Page 39 of By A Thread
“Linus doesn’t like anyone,” Dominic argued.
“He likes Buddy. It’s impossible not to. I mean, for anyone who isn’t you. I’m sure disliking people comes very naturally to you. Buddy is the opposite. He likes everyone instantly and without requiring them to prove anything. His attitude is incredible considering what’s going on at home.”
Dominic closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the seat. “I’m going to regret this. But what’s going on in Buddy’s home?”
I told him about Buddy’s wife. Her accident. The insurance.
He didn’t say anything.
“And your mother took a chance on him. A stranger at the bus stop. It gives me goose bumps,” I admitted. “See?” I pushed up my sleeve and held my arm out to him.
His eyes skimmed my skin, and a new crop of goose bumps arose as if he’d actually touched me.
“You’re annoyingly sentimental,” he said.
“Are you adding that to your long list of my faults?”
“Maybe it would be a faster feat to start a list of things I like about you,” he mused.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be giving me so much thought,” I told him. “You might accidentally start appreciating me and enjoying my company.”
He snorted derisively and didn’t deign to comment.
* * *
Christian James Designswas located in a trendy warehouse in the meatpacking district.
We took a freight elevator up to the third floor, and the doors opened on glorious, colorful chaos.
“Please tell me we’re shooting here,” I breathed. It was an eye-catching mess of texture. The brick. The scarred wood floors. The light pouring through tall, arched windows. “It’s so beautiful I want to barf.”
“What is wrong with you?” Dominic demanded, shaking his head.
I guessed that all he saw was the chaos.
“Think about this. That dress right there,” I said, pointing to a long, slinky cocktail dress that looked as if it had been dipped in gold. “A model, dark skin so the dress pops, standing in front of one of those work tables buried in red and orange fabrics. The rough brick in the back. The sun streaming in from the side.”
He was looking at me like I’d grown a second head and asked him to make out with both of my faces.
“Oh, come on, Dom. Give me your phone so I can take some pictures.” I held out my hand.
“I’m not giving you my phone,” he said. “Use yours.”
I held up my bargain basement, pay-as-you-go, not-so-smart phone.
“What the hell is that thing?” he asked. “A calculator?”
“Oh, shut up. Hand over your phone,” I insisted. He produced it from his pocket.
“Camera,” I said.
He made a production of supreme annoyance, but he unlocked the phone and opened the camera. I took it and snapped a few shots. “You’d want to time the lighting carefully,” I said, snapping a few more. “I like the idea of fiery colors since it looks like he works in them a lot. And depending on when the article runs, you might want to play around with summer and fire and those themes. If it’s a winter thing, you could shoot a bunch of soft grays and navies in front of that white stucco wall.”
I scrolled through the pictures, nodding. I accidentally went too far, and instead of a design studio, I was looking at a selfie of Dominic wearing an expression of annoyance and flipping the bird. Why in the hell would chilly, callus Dominic Russo have a funny selfie on his phone? I couldn’t quite cover the laugh that bubbled up.
He gave me the side-eye. Innocently, I pretended to be engrossed with a rack of pantsuits.
“Mr. Russo, Christian is just finishing up a phone call.” A woman in cargo pants and a chunky turtleneck sweater approached. Her long, dark hair was yanked back in a lumpy ponytail, and her glasses kept sliding down the bridge of her nose. “I’m Agnes.”
