Fatshionista (15 page)

Pro, it would put
us both in close proximity to a soft, comfortable bed. So it would be super
easy to rip off his clothes and work out the frustrations of all the nighttime
fantasies, especially since it wouldn’t be a dream and I was currently wearing
very comfortable and easy-to-remove cotton underwear and a lovely push-up bra.

Con, I was
wearing underwear that was easily removed and considering throwing myself on a
gay client while he was a guest in my home. Yep, maybe we just needed to meet
at the corner coffee shop; safer for him, safer for me, and safer for my
underwear.

I dropped Avis
off at her place and changed my outfit before I met Daniel at the Dew Drop
Coffee Shop. I decided the only thing I’d be ordering would be green tea; that
shouldn’t stain if I dribbled it all over myself.

It had turned a
little chilly, as the sun was starting to go down, and I was glad I had added a
scarf and sweater to the outfit. Cold weather had both plusses and minuses for
me. Plus: I got to cover more stuff up. I wasn’t the biggest fan of my arms and
pale legs, but I refused to sweat to death in the New York summer or deal with
the mess that was self-tanner. So colder weather offered a nice reprieve to all
the skin-showing that happened in the warmer months. Minus: if I wasn’t careful
with the layering, I could walk out of the house looking like the Michelin man.
Nothing like a few added layers of clothing to cover the already slightly
exaggerated curves I was hauling around. I loved my curves, but even I drew the
line at looking like I was carrying around a spare tire—or two or three.

When I opened the
door to the coffee shop, the sweet smell of ground beans and the comforting
warmth wrapped around me. I paused in the middle of the open doorway to look
around and almost jumped out of my skin when I heard a voice directly behind my
left ear say “Perfect timing.”

I whipped around
and slammed my head into the bottom of Daniel’s chin. What was he doing that
close to me? We both groaned and held on to our respective ouchies while
glaring at one another.

“You scared the
crap out of me,” I said while rubbing the top of my head, messing up my
artfully arranged messy up-do even more.

“Well, you
knocked the daylights out of me and made me bite my tongue, so I guess we’re
even,” he said while he rubbed his chin and simultaneously stuck his tongue out
at me.

“Serves you right;
you should know better than sneak up on a woman. And put your tongue back in
your mouth; you look like a child.”

“Mamke me,” he
said, lispy, since his tongue was still hanging out of his mouth.

“Very mature. Don’t
stick it out unless you’re going to use it.”

He grinned
wickedly and raised his eyebrows. “Is that a dare? Because I never back down
from a dare.”

That smile and
the gleam in his eye was almost my undoing. For a moment I forgot we were
standing in a public place, forgot we were still blocking the entrance to the
shop until a guy behind me said, “Can you two kids take this out to the
playground? Some of us have places to be.”

I grabbed Daniel
and quickly shifted us to the right to let the man by. This forced us to wedge
even closer together, and once again I was enveloped with the spicy, sexy smell
that was Mr. Singh. I closed my eyes for a split second to just savor it; this
smell even came to me when I was dreaming. I was becoming almost as familiar
with it as I was with my own perfume. It was heady and intoxicating and exotic
and familiar all at the same time.

That last thought
made me smile, and I snapped back into action, giving him one last glare while
turning on my heel and heading to the counter. I was so busy making my
graceful, haughty exit that I missed the lady heading toward the door with her
latte. Unfortunately the latte did not miss me, and when I bumped into her, a
nice big splash of coffee ended up…wait for it, wait for it—that’s right!
It ended up all over my chest. I guess I could get that café mocha with the
extra shot of chocolate I wanted. I couldn’t imagine how anything I dropped on
me could look any worse than this woman’s latte.

Daniel was torn
between concern for my breasts and the humor of seeing me, once again, look
like a piece of modern art. He was able to suppress his laughter and ask in a
pseudo-concerned voice, “Millie, my God, are you ok? That has to be painful.”
Why was it that only my sloppy, accident-prone nature ever caused this man to
stare at my breasts?

“Are your boobies
hurt?” he asked with all seriousness.

At this point, I
was the one who couldn’t suppress my laughter. “Boobies? Boobies? What are you,
twelve? I feel like I’m talking to a prepubescent kid who just stumbled across
his dad’s old collection of
Playboy
. For goodness sake, Daniel, grown
men do not use the word boobies, and it was iced coffee. I’m fine.” Boobies?
Boobies? I was attracted to a man who still used the word “boobies”?

At this point I
was aware of the small audience we had acquired. There were only about five
people in the shop, as it was closer to dinner time than coffee time, but every
one of them had stopped typing, reading, and talking to watch our little
impromptu performance.

“Lower your voice,
my dear, you’re causing a scene.”

I loved how when he
was embarrassed, his British accent became more clipped and hard, not the soft,
lilting accent he usually had. It almost made me want to rattle him, just to
hear it. Made me feel like a bad schoolgirl who was being scolded by the
headmaster. Oh Lord, there my mind went wandering again.

“Whatever. I may
be clumsy and I may have breasts—breasts, I repeat, not boobies—that
are unnaturally attracted to stains, but at least I can talk about body parts
without sounding like a naughty schoolgirl.” Oops.

His eyebrows shot
up across his forehead. “Naughty schoolgirl? As much as I would wish for you to
elaborate on that particular comment, I think we should order our beverages and
take our seats before we attract any more attention. Shall we?” He led us over
to the barista, and I ordered my mocha.

We made it to a
table in the corner with no more incidents. We settled into a small table for
two, and I was flustered that our knees met under the table. I hadn’t really
thought about the size of the tables and their close proximity to one another
when I suggested this place. Normally I was here on my own and had the whole
table to myself.

I tried to shake
off the distraction of his leg pressed up to mine and blew on my coffee while
watching him under my eyelashes. He had ordered a cup of chai and was staring
into it.

I looked up and
sighed. “Just say it, Daniel. Whatever it is that prompted you to schlep out to
Brooklyn on Saturday has to be pretty important, so just spit it out.”

He looked almost
upset at having to talk to me. Obviously this was a little more serious than
him wanting to change some music or a set piece. He took a sip of his chai then
put down the mug and leaned across the table toward me. “Millie, how well do
you know Scarlett?”

I put my own mug
down and leaned across the table toward him. “I told you before: She has only
been at the company a few weeks, and I’ve barely spoken to her. I know she’s
ambitious, and I know she somehow wrangled an office out of Marta on her first
day, but other than that, I know very little about her. Why do you ask?”

He looked down at
his chai and fiddled with his napkin. He took a deep breath and sighed before
finally looking me in the eye. “Well, I’m sure you remember my saying that
Scarlett went to university with my sister and that was how I was introduced to
both her and your company, through my sister.” He sat back in his chair and crossed
his arms, looking like he needed to put some distance between me and the news
he was about to deliver.

“Yes, I remember
the conversation we had that morning in my office where you told me all of
this. Daniel, what has happened? Does this have something to do with Scarlett?”
I couldn’t figure out if there was something about his sister he needed to tell
me or about him or about Scarlett. Whatever it was, I wanted him to stop
dragging it out and just say it.

“Yes, this has
something to do with Scarlett, you, and your future at the company.”

That got my
attention. I sat up straight and looked around. I didn’t know what I was
concerned about; there was no one in this place who knew me, knew Daniel, or
knew anything about what we did, but somehow I felt like whatever he was
getting ready to say was going to be monumental, and I wanted as few witnesses
as possible.

He leaned back
across the table and took one of my hands between both of his. “Millie, my
sister called me last night and said she and Scarlett had been out to dinner
and a club. She said that all Scarlett could talk about was her new promotion.
She said that she was taking over as production supervisor and couldn’t wait
for Marta to get back from Europe so it would be announced to the team. She
also said that my show would be the last show you ever produce for Marta.”

He kept my hand
tight between both of his, the warmth of his fingers the only thing that held me
to the ground. I felt like I was floating, like I was high above, looking down
on all the things that made up my life. There was my job. There was a tiny
piece that represented my friends and a little bit larger piece that was the
blog, but everything else—everything else that mattered to me, that
motivated me, that inspired me—was in my job.

What was I going
to do? How could I fight this? What would I fight? Was Marta not pleased with
my work? Was Scarlett blackmailing her for the job? Would I find another
position in another company, or would the taint of being let go haunt me? A
million questions ran through my mind. I couldn’t stop staring at the long,
light brown fingers wrapped around my paler hand.

I was so
embarrassed that I couldn’t even look him in the eye. What did he think of me?
He said he knew my work, but maybe he wondered why Marta would replace me so
quickly if I was so good at what I did. I didn’t know what say to him. Thanks?
Screw you? Laugh it off? Cry? I couldn’t get a handle on anything I was feeling,
so I just continued to stare at our hands.

“Millie, say
something. I know I dropped a bomb, but please, tell me what to do. Did you
have any idea this was coming? I hated bringing this to you, but I’ve grown
fond of you over the past few weeks, and I know you are excellent at what you
do, and I just couldn’t carry this around, working with you every day and not
saying something.”

There were so
many things on the tip of my tongue, but nothing was coming out. I wanted to
tell him no worries, smile and say I would take care of it. Remind him that our
business was one of rumors and backstabbing (I had been making a living off of
that very thing for the past two years), but I still couldn’t get any words
out. And I felt the tears coming as well.

I didn’t
typically cry when I was sad; I cried when I was angry. I had an angry cry.
When I got so freaking mad and frustrated that nothing was going the way I wanted
and no one was listening, my first urge was to cry. But I was determined not to
break down in front of him. First, he was a client—a client for whom I
was currently designing a show, although it sounded like it might be my last.
Second, I liked him, and I didn’t want him to regret telling me this, or feel
like he had to take care of me. I had received bad news before and always
bounced back; I just hadn’t had enough time to get my feet back under me.

“Millie, you’re
breaking my heart over here. Please say something.” The grip on my hand
tightened as he continued to plead with me to speak. Funny how normally people wished
I would shut up, and here was a man begging me to say something. Were I not
just slammed down to the floor emotionally, I would have smiled at that. I
looked up from our clasped hands into his eyes. They were such kind eyes,
filled with concern for me. Whisky brown with just a little bit of gold hints
around the irises.

I didn’t know
what came over me. I raised my left hand to his stubble-covered cheek and
cupped his face. The feel of his stubble under the sensitive skin of my palm made
me tingle. His eyes widened a fraction as I drew his face close to mine while I
leaned toward him.

My eyes drifted
shut as I gingerly placed my lips on his. I slowly rubbed them back and forth
against his and stroked his stubble-covered cheek with my fingertips. My other
hand was still held between both of his, and he tightened his fingers around it
when our lips touched.

I opened my mouth
just slightly to taste his lips. They were sweet and spicy from his chai. I
sighed into his mouth and continued to gently kiss him, nothing forceful, nothing
passion-laced, although passion simmered inside of me.

I ended the kiss
and eased myself back into my chair. I couldn’t look him in the eye, so I stared
at my hand still held so tightly between both of his.

“I’m sorry,” I
whispered. “That was completely inappropriate I just needed…” Well, that was a
long list, what I needed. Better to just stop there.

“Millicent.” I
loved how he said my whole name, sounding out each syllable with the British
accent. “Millicent, look at me.”