Page 6 of Already His

As I was making instant noodles for dinner, and a cup of tea, my phone buzzed on the table. I stared at it like it was a viper about to pounce. Elliot’s insistence on calling me was one of the dimmest recollections from last night. I picked it up, and an unknown number was ringing. I clicked it off in mortification, and stuffed it into my hoodie pocket, as though hiding it would make it less embarrassing. Good girls wouldn’t have gyrated in a billionaire asshole’s lap and told him you wished he was chocolate so you could eat him up with a spoon. He must be calling to check I didn’t do something life-threatening in my drunkenness, like iron my hair, or take a bath while wasted. I considered texting him a moment, to lay his mind at rest, then I remembered what an asshole he’d been at the church.

Clutching my instant noodles, tea, and laptop, I declared this day done. I had completed the minimum actions necessary for survival, and I was finished. Back to bed, it was.

Chapter 5

Mia

You know you’re getting older when it takes two days to get over a truly wretched hangover, and somehow, the second day isworse.

Monday morning, I made it into the studio ten minutes late and was immediately called to my boss’s office. Never a good sign. With a sigh that rattled my bones, I clutched my coffee, my only lifeline at this point, and went to face the music.

“Morning Stefania,” I called to her, as she did her spin work out with the TV blaring an incredibly annoying instructor’s shrill encouragement.

“Decided to show up?” Stefania, boss, and constant headache snapped at me. She stopped cycling and slipped off the bike, mopping her sweaty face and neck with a towel.

“Yeah, the bus-,” I started, and was relieved when she cut me off. I hadn’t actually known where I was going with that excuse.

“Save it. I had an assignment for you. It’s extra responsibility, and might keep you late, but look at it as a good experience,” she said, drinking her green smoothie.

“It doesn’t pay extra then?” I clarified, shooting her a hopeful smile, which was immediately crushed beneath her scornful expression.

“Pay extra? You’re lucky to get paid at all. I could have an endless carousel of interns who’d do your job for free,” she said, a sweet titbit she liked to remind me off on a weekly basis, “Anyway, it’s just a fitting. Who gets paid extra for a fitting?” she muttered, wrinkling her thrice sculpted nose in annoyance.

“Ok, great, I’ll get right to it,” I said, knowing that to argue was only to prolong my torture. The smell of all the scented candles in her office was kicking off my nausea from the hangover. I could swear one of them was Champagne scent.

“Fine, good. Your appreciation for your job is notable, as always,” she sniffed, turning away and dismissing me.

I trekked back to my desk, if a square corner of a countertop, right next to two sewing machines and the printer could be described as such.

“Morning, love,” Dominique, my co-worker and no doubt the only reason I’d kept the job so long looked at me sympathetically. She always reassured me that she had been in the same boat as me a year ago, and now she was an in-house designer, getting paid to conceptualize new designs. I’d seen her work, and I’d seen her paycheck. I wasn’t the only one getting screwed out of what they were worth here. I dropped my bag on my desk and sank into a chair.

“That bad, huh?”

“I drank too much… Angel had a blast though.” Despite my hangover and majorly embarrassing behavior, the image of Angel and West saying their vows stayed with me. True love is memorable like that.

“You want something to eat? I’m just going to run to the shop,” Dominique said. I drained my coffee and shook my head. I plucked the pink post-it with an Upper East Side address on it off my desk and waved it at her. Dominique pulled a face.

“Already? You just got in,” she grumbled for me, she peered and it, “Ouch, Upper East, that’s the worst. A hundred bucks the client is over sixty,” she guessed. I sighed and resisted the urge to knock my head against the desk. That’s good for headaches, right? Upper East side was always old, always rich and terrifyingly out of touch with the world. I had to make a full wardrobe last month for an older gentleman in the same postcode that had looked like an extra’s from Bugsy Malone.

“When are we starting our own studio again?” I asked Dominique, as she stood up and fished her purse out of her bag.

“When we have one million, five hundred and sixty dollars, remember?” Dominique said, referencing the night we had both got shit-faced, and written down a list of expenses for the first year of making our own studio business, if we only ate ramen, and didn’t have any other employees.

“Right, well, don’t spend too much at the shop!” I called to her, as she walked away.

“Black coffee only!” She replied with a smile.

* * *

An hour later, I was standing on the doorstep of a Victorian brownstone sitting on a leafy street. The entire row screamed old money, and I found myself smoothing my hair nervously. House calls were simultaneously fascinating and awkward. I got to see inside a millionaire’s house, but unfortunately, I also had to interact with said millionaire. I rang the bell and waited.

The street was so quiet, I could hear actual birds in the trees. I had started to think that New York City was an inhospitable environment for anything other than people, rats, and cockroaches. I guess money could buy you quiet, even in the heart of the city. I pressed the bell again, irritation growing.

“Mia?” A voice called to me, and I turned to see Elliot bloody Winter, running easily down the quiet pavement, dressed in jogging gear. His legs were lean and muscled, and a sweat-slicked shirt hugged his torso. Broad shoulders tapered into a neat waist. He bounced as he ran, light and agile, despite his exertion, and I became aware I was just staring at him hungrily, as he climbed the stone steps toward me.

“I apologize for being late. You’re earlier than I’d expected.” His voice was deliciously deep, and insanely educated sounding. He was a lawyer after all. It was reminding me of every unrequited professor crush I’d ever had in college.

“Wait… what’s happening?” I asked, joining the painfully obvious dots. “You requested a fitting from my studio?” My voice was a little more on the shrill side than ideal, but it was the best I could do.

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