there really such a thing as spending too much time looking at what you loved? It wasn't like it was totally wasted time, either. I was doing research for work. Or at least that was the best excuse.

  I laughed at myself, shaking my head. The purse was a cute one, compact and well-designed, but it wasn't exactly what I was looking for. There was already more than one black purse in my wardrobe. No. I needed something with a little more color.

  My eyes moved to the next. It looked, I thought, almost like something I would’ve designed. Maybe a little bit more utilitarian. The designer and I must have had similar ideas. A sign, I thought, that my work would succeed out in the real world. Or maybe one that I needed to come up with more unique ideas.

  The room smelled like new leather and a little like lavender. I breathed in the scent of it, so familiar and comforting. Here, it didn't matter what Novak was doing or that he treated me like a second-year intern instead of an experienced designer. It didn't matter what I weighed. It was just me and the purses. I drifted through the room, feeling some of the tension of the rough week ease out of my shoulders.

  More than a few of the purses were well out of my price range. I looked longingly at the Chanel bags. One day, I promised myself. When I was a real designer. Then I’d have my own Chanel purse. Or several of them. But there were other options, and for the moment those would have to do.

  Honestly, I could have stayed there all day. Or longer. I’d thought, once, on a particularly bad day, about applying for a job there so I could be in the store all the time, but my previous ventures into retail hadn't been pleasant, and I had worried that having to stand behind the counter and put up with customers would ruin my enjoyment. It wasn't exactly a fast track to the career I was trying to build, either.

  There. I stopped suddenly, my eyes catching on a little blue bag, which sat on the display to my right. That was the one I wanted, I decided instantly. It would add just the right pop of color to a few of my nicer outfits, and I could carry it on more casual days for a bit of fun. Crossing the space between myself and it, I reached out and ran my hand over the surface, feeling the quality of the leather. A quick glance at the price tag made me wince a little, but it wasn't too bad, and I could always stay out of clothing stores for a few weeks.

  The stitching looked good, and I opened it up to check that there wasn't anything shoddy about the workmanship on the inside. Not that the shop I was in would sell shoddy work, but I always looked. It was as well made as I had expected from the rest of it, and I pulled one of the bags for sale off the shelf, glancing a little regretfully at the purses I wouldn't be able to take with me, and made my way up to the register to pay.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Danielle asked, smiling at me.

  “I always do,” I answered.

  With the new purse tucked safely into a shopping bag, I headed for the subway and my apartment. Groceries were next.

  Looking for clothes or accessories was easy. I knew those. I knew how to check for quality, and what I wanted. Grocery shopping was harder.

  It wasn't that I didn't know how to shop for groceries; it was just that I hadn't gone for more than a few snack items in a long time. My mother had been insistent that I learn how to calculate price per ounce so that I could get the best deal, and at least I remembered how to do that. Knowing exactly what to get was the real problem, and I was more than a little grateful for the shopping list I’d put on my phone thanks to the Sexy Lips & Curvy Lips diet plan that had been sent to me.

  Still, the grocery store felt strange. Foreign. Not like the shops I usually frequented. I strolled through narrow aisles, picking up things for the recipes I would be making over the next few days. The site had recommended I shop a week in advance so that meal planning would be easier, but my fridge was small and I thought it might be better to get fresh fruit more frequently anyway.

  Loaded up with purchases, I walked back to my apartment. I was panting by the time I arrived, not used to walking so far with so much to carry, but I made it up the stairs just fine and set about sorting the groceries into the fridge and the cabinets. My stomach rumbled loudly.

  Now, I thought, looking over the kitchen, came the hard part.

  My mother had taught me how to cook a few basics when I was younger, but unlike my sister, I had never really been that interested in learning. I had always been far more enthused about playing dress-up. I’d listened to my grandmother's sewing lessons with rapt attention. Standing in front of the counter with chicken and vegetables spread out in front of me, I wished I’d listened at least a little bit more to my mother. It couldn't be that hard, though. People made chicken and broccoli all the time. I could manage it.

  The broccoli, it turned out, was a little more difficult than I’d expected it to be, and I was pretty sure I’d overcooked it at least a little, but it didn't taste terrible, even if it was a little plain. After a moment, I got up and took some Parmesan cheese out of the fridge, sprinkling it over the vegetables. It was a little bit outside the diet, but oh well. The chicken had come out better, and I found myself enjoying it more than I thought I would. Knowing that I’d made the food myself, and it had been edible, felt good. I was pretty proud of myself, actually. The diet thing was going to be a walk in the park.

  Chapter 4

  BY MONDAY, I WAS STARTING to think I’d been prematurely optimistic. Chicken with broccoli was all well and good, but it wasn't something you could eat forever. I’d tried my hand at salmon on Sunday night, and that hadn't gone nearly as well. Although it had been pretty tasty once I scraped the burned part off the bottom. Live and learn, right?

  I had hauled myself out of bed to the screech of my alarm clock, still groggy after staying up later than I should have to finish a season of the show I was watching. The shower woke me up a little at least, and I finished getting ready. I then headed to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast, only to discover that I’d forgotten to get yogurt.

  It should have been on the list, and I picked up my phone to flick through it, frowning down at the screen when it didn't appear. I’d probably just forgotten when I was adding everything, but it made my life a lot harder. A smoothie was meant to be the next meal, and so far I’d been following the schedule exactly. Counting my own calories wasn't really something I wanted to do, which meant I had to stick to the plan. And that meant a smoothie.

  Sighing, I opened the fridge and stared into it like a container might magically appear there if I stared long enough. I straightened up and shut the door, then gave my attention to the freezer. Maybe there was something in there that—Ha!

  Okay, so maybe ice cream wasn't exactly as healthy as yogurt, but it probably wouldn't hurt to have one little cheat meal, and I was pretty sure it would taste good in a smoothie. I tossed in the bananas and strawberries with it, and set the blender whirring. While it did its thing, I pulled the lunch I’d packed the night before out of the fridge.

  The smoothie, I realized as I poured it into a cup with a lid to take on the subway, wasn't exactly a smoothie. I laughed a little. Milkshake for breakfast definitely wasn't healthy.

  “Oh well,” I said aloud to the empty kitchen. “Nobody's perfect.”

  Besides, it really did taste good.

  When I arrived at work, it was already busy, designers an
d seamstresses and interns scurrying back and forth. I slid my lunch into the fridge and took up my place at my desk. Despite the fact that nothing had really changed, I felt better than I had in a long time, and I wondered if it was because it felt like there was potential for things to be different soon, or just because I was eating less junk food. The walks, I thought, helped a bit, too. I liked being more active. Of course, I’d probably feel differently a week from now when I started craving something fried and cheesy, but that was for later.

  Then, for the rest of the week, Novak had me running all over as usual. I tried to look at it as more exercise. It didn’t quite stop me from feeling annoyed with him, but at least I was getting something out of it.

  By Friday when I came in, Jenna warned me, “He’s in a mood today,” as she dropped in to leave notes for a pattern.

  “When is he not in a mood?” I answered dryly.

  “Good point.” The other woman looked up from her computer, and her eyebrows lifted. “You, on the other hand, actually look pretty happy, considering.”

  I paused with my hand on the door. “You know,” I said slowly, “I think I am. I started a diet, and it’s not terrible. I’m starting to actually like cooking.”

  “Cooking?” Jenna laughed. “In New York City? What’re you doing with your life, Emilie?”

  Jenna was one to talk; she was built like pinup model. But I didn’t point that out. Just laughed with her and slipped out the door to get back to my desk.

  The outfit I’d picked was actually pretty cute, I decided as I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors beyond the open door of one of the office’s fitting room. The black dress hugged my hips just right, showing off their curves, and the belt called attention to the dip at the narrowest point of my waist. My hair-sticks matched the new purse I’d bought over the weekend, and the bright blue added a dramatic accent to the dark color of the clothing. For a moment I paused, turning this way and that, and I smiled at my reflection. Jenna was right; I really did look happier, and better for it.

  I was feeling pretty good about myself when I sat down at my desk with my lunch. A new design had been coming together in the back of my mind all morning, and I wanted to get it to paper before any of the details slipped away. I pulled a sandwich wrap from my lunch bag and ate as I sketched.

  The sudden fall of a shadow over the paper pulled me out of my concentration. I lifted my head to find that nearly twenty minutes had passed and that there was someone standing in front of my desk, head tilted so he could regard the sketch only partially upside down.

  My first coherent thought was that the guy was gorgeous. Maybe not like male model, cheekbones-of-steel-style stunning, but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers; that was for sure.

  His dark hair curled around his ears, and when he raised his eyes from the sketch, they were dark, too, like the color of melted chocolate. He smiled at me, quick, bright, and shockingly sweet.

  I now wondered if hunger was making me hallucinate, because... what was someone this gorgeous doing smiling at me like I was important? There was a tiny gap between his front teeth, and that somehow only made him more attractive. Actually, it made me really want to kiss him, which was probably not something I should be thinking about a guy—one who was most likely one of their clients.

  “Um,” I said, because I was a great conversationalist. “Can I help you with something?”

  Oh, crap, had that been rude? Had I sounded like I wanted him to go away?

  “I actually wanted to compliment you on your design,” he said. There was a faint edge of an accent in the words, a lilt that might have had roots in Italian. “It’s very nice.”

  “Oh.” I felt my face warm, a flush creeping over my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “You have a very good sense of proportion. Here.” He pointed down at the bag sketched out in rough lines on the paper. “This detail adds some intrigue to the piece, and I think you’ve got a good base. But you might try...” He slipped the pencil from my unresisting hand and added a new line, curving the bottom in more sharply than I had. “That. I think.”

  I looked down at the sketch. He was right, actually, I realized. It would look better with that shape. “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” I looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “No. I don’t think you did.” He held out his hand.

  I took it with a little rush of excitement fluttering in my belly at the warmth of the firm grasp.

  “Nicholas Tessaro.”

  Novak called his name just then from across the room, and Nicholas gave me an apologetic smile, releasing my hand and turning away.

  I dreamily watched him go. I didn’t realize I had been staring in frozen shock until about thirty seconds later when it suddenly hit me that I had been talking to Nick Tessaro and he had called my design nice. Oh, shit! I slumped against the back of my chair, trying to calm the race of my heart.

  Nick was brand new on the New York scene, which was why I hadn’t recognized him, but he was already the darling of the Upper East Side, and the rich and the famous were tripping all over themselves to get his attention. More than one magazine had called him a genius. And he had liked my design! I couldn’t quite seem to wrap my head around the idea.

  “Emilie!” Novak’s voice was now calling mine.

  I tried to pull myself together before I got up, brushing imaginary crumbs from my skirt and tugging the top of the dress back into place. My heels tapped against the floor as I hurried over to where he was still standing with Nick Tessaro, who seemed to be amused while watching me.

  “Yes?” I shot a quick glance at the other man. Next to my cousin, who was built like a scarecrow with a nose to match, he was even better looking, and I wasn’t sure my heart was ever going to stop trying to beat its way free of my ribs. “What can I get you?”

  “I need the designs for the gala dress.”

  Nick was smiling at me again.

  I dipped my head in a quick nod and hurried out of the room, wondering if I was really feeling Nick’s eyes on my back as I left, or just imagining it.

  Jenna looked up when I barged through the door. “You’re moving like the devil’s on your tail,” she said. “What’s Novak terrorizing you about?”

  I shook my head. “Not Novak. Nick Tessaro is out there.”

  “Nick Tessaro... as in, ‘The entire fashion world is falling over each other to kiss his ass’ Nick Tessaro?”

  “Exactly. And he’s gorgeous.” I shuffled rapidly through the patterns. “Super gorgeous. Also, he saw one of my sketches. And he told me I had a good sense of proportion.”

  “You sound like you’re about to faint.” Jenna’s voice sounded dryly amused. “Take a deep breath. Give yourself a minute. I’m sure he’ll still be there when you go back out.”

  Him being there wasn’t the issue. I didn’t want him to think that I was lazy or something. And Novak would be pissy if I left him waiting in front of a client. I yanked the correct envelope out of the stack.

  “Seriously. Gorgeous. Come see for yourself.”

  I handed the pattern to Jenna, and went down the hall to get the mood board and the fabric swatches. When I scurried back past the patterning room, Jenna was standing in the doorway, and she rolled her eyes, but followed.

  “You know, you should probably still hand this to Novak yourself,” Jenna said, offering the envelope as we neared the doorway to the main room of the studio.

  “Oh.” I looked down at it. “Right. You’re right.” I took it back, and stepped out into the sunlight that spilled through the windows, taking everything to the table where Novak and Nick were working.

  Novak took the designs without even looking at me, but Nick raised his head and gave me another one of those blinding, contagious smiles.

  I couldn’t help but return it before I hurried away again.

  “See?” I hissed at Jenna as soon as I got within hearing distance.

  “Okay. He�
�s pretty good-looking. I’ll give you that.” She didn’t look nearly impressed as I had been “Totally not my type, but cute.”

  “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

  “Not hopeless, babe. Just gay.” Jenna flashed me a grin and sauntered off down the hall, leaving me to return to my desk alone.

  The sketch still sat where it had been, the pencil beside it, but I didn’t go back to drawing. My eyes kept lifting to Nick, admiring the way the light caught in his hair or the way his suit showed off his lean waist and long legs. I knew better than to think I had a chance with someone like that.

  It didn’t stop me from wanting one, though.

  Chapter 5

  NICK TESSARO MUST HAVE left while I was running another errand for Novak. I was painfully disappointed to return to my place and find him gone. But when I looked down at the desk, my eyes widened. Sitting on top of the sketch he’d edited earlier was a card, printed on heavy ivory paper. Nick Tessaro, the slick, black letters read. And beneath was the address of his studio 515 Broadway. With an uncertain hand, I reached out and turned it over.

  “Call me” was scrawled across the card in a careless, masculine hand.

  For an instant, I was sure my heart stopped beating. It was only about my designs, I reminded myself. If it was about anything at all. Maybe he just wanted to know something Novak had been too busy to tell him.

  No. Even I knew that was ridiculous. It had to be something to do with me. And if it were something to do with me, it was that he wanted to see more of my handbags. Which was something I could definitely be excited about, even if I kind of wished I could believe he'd given me his number because he wanted to see me personally. He could have just sent an email, after all. Asked me if I wanted to submit a few of my sketches for his perusal. But he had asked me to call.

  Excitement thrummed through me—and then it died. Because I couldn't, could I? I was still working for Novak, and whether they were cooperating or collaborating or whatever they were doing or not, they were still rivals. If I called Nick, I would be betraying the company where I currently worked. Which definitely wouldn't win me any good references if I needed to go looking for a new job.