Page 18 of Tangled Like Us
But his palm never makes contact, never touches or crosses that boundary unless safety decreeshe must.
I wonder what his protective hands would feel like on my skin. Climbing up the slopes of my body.
Heat sears the nape of my neck again.
Come on, Jane.
No distractions.Not even of the panty-soaking hot bodyguard variety.
I have a bigger purpose today—and really, a purpose from now until forever.
Jackie and Cathy from 97.Kiss-My-Ass can delight in the fact that I am no longer aimless. I am flounderingno more.
But I am two minutes late.
3
JANE COBALT
The cozy Philadelphiafabric shop is hidden behind an old bookstore. It seems as though only a couple shoppers are here perusing the disorderly store.
A bell dings when the door shuts softly behind Thatcher, and I peek down the sole three aisles for Vanessa.
Each shelf overflows with fabric rolls stacked upon more fabric rolls with no sense of color or texture coordination. Rolls that can’t fit are propped up against the shelves, crowding the narrow aisles.
At the end of the second aisle, a Molly Ringwald lookalike speaks hastily on the phone and taps the musty carpet with her nude heel. “It shouldn’t be that difficult.Look again.”
I recognize Vanessa instantly. We’ve met before, but not under the circumstance of me working for her.
“It’s not there? Are you certain?” Her grip tightens on her phone.
I worry about interrupting her call. September Fashion Week has descended upon thefashion enthusiastsof the world. Causing stress and mayhem, and it’s also why my mom is in London right now.
Hopefully Vanessa won’t realize I’m late for my first day on the job.
I head down the aisle. One ballet flat in front of the other.
Confidence.
I lift my chin.
Vanessa turns her head. Catching sight of me. “Hold on, Lance.” She struts quickly over to me. “Jane,Jane.I’m glad you’ve arrived.” She air-kisses both of my cheeks in a perfunctory rush. “I have to leave for the offices. Just pick out four fabrics for the new Calloway Couture line. Think everyday girl, functional and classic.”
Confusion parts my lips. “I was under the impression that I’d be running errands for you.” Vanessa is an Assistant Designer, and I’m supposed to beherassistant. “If you need to fax and file or a magnificent café au lait or macchiato, I’m your girl—”
“No, no.” Vanessa cups her hand over her phone’s speakers. “Rose specifically said if you want to work for Calloway Couture, you’re being placed above an entry-level position.”
I try to smile, my cheeks tightening with false confidence.
My mom has thrown me into shark-infested waters on purpose. This is not nepotism. She’s not trying to hand me a better job.
This is a slaughter. She’s hoping I’ll be chewed to pieces and quit when I can’t hack it.
It’s a clever move on her part, and I’d applaud if she were in the store.
My mom has always wanted me to choose a job that I’ll enjoy. I’m aware it’s far from a problem. I suspect not very many parents would push their children in the direction of “passion” over practicality, and even fewer have the billon-dollar cushion to fall back on.
I am grateful for them, for this life, and I’m trying not to take a moment for granted. And so I have to be realistic.
