Page 49 of By A Thread

“Be gone, woman.”

I’d managed all of three steps before I heard Linus’s stage whisper. “Blueberry scone.”

I grinned and got to work.

17

Ally

The behind-the-scenes of aLabeleditorial photo shoot was exciting enough, interesting enough, to pull me out of my funk.

In front of me, five models preened and posed for the photographer on a set constructed entirely out of white boxes. Music thudded from overhead speakers. The contributing editor in charge of the shoot gnawed nervously on a pen cap behind the photographer.

There was a bearded dude in stonewashed jeans whose sole job seemed to be flipping a large piece of cardboard at the models to make their hair look windblown.

Linus snuck his phone out of his pocket and snapped a few pictures in rapid succession.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

He checked his watch and nudged me toward the door.

“We’re doing high-level babysitting,” he explained, firing off a text and tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“You’re reporting to Dalessandra,” I guessed, taking a slurp of the cappuccino I’d ordered myself on the company card. The caffeine and sugar made me giddy.

“That’s right. I reassure her that everyone is doing their jobs so she can focus on doing hers. Usually it’s all lies, and we’re all just holding on by a thread.”

I ducked as an assistant trundled a rolling rack between us.

When it passed, Linus was already halfway across the room. He snapped his fingers as he headed toward the door.

“Where are we going?” I asked, jogging to keep up.

He gave me a scornful head-to-toe look. “To do something with that God-awful footwear. And maybe the pants if we have time.”

* * *

A Carolina Herreraskirt hit me in the face. I barely managed to catch the red, high-waisted pants that came next. We were in the area of the forty-secondfloor dubbed The Closet. It was a huge expanse of ruthlessly organized racks and shelves. Thousands of designer samples lived in this room.

My heart tapped out a happy little pitter-pat when I spotted the pair of leather moto leggings that I was positive Cher had been photographed in last year.

“This, too.” A gold corded belt flew in my direction. My arms were already full of luxury brand apparel, rained down upon me by a man who’d apparently lost his mind.

Linus turned away from the rack and held up a creamy cable-knit sweater to my chest. “Eh, close enough,” he muttered

“What exactly is all this for?” I asked, spitting green silk out of my mouth.

“For you, Admin Ally with the wardrobe of a sad, poor teenager.”

“I can’t afford any of these,” I squeaked as he dropped a pair of slobber-inducing pumps in purple suede on top of the pile. I was starting to tip backward.

“These are all seasons old. No one needs them. No one but you, Ms. Thrift Shop 1998.”

“Linus, I have zero money. Like ‘if I see a penny, I will pick it up’ have no money.”

“Don’t be annoying. I’m gifting these to you like a black, crabby Santa.”

“Are you kidding me?” Half of the items I was clutching fell to the floor.