Page 67 of With a Cherry On Top

I stare down at my own corn dog. Now I regret suggesting we get them. The last thing I want is to make things harder for her.

“What about your art?” I ask.

“My art?”

“Yeah. You’re always sketching.”

“Oh. That’s not art, it’s just clothes.”

Just clothes?

I think of the way she talked about people who got their shit together later in life. I assumed modeling was what she wanted to do because they were big names in the fashion industry. But Vera Wang, Christian Dior, Anna Wintour...they’re not models—they’re stylists, designers, critics.

“You design clothes. Thatisart, Charlotte.”

She nods, looking almost shy now. “Well, I don’t just design them. I make them.”

My brain scrambles. “Wait. You sew and...whatever else making clothes entails?”

She laughs. “Yes, Aaron. I sew and whatever else making clothes entails.”

“Seriously? Have I ever seen anything you’ve made?”

“You’re looking at it now.”

I glance down at her red dress—it looks made for her., because itis.

“This? You made this?”

She nods. “Most of the clothes I wear are my own.”

My mouth falls open. “Wait—so the black two-piece? The dress with the corset? And the—shit—the jeans skirt? You made those?”

Her smile widens. “You’ve been noticing my outfits?”

I notice everything about you.

“Hard not to,” I murmur. “It’s just—the way you dress...you’re not wearing your clothes. It’s like they’re a part of you. Which I guess they are.”

Her shoulders roll back, like she’s standing a little taller despite still sitting on the curb. “What’s your favorite?”

Oh, fuck. How am I supposed to pick?

Maybe . . .I glance down at the lace edging her décolletage, at the tiny satin-covered buttons lining the side .“This one. It’s really . . .” Hot. Inappropriate. Perfect. “ . . . pretty.”

She fondly looks down at the dress. “It’s my favorite too.”

“It shows.”

She glances down at her corn dog. “I could make something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Your clothes kind of...lack personality. No offense. You’re not your clothes—you just wear them.”

She’s right. I don’t give a single shit about what I wear. But if she made something for me, I’d wear it until the seams frayed and the fabric turned to dust.

“Wouldn’t you rather work with that instead of modeling?”

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