Page 14 of Fashionista's Playbook

The nostalgic sentiment in his voice haunted me. I relaxed and leaned into him, just a little. I’d learned over these past few weeks that their parents died when Vin and Travis were young. But this was the first time he’d said anything to me.

“We totally have to buy the couch.”

He chuckled. “I always wanted one. Seems more masculine than the tropical plants plastered all over our couch cushions.”

With a flinch I straightened the hem of my skirt and shot him a pained expression. “Please don’t say white wicker.”

“Nah. I was hitting over two-hundred and more than six feet tall by middle school—I’d have obliterated wicker.”

“Thank God.” I dropped my shoulders like the relief was just too great. “Birds on the throw pillows?”

“Yup. Bright green parrots.”

I smacked a hand over my mouth to cover the hyena laugh that bubbled out. Too little, too late as passerby turned to stare. “Always colorful bird pillows at the beach houses my parents rented for vacations.”

“We never went to the beach on vacations because we lived close. It was a day trip for the four of us.”

The happy memories flashed on his face. I left him with them and settled back against the couch.

“Thanks.” He said after several long minutes.

“For what?” I hadn’t done a thing.

“You didn’t ask me a hundred questions or try to, I dunno, play a sympathy card or something, try to relate to the death of my parents—what happened to Vin afterward. Most women do.”

“I work for you.” I stood, put my hands on my hips, and eyed the matching pieces. His family, his past, while important parts of his life, didn’t necessarily play into my job. “I’m not trying to get into your bed. I imagine most of them are.”

I could see how easily a woman could play the sympathy card. Who wouldn’t want Travis Madera to look at them with that mix of desire and melancholy?

You. You don’t want it, because you need this job.

“I respect your past, the things that brought you to where you are.” It was a miracle I didn’t stumble over those words. “You want to talk about them, about your life, I’d be honored to listen.”

He turned to me with a lopsided sheepish grin. “I’m just a regular guy.”

“No, you aren’t.” I shook my head and stopped in front of the large sectional. “Own it. you’re a badass. Your parents raised a good man. The rest—was all you.”

Travis always moved with a surprising grace considering the muscle he carried around. He stood from the couch and draped a warm arm over my shoulders. “Thanks. Does your fashionista’s eye think this might look good in the living room?”

The weight of his touch was platonic, friendly, a half-joking move, and yet little tendrils of excitement whispered across my skin.

I stepped from his embrace and took a deep breath, pretending to study the large leather piece. “It’s so dark in that room though…”

But my mind was already running through the possibilities, visualizing the various possible layouts. I snapped my fingers and spun, excited now for an entirely different reason. “That big white rug, when we walked in. Center of the room. This around it, some accent pillows for a pop of color.” Masculine but comfortable, very much Travis.

“I think you’ve been trying to convince me to buy that rug since we walked in. And that bedroom set for the guest room.” But there was a ring of pleasure in his laugh. “Fine. Get the sales guy, let's make this happen, I’ve got to get to practice.”

I glanced longingly back at the mahogany four-poster on the other side of the store. A few more weeks working for Travis and I could probably buy a real bed for myself.

“I’ll settle for the rug.” I winked at him as I went to track down an employee.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Moriah

He wasn’t supposed to be home. He practiced on Thursdays, even when they traveled. And yet, for the second time, I stumbled across a shirtless Travis Madera and was woefully unprepared.

This time, I practically ran right into him.

---