Page 40 of By A Thread

“Ally.” I offered my hand.

She was holding an iPad open to a calendar app. “Christian has an hour set aside for your meeting today before he needs to take a call with a supplier.”

“What calendar app is that?” I asked, peering over the screen. I loved a good calendar.

Agnes and I compared notes on organizational apps for a minute while Dominic ignored us both.

Her phone buzzed an alert, and she wrinkled her nose. “I’ll show you two to the conference room,” Agnes said, her brain already moving on to her next task. She led us to a glassed-in conference room. Framed black-and-white prints of models and dresses and presumably famous fashion people leaned against still bare walls. The long farmhouse table held a cluster of succulents in the center.

Dominic pulled out a chair for me, and I sat, carefully, suspiciously, in case he thought it would be funny to pull it out from under me.

To my surprise, he sat next to me. For all his talk about being annoyed and inconvenienced by me, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get away from me.

I unloaded my laptop and ignored his judgmental stare. Shame wasn’t a feeling I harbored regarding my financial situation. It was an obstacle to overcome. A challenge. And I had no intention of failing.

“You really should consider the fact that you are representingLabel,” he said when Agnes left the room.

“I should, should I?” I challenged, keying in my login. This dinosaur took a good four minutes to lumber to life.

“Appearances are what drive this industry.” His gaze skimmed my laptop and then my thrift store outfit.

“IfLabelis so concerned with appearances, they are welcome to accessorize me or—here’s a thought—don’t send me out in public,” I said, exasperated. “There are plenty of more attractive admins capable of taking notes.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but we were interrupted by pure, unadulterated handsome.

“Dominic, thanks for meeting me. And you must be Ally.” The man who entered the room was quite frankly delicious. His smile was warm enough to heat up the January chill. Bright green eyes framed by thick lashes and dark curling hair, cut short.

He wore low slung jeans and a tight long-sleeve tee. And a vest.

I beamed.

Dominic gave my leg a nudge under the table with his own. “Try to control yourself,” he muttered dryly before standing and shaking the designer’s hand.

Christian was an enthusiastic guy with big goals. As he personally escorted us on a tour of the facility, it became clear that everything he did came from a place of passion. Life to Christian James was color and texture and beauty and fun.

It was easy to see what Dalessandra had been drawn to.

I mean, besides the fact that he was insanely good-looking.

Where Dominic was frowny and broody, Christian was dimpled and friendly. Where Dominic was cold, Christian was warm.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing at a mannequin wearing a pair of still-under-construction wide-legged pants.

Christian grinned at me, and I gave myself permission to bask in that lovely warmth, ignoring Dominic’s chilly glare.

Sure. Maybe my outside-this-building situation was a complete disaster. But right this second, enjoying the company of two very attractive men—in sexy vests no less—I could afford to feel pretty dang positive about life.

“Those are part of a pet project,” he told me. “An inclusion line.”

“I’m new to the industry,” I explained apologetically.

“I’m sure he can guess that,” Dominic said uncharitably.

I shot him a dirty look over my shoulder, and the man actually managed to crack the slightest of smiles. And there went those goose bumps again. I was an Ally sandwich with very handsome bread.

“An inclusion line is a series of designs created for individuals with disabilities,” Christian explained, gesturing me forward. He demonstrated the hidden elastic waistband.

“Why is it a pet project?” I asked, intrigued.