Page 16 of Bullied Pretend Mate
“Yes, of course,” I say, muting the phone to hide the rustling sound of me digging my laptop out of my bag. A second later, I’m perched on the bed, still mostly naked, my towel damp under my ass, as Kelly talks.
“Great. I’m calling because we got your proposal this morning, and we love your stuff!”
I have my hands poised above the keyboard to take notes, and I freeze at this information, my body already starting to react to the news—theylovedmy stuff.
“We’ve been wanting to invest in a more permanent plus-sized inventory, and we think a collaboration between our brands could be a big hit.”
“That’s great,” I say, then realize I’m still on hold. I hit the button and say, “I think so, too! That’s great to hear.”
“So, the next steps for us—we’re going to want a couple of sample pieces sent out, let’s say five of your top designs, in eight different colorways? How does that sound?”
It sounds expensive. I only buy organic, fair-trade fabrics, and creating that many pieces is going to be thousands of dollars. I’ll need a new sewing machine to keep up. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that I still need to drive back to California and find the time to sew each piece.
And they all have to be mybestwork.
“That sounds great,” I say, because what else am I going to say? After gaining a following online for my plus-size fashion influencing, my next dream was always to find a way to sell my clothes so other fat girls could feel good in their bodies, too.
And getting them into Hollerand? Obviously, there’s money to be made, but it’s more about the fact that a teenager like me might walk into the store and see clothes that might actually fit on her body.
“Wonderful,” she says, then goes on to rattle off more information she assures me she’ll be emailing over as well.
When I get off the phone, I sit on the edge of the bed in my towel, body buzzing from this reality.
I have to find a way to get that money.
Ten minutes later, the paralysis has passed, and I’m sitting in front of the mirror, drying my hair, a plan already forming in my head.
I know what I have to do. It goes against every instinct I have, but I’m tired of playing it safe. Moving out to California was about running away, at first, but I took that energy and turned it into runningtowardsomething instead.
And I managed to turn that into a sizable following online. It only makes sense that I keep this ball rolling. I won’t let a lack of funds cut me off from following this dream.
When I’m finished with my hair, I do a quick face of makeup and slide into a short pink dress, admiring myself in the mirror before I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and make for the door.
I’m going to find Felix. See if he’s still willing to play my fake mate.
I get my answer when I throw open the front door, and Felix Rana is standing on the porch, his fist raised, his mouth slightly open.
“Oh,” he says, dropping his fist, his eyes dropping to my lips. “Hey.”
Chapter 8 - Felix
I have a whole speech prepared for Maeve—along with an apology and some groveling over how our friendship fell apart in high school.
But much of that exists in my brain the moment I see her standing at the door, looking even better than she did last night. Her scent overwhelms me, and it’s like I’m a starving man walking into a bakery, unable to do anything while surrounded by the aroma of bread.
She gives me a careful, somewhat withering look. It occurred to me last night that Maeve might have said no to my plan because she’s still mad about what an asshole I was in high school, dropping her to be friends with the guys instead. I avoided her and let her sit alone at lunch, even though it made me sick to my stomach. Since then, I’ve realized that a lot of teenagers are assholes, and a lot of childhood friendships end, but Iamsorry.
And I came here fully prepared to apologize to her for it.
I can’t skip those weddings, and there’s no way I can come up with an excuse for missing each and every one—and I don’t want to upset or disappoint my parents. But I also definitely donotwant to go with Annette.
So I figured I’d need to come and grovel to Maeve.
I’m wearing my get-up from the firehouse, which usually helps when I’m talking to women, but it’s like Maeve doesn’t even notice.
In fact, she doesn’t waste any time—or give me a chance to launch into my speech. Instead of closing the door in my facelike I thought she might, she grabs me by my arm and pulls me into her rental place.
It reminds me of that day in the hallway, when I spotted her coming and acted before I really knew what I was doing. I remember the way it felt to finally press my body to hers. The way it felt to bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe in that intoxicating, winding scent.
