Page 3 of Savored Sins
I down my drink and saunter up to the girl with the pink and blonde hair. I slide my hand to the small of her back, and she melts into me, the corners of her lips quirking up. I give her a half-smile, nudging her in front of me and toward the door.
“You wanna get out of here?” I breathe into her ear.
She giggles, then nods. Because duh.
On our way out the door, I see the bartender roll her eyes at me, and I mouth, “Next time,” at her across the crowd. The girl with the pink stripes in her hair remains oblivious.
What can I say? I’m just that good.
two
AUTUMN
“So let me get this straight.”
Trey Harrington, my best friend from college and fellow textile enthusiast, frowns at something on his laptop, then closes the screen halfway and leans forward on the sofa to fix his gaze on me. His dark eyes are narrowed. “You divorced Patrick for cheating on you, but your boutique is still located inside a building his parents own—and you’re planning to stay there… what? Indefinitely?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
Trey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. So, my next question is… why? Why the hell, Autumn?”
“I don’t know,” I huff, blowing out my breath in exasperation. “I mean, Idoknow. It’s a prime spot. Right on Main Street, historic building…”
“And owned by your dickwad ex’s family.”
“Well, yes. But trust me—it’s easier right now. Especially until this show is over, I don’t have the capacity to look for something else and figure all of that out.”
Trey scratches his chin, which is covered in the perfect five o’clock shadow. He slings a Converse-clad foot over one knee and leans back to look up at the ceiling fan. “Girl.”
I snap my fingers at him. “Can you focus? Judging me for my business decisions isnotwhat I asked you for help with. Trust me, I can do that all by myself. What we need to do now is?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Trey waves a hand. “I know. Get the RSVPs sorted. I’m on it.”
He pulls his laptop screen fully open and navigates to the spreadsheet. He clears his throat, starts reading the names of confirmed attendees aloud while I crosscheck on a yellow legal pad. There are only two weeks left until my debut show, and everything has to beperfect—including the upcycled gift bags I’m going to have on each guest’s chair. Trey, with his experience in putting together large events thanks to his wedding planner husband, has graciously agreed to emcee the entire show, as well as help me dot my i’s and cross my t’s—which I’m immensely thankful for, because my brand’s reputation is basically riding on this event.
Even though I started sewing in high school and have been thrifting since that first trip to the Goodwill with my mom, trying to get a line of sustainable, upcycled clothing to take off has been harder than I expected. And Patrick warned me when we were still married—or rather,sneeredat me, if I’m being honest—that no one who’s anyone is looking to buy already-owned, already-worn clothing. When I opened my shop in the red brick building his parents owned on Main Street, I believe the blessing he gave me was something along the lines of, “Glad my parents could help with your penchant for playing public dress-up, babe. Have a good time.”
Fuck that. Patrick, in his Tom Ford suits and Berluti loafers, always knew how to dress, but he definitely didn’t know how to treat a woman—probably because his witchy mother has not-so-secretly always wished she’d be the only woman in his life. Too bad she doesn’t believe me that there’ve beendozens. Probably at the same time. Definitely while he was married to me.
But I’m not thinking about that right now. I’ve got to make sure this show is solid. It’s bad enough to have to see Patrick and his snobby family around town—or even sense their presence when Idon’trun into them. But knowing they think they’re doing me a favor out of the kindness of their ice cold hearts by letting me keep my spot in their building until my business fails? It’s fucking awful.
And I can’t let it happen. Iwon’t.
My pieces this season need to takeoff. I need to see them online, on TV. I need to be able to give my former monster-in-law my most smug, diabolical grin when I fork over next month’s rent check. Because honestly… I’m starting to wonder if they’re right. Maybe thisisa hobby. Maybe my pieces reallydosuck. Maybe I’m nothing more than a little girl, trying to play dress up in the playroom the adults so graciously provided for her.
Whatever. They can all fuck off. At least I got the lake house—even if that obnoxious and way-too-good-looking-for-his-own-good Zeke Holloway is still living in the cabin. That was my own doing, unfortunately. He’s my friend Lydia’s fiancé’s little brother, and he was annoying the hell out of them at home—so I invited him to stay on my property. Naturally.
I’m too fucking nice.
Trey waves a hand in front of my face. “Hey. Autumn. You listening to me? I just asked you three times whether you’ve got a seating chart and you’re just?—”
“Sorry,” I say, snapping out of it. I click my pen. “I’m with you. No to the seating chart, but yes to reserved seats for specific guests. I want to make sure VIPs get seats up front.”
“Good call.” Trey makes a note on the spreadsheet. “Text me the list of the people you want next to the runway, and I’ll set up the chart this week.”
“Kay.”
Trey looks up from his screen, studying me over the laptop. He quirks an eyebrow, and I have to smile. Even with his furrowed brows, Trey is just so stupidly handsome. “Who’s this sullen Autumn and what did you do with my snarky, upbeat best friend?”
