Page 51 of Flare

“Says the man whoneverpushes. At. All.” Rafe shook his head. “I’m not buying it. You really like this guy, don’t you?”

“Kind of obvious, don’t you think?” I slid down in my seat and threw my pen across the desk. “And I need to snap out of it. He’s not interested, that’s clear, or at least not enough. I mean, he’s a fashion designer, for fuck’s sake. And look at me. That’s crazy thinking, right there.”

Rafe growled, “Don’t make me come over there and slap you.”

I ignored him. “I need to apologise. I really enjoy talking with him, and I’d like to stay friends.”

Rafe studied me. “Is that all you want?”

“Of course not.” I threw up my hands. “But it’s better than nothing. I like Rhys in more than just a get-in-his-pants way, so yes, a friendship would be good. And you’re always saying I should broaden my social connections outside of the university.”

Rafe pursed his lips. “I do say that, don’t I? I’m a smart man. You should listen to me.”

I rolled my eyes. “I just have to work out how best to apologise.”

“Oh dear God, don’t make it complicated.” Rafe leaned forward to give my tiny beard a sharp tug. “Wow, that is short. But he was right. It looks much better on you. He must like you enough to tell you.”

“He was just doing what he does.” I waved a hand. “He’s a designer. It probably offends his sensibilities to leave a place or person not looking at least a little better than when he arrived. I’ve heard him tell lots of people how sexy they look in his designs. Making people feel good is part of the job.”

“But you weren’t a customer and you weren’t wearing his designs,” Rafe pointed out.

“Maybe.” I ran a hand over my jaw. “Man, I feel naked and bloody cold. I had to wrap my scarf around my mouth walking up from the parking lot.”

Rafe laughed. “Stop your bitching. It looks good. And for fuck’s sake, do something about this guy. Beard or no beard, I can’t bear looking at your tragic mopey face for a second longer than absolutely necessary.”

CHAPTERTEN

Rhys

“Goddammit!”I slammed the lid shut on my laptop and shoved it across my desk, sending my chair whizzing backwards into the wall. On the other side of the glass, Kip spun around from where he was serving a customer and shot me a disapproving look. The dismal weather, bucketing with rain and an icy southerly straight off Antarctica, had sent lunchtime office workers flocking to the stores, and Kip had been run off his feet for over an hour.

“Sorry,” I mouthed, pushing to my feet to start pacing instead. Kip rolled his eyes and went back to his line of customers, no doubt apologising for his arsehole boss. I’d been zero help to him all day, stuck in my office signing off on Fashion Week promotions and checking and rechecking the links Kip had forwarded me that morning showing more of my designs in someone else’s store. The photos from Hunter, along with that disastrous evening with Beck, had stripped me off sleep for two nights running, and Kip was ready to string me up.

Not that he was any less pissed about things. After ranting and raging about someone stealing one of my best designs, he’d made it his mission, in between customers, to track down whoever was responsible so that I wouldn’t have to. I needed to know who would do that to me? They had to know I’d find out. But they’d also know I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

Which brought me back to the image on my computer screen, and I turned the laptop around for another look. My design, for sale on a competitor’s website, under another label, and at a fuckton less money than I had on it. No wonder our sale numbers had dropped recently. Why buy from the legitimate designer when you can get it down the road at an even bigger label for a third less in their streetwear range.Streetwear range.What the actual fuck? There was nothing about that shirt that said streetwear. But it was a good way to justify the lower price.

I stormed out of my office and headed for the kitchen. A fuckton of caffeine was called for. It couldn’t make things any worse. I pushed the button on the ridiculously expensive machine I’d bought for the shop that ground its own beans, only to be greeted by silence and a flashing instruction on the small screen.

Empty Grounds Container.

“Fuck!” I whispered with force.

I hauled the grounds container free, bashed it on the edge of the rubbish bin till it was clean, then slammed it back into place and pushed the button again.

Fill Tank.

I stared at the message in pure disbelief. “Am I the only fucking person that does this shit around here?”

“Sit!” Kip shoved me toward the table. “And keep your damn voice down. I’m pretty sure they heard you at the train station.”

“Why is there never any water in that damn machine? I filled it yesterday.”

“And I filled it this morning, so quit your whining.” Kip topped up the tank, slid it back into place, and pushed the two-shot button. It sprang to life, and the reassuring buzz of coffee beans being shredded mellowed my brain chemistry enough to apologise.

“Sorry.”

Kip arched a brow. “I take it this is about Gloria?”

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