Page 69 of Savored Sins
“You sure about this? These are gonna be some really long hours for a while. We’ve got a huge project coming up, and I’ll need you to be?—”
“Yeah, I got it. I’ll be there.”
“Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal. We’ll meet for real tomorrow to hash out the details and get a contract drawn up,but for now… meet me at the office in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”
Carter ends the call, and I’m already pulling on my shoes, stuffing the pieces I was supposed to wear in Autumn’s show into a bag. They’re probably going to get wrinkled, but who the hell cares? I’m the one modeling them, and I can work it. Whatever mess I get myself into, be it wrinkled clothes or the absolute letdown of the girl I’m pretty sure I’m in love with, I’ll get it figured out. I may be a born fuckup, but I’m learning how to heal shit, too.
And although I have no idea if Autumn’s ever going to look at me again, even if this plan goes exactly the way I’m envisioning it, at least she’ll know I tried. At leastIwill know I tried. Because this is more than I’ve ever done for anyone before, and it feels… good.
Autumn doesn’t need saving by someone like me, but if I can make something easier for her? Goddamn it. I’ll move heaven and fucking earth. I’ll even get a damn job.
thirty-four
AUTUMN
Trey: How’re you holding up?
Autumn: Just say it.
Trey: No. I don’t want to.
Autumn: Ok, then I’ll say it. You fucking told me so.
I’ve got a glass of rosé in one hand, and the latest issue of Citrine in the other. Beneath the orangey hues of the early evening sky, the glassy surface of the lake is still, reflecting the sun as it sinks behind the trees. I should feel relaxed, open. Expansive. My show was far from perfect, but it’s in the rearview mirror now, and I’ve had a little interest.
So why do I still feel like crap?
I know the answer, but I don’t want to think about it. Because I’m still disgusted. I’m still hurt.
My phone rings. I glance down at it, but it’s an unknown number.
“Who the hell…?” I mutter to myself, setting my magazine face down on the patio table. I’m not in the habit of answering numbers I don’t know, but it could be something related to the fashion show. It could be another boutique, interested in carrying a couple pieces from the line. So I answer. “This is Autumn.”
“Autumn Carroway?”
“This is she…” I set my wine glass down, too, so I’m not tempted to drink while talking.
“Oh, great. Hi—it’s nice to meet you, Autumn. I’m Ramona Wheatley, senior editor at Citrine magazine. How are you?”
Ho. Lee. Shit.
Did this bitch just sayCitrine magazine? What the fuck?!
“Uh—” I stammer, trying to figure out how to work my vocal cords. My gaze jerks to the magazine, still face down on the table. Can someone see me reading this somehow?! Am I being watched? God. “It’s—it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m doing well.”
“Fabulous,” Ramona Wheatley says. “Listen, I got the prints you sent in, and they’restunning. Honestly, gorgeous. I don’t know how we didn’t hear about your line sooner, but wow. We were blown away. Exactly the breath of fresh air we need in this world of fast fashion.”
I’m becoming more confused by the second. What the hell is she even talking about? Prints I sent over…? She must have me confused with someone else, because never once in my life have I tried to contact—or everdreamedof contacting?—
“We’d like to run a feature on you next month, if you’ll be available for an interview.”
It’s a damn good thing I’m not holding my glass of wine because it would be smashed to bits on the dock right now. As it is, I nearly drop my phone.
“Sure, I’d be available.” I snap to attention. I still have zero clue what’s going on, but I willhappilymeet with Citrine for an interview—I don’t even care if they think they’re talking to someone else right now.
“Oh,fabulous,” Ramona Wheatley gushes. “We’d also like to get some fresh shots of your women’s line, too. I saw yesterday’s column in the Boston Current—the one covering your womenswear show this past weekend—and the models you brought in really nailed it. I think if we get them with the male model—the one in the shots I’ve got here—it could bring everything together. Any chance they’d all be available again?”
“Well…” My heart’s jumping with excitement, but I’m still confused, and I don’t want to appear completely out of the loop in case Ramona Wheatley changes her mind. “Could you jog my memory about the menswear shots? Which model it is? With the show this weekend, my mind’s been going a million miles an hour, and I’ve done various shoots…”
