Page 24 of Crash and Burn
I pursed my lips. I wanted to grill him about her. I wanted to know every detail of their relationship. I wanted to know exactly when they had met, how soon had they started going out, exactly how serious they were.
But on the other hand, I didn't want to obsess over this. Grant was dating, so what? As his friend, the only thing I cared about was whether or not he was happy.
"Is this the one?" I stood up and held out a piece of camera equipment.
Grant's eyes lit up.
"That's the one." He took it from my hands and bumped my hip with his. "Maybe you really should be my assistant."
And watch Missy and Grant make kissy faces at each other all day? No thanks.
"You couldn't pay me enough to make it worth my while," I joked.
"We're starting, people!" someone called out.
"Showtime." Grant teasingly tugged on a strand of my hair. "Keep out of trouble."
"You mean I shouldn't go stealing all the high end, brand name clothes from wardrobe?" I asked innocently. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The models began to take their places in front of the white background, and some guy approached Grant to whisper in his ear.
"Time to go," Grant said. "Have fun watching the show."
I spent the next while watching the shoot, enjoying seeing Grant at work. He crouched down low to the ground, and climbed on top of furniture to get the best angles. He took photo after photo, lips pursing as he went, an intense look of concentration on his face. It was mesmerizing.
I was almost —almost— able to ignore Missy throwing him flirty, sultry looks in between shots.
Before my irritation at her grew too great, I decided to wander off and find something else to look at.
I went over to the wardrobe area because I really did want to get a look at all the clothes. I'd never been so close to thousand-dollar dresses before. The slim wisps of fabric hardly seemed worth the price tags. It felt like sacrilege to run my hands over the silks and satins, but I couldn't help myself. Touching the fabric was like a dream.
"Excuse me," a man spoke up from behind me.
I turned to find an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair dressed in a slim-cut navy suit embellished with gold trim.
"Hello," I said politely.
The suit had almost nautical style to it, as if someone had taken a Navy uniform and transformed it into something you'd find at a high-fashion gala.
"You like it?" the man asked as he straightened his tie.
I snapped my eyes up to his, not realizing I'd been ogling.
"Sorry," I flushed. "I was just admiring your outfit."
"And I was admiring yours," he replied. "Is it a Diana Six original? I don't recognize it from this season's collection."
I knew the name, and was startled to think he'd mistaken one of my own creations for a Diana Six. That clothing brand was legendary.
"No, it's not, sorry," I said.
He leaned back and took me in with a contemplative eye, as if solving a puzzle. "Is it Ana Versailles?"
"No, I made it myself," I said.
His eyes grew a fraction larger.
"My dear, that's simply amazing," he said. "I love the look."
