Page 28 of Ticket to You

“Tu es superbe! Tournoyer!”

I think about Adam getting a full view of my outfit and can’t fight the blushing on my cheeks. “Oh non, non,” I say, forcing a light laugh.

“Tournoyer,” Henri says again, this time grabbing my hand and bringing it above my head.

Henri spins me slowly, his hand along my hip. My eyes flash to Adam. I expect to see a laugh or that mischievous glimmer in his eyes again, but his expression is serious. His gaze is focused on Henri’s hand tracing my waist as I spin.

“Qui est ton ami?” Henri asks, turning his gaze to Adam.

“C'est Adam Abrams,” I say.

Adam straightens at the sound of his name and extends his hand out to Henri who takes it gingerly and holds it in the air.

“C'est mon assistant,” I explain.

“Parlez-vous français?” Henri asks Adam.

“Uh, no,” Adam says, pulling his hand back robotically.

“Well, then if we wish to gossip about you, we will speak in French,” Henri says in his heavy accent.

Grabbing my hand, Henri guides me to a rack of clothes in the back of the studio. Behind us, Adam is busy snapping candid photos of us and the room, though he doesn’t take more than a photo or two at a time before looking back at Henri and me.

“These are my newest creations.” Henri waves his hand over the rack where fabric spills out from under the hangers. “Come, try more on.”

I try to protest, but it’s no use. Henri spends the next hour dressing me like a doll, stripping me down to my leotard each time before redressing me between interview questions. Even though I never take the leotard off, Adam is always careful to look away when I’m between outfits, and I see his face flush red whenever he does so.

Adam’s glances at us evolve into glares toward Henri. Thankfully, Henri is happy enough to have someone new to dress and doesn’t think to look Adam’s way until asking for his opinion on the last dress from the rack.

“This piece is inspired by Karl Lagerfeld’s 1991 Chanel dress he designed for Iman…clearly,” Henri says with a chuckle, tracing the length of my arm along the sleeve.

“Clearly,” Adam says, and I hope the language barrier is enough to hide his sarcasm.

“The gathering at the neck, the tight bodice,” Henri rambles on, his hands moving across the dress as he reflects on it, “the fine beadwork, and, of course, a fresh take on vermilion.”

“Vermillion?” Adam scoffs.

Henri raises his eyebrows. “Yes, vermilion. Is there a problem?”

“It’s. Just. Red,” Adam says, clenching his jaw.

Henri’s mouth hangs open in surprise, but before he has to muster up a response, his cell phone goes off and he steps into a side room to answer it. He scowls at Adam before closing the door.

“Exactly what the hell is wrong with you, Abrams?” I growl.

“This guy is a real piece of work.”

“Listen, I know you don’t ‘get’ fashion, but you need to play along before you ruin this interview,” I whisper back. “He invited us here—with hardly any notice—and put us up in the nicest hotel in the city, and you’re mocking him?”

Adam marches over to me and leans down to come face-to-face. His eyes seem darker, more intense than usual. “Are you okay, Ophelia?”

“Excuse me?” I hold back a laugh. Adam rarely calls me by just my first name, and his concerned expression takes me off guard.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Adam whispers, his expression twisting. “This guy is playing dress-up with you, ordress-down, I should say, and he’s all touchy and—”

“Abrams,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder to make sure Henri isn’t coming back yet.

Adam flexes his jaw. “If he’s making you feel uncomfortable atall, we can leave. IfAtelieris upset about it, I’ll explain the situation.”

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