Page 90 of Fashionista's Playbook

The little storefront on a side street was in a funky, artsy area. I hopped out of the vehicle, stepped over the curb, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered through the grimy glass. The space wasn’t large, but mostly all one room, with what looked to be real wood floors.

“It’s small,” Travis mused from beside me. “But there’s good parking for potential clients.”

A hipster chic block, with coffee shops and bookstores, it was perfect for what I needed. Eager emotion welled up in my chest. I was riding the high of opening Travis’ Kids, of everything. “And alley access for me. It’s perfect, Travis. I can put up curtains to block off the fitting area, buy a few mannequins to showcase designs—”

“And an easel, for some of your drawings…” He added, getting into it with me.

I whipped out my phone. “I’m going to get the realtor’s information and find out,”—I took a deep breath— “if I can get approved for the lease.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. I still hadn’t got used to him touching me like that and little tingles of pleasure spread out all over me.

“You’ll get it; this place is perfect for you.” He bent and brushed his lips across mine.

It was early enough on a Saturday that the sidewalks were just now starting to gain passersby. Hat pulled low on his browand a long sleeve shirt covering his tats, Travis was barely recognizable.

Except to me. Nobody’s lips felt quite like his.

I pulled away as my cheeks and other parts heated and sent the text to the realty company.

Travis watched me with an amused grin that left him looking younger and more carefree. For the first time in my life, everything was going right.

“Come on, let’s go home.” I tugged him toward the truck.

“You don’t want to check out the neighborhood?”

“Not really. I’m feeling—affectionate.” The saucy look I shot him cleared up any confusion.

He all but ran to the driver’s side.

****

The sweater was absolutely horrendous, and I’d never been prouder. I’d spent hours painstakingly sewing tiny branches of a fake Christmas tree to the front of the atrocious orange fabric. The dangling ornaments made from cheap earrings really set it off.

But it was the jangle of the little bells when I danced in a circle that sold the ensemble.

Black, form-hugging leggings, with boots that laced up to my knees earned a low hum of approval from Travis.

“Those boots are…” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

He didn’t need to. I could read the desire in the heated glance that trailed up over my legs and past the horrendous sweater. He downed the water in his hand in several long, loud gulps.

I’d never felt sexier.

“And wait, there’s more.” I teased with a flirtatious flip of my hair.

From behind me I produced a large blue, cable-knit sweater covered in small dreidels. Nowhere near as tacky as the one I wore, but Travis cringed.

But when I smiled, he chuckled.

I pinched the centermost dreidel, and they all flashed colors that simulated their traditional spin.

“A Jewish ugly Christmas sweater?” Travis quirked a brow.

“Yeah, since Clutch Berkley’s Jewish and it ishisugly sweater party.”

He took the garment and pulled it over his head. “You never fail to surprise me, Mariposa.”

“Yes well, I wanted to make an impression.” This would be my first time at a team thing, as his girlfriend. Not that we had fully defined our relationship, but this pretty much would.

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