By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

Friday afternoon traffic in Manhattan was stupid. Why anyone would choose to take a car rather than the subway was beyond me. Yet here I was, making money just for being stretched out in the back seat of a very nice SUV on some very supple leather.

I could almost enjoy myself. Almost.

The broody guy in the sexy vest next to me was short-circuiting my ability to relax.

“I didn’t get much information from Zara. What’s this meeting about?” I asked, over the dueling horns of two cabs trying to get around a delivery truck. Middle fingers flew.

“You really should learn to do your own research,” Dominic said. He was back to snarky, and I wished his crappy attitude would take his wow factor down a few notches. But my lady parts were steadfastly holding up their perfect ten scores.

“Humor me,” I insisted.

“Christian James is a designer who’s launching his own label. He was with one of the big fashion houses. Worked his way up the ranks. Put a new spin on the original designs that made them an industry name. And then he met my mother.”

I perked up. “She’s mentoring him?” I guessed.

Dominic nodded, glancing out the window like the conversation was boring him and he’d rather be anywhere but here. “She introduced him to the right people, the right suppliers, the right insiders. My mother believes in him. So Label is doing a spread about him, his career path, his designs.”

“She sees potential in a lot of places,” I mused.

“Not everywhere,” he said, giving me a pointed look.

I laughed. “No, not everywhere. In my case, she saw righting a wrong. But she has wonderful instincts. Buddy, for example.”

“I’m not convinced anyone named Buddy is cut out for high fashion. Even if it’s the mail room of high fashion.”

“You are such a snob,” I sighed.

He didn’t bother denying it.

“I suppose you’re going to want to tell me why this Buddy is such a great addition to Label,” he said.

“I suppose I am, even though I suppose you won’t care,” I said primly. I filled him in on the Buddy Highlight Reel. “Even Linus likes him.”

“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 Designs was 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.”

“Ally.” I offered my hand.

She was holding an iPad open to a calendar app. “Christian has an hour set aside for your meeting today before he needs to take a call with a supplier.”

“What calendar app is that?” I asked, peering over the screen. I loved a good calendar.

Agnes and I compared notes on organizational apps for a minute while Dominic ignored us both.

Her phone buzzed an alert, and she wrinkled her nose. “I’ll show you two to the conference room,” Agnes said, her brain already moving on to her next task. She led us to a glassed-in conference room. Framed black-and-white prints of models and dresses and presumably famous fashion people leaned against still bare walls. The long farmhouse table held a cluster of succulents in the center.

Dominic pulled out a chair for me, and I sat, carefully, suspiciously, in case he thought it would be funny to pull it out from under me.

To my surprise, he sat next to me. For all his talk about being annoyed and inconvenienced by me, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get away from me.

I unloaded my laptop and ignored his judgmental stare. Shame wasn’t a feeling I harbored regarding my financial situation. It was an obstacle to overcome. A challenge. And I had no intention of failing.

“You really should consider the fact that you are representing Label,” he said when Agnes left the room.

“I should, should I?” I challenged, keying in my login. This dinosaur took a good four minutes to lumber to life.

“Appearances are what drive this industry.” His gaze skimmed my laptop and then my thrift store outfit.

“If Label is so concerned with appearances, they are welcome to accessorize me or—here’s a thought—don’t send me out in public,” I said, exasperated. “There are plenty of more attractive admins capable of taking notes.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but we were interrupted by pure, unadulterated handsome.

“Dominic, thanks for meeting me. And you must be Ally.” The man who entered the room was quite frankly delicious. His smile was warm enough to heat up the January chill. Bright green eyes framed by thick lashes and dark curling hair, cut short.

He wore low slung jeans and a tight long-sleeve tee. And a vest.

I beamed.

Dominic gave my leg a nudge under the table with his own. “Try to control yourself,” he muttered dryly before standing and shaking the designer’s hand.

Christian was an enthusiastic guy with big goals. As he personally escorted us on a tour of the facility, it became clear that everything he did came from a place of passion. Life to Christian James was color and texture and beauty and fun.

It was easy to see what Dalessandra had been drawn to.

I mean, besides the fact that he was insanely good-looking.

Where Dominic was frowny and broody, Christian was dimpled and friendly. Where Dominic was cold, Christian was warm.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing at a mannequin wearing a pair of still-under-construction wide-legged pants.

Christian grinned at me, and I gave myself permission to bask in that lovely warmth, ignoring Dominic’s chilly glare.

Sure. Maybe my outside-this-building situation was a complete disaster. But right this second, enjoying the company of two very attractive men—in sexy vests no less—I could afford to feel pretty dang positive about life.

“Those are part of a pet project,” he told me. “An inclusion line.”

“I’m new to the industry,” I explained apologetically.

“I’m sure he can guess that,” Dominic said uncharitably.

I shot him a dirty look over my shoulder, and the man actually managed to crack the slightest of smiles. And there went those goose bumps again. I was an Ally sandwich with very handsome bread.

“An inclusion line is a series of designs created for individuals with disabilities,” Christian explained, gesturing me forward. He demonstrated the hidden elastic waistband.

“Why is it a pet project?” I asked, intrigued.

“The demand isn’t there,” Dominic said, once again answering a question I hadn’t intended for him.

“Yet,” Christian and I said together.

It earned me another smile from the man and an eye-roll from Dominic.

Christian held up one of the pant legs to me, and I ran my fingers over the material.

“Wow,” I said. The material was soft and buttery, luxurious even.

“It started with my mother. Diabetic neuropathy robbed her of sensation in her fingers. It makes buttons and zippers difficult. But she still wants to look her best. So I dabble in garments that make it easy for someone with disabilities or handicaps to dress themselves and look good doing it. We do hidden seams for people with sensory issues. Magnetic closures, extended sizing, wrap it all up in good fabrics and strong colors.”

“She must be very proud of you,” I guessed.

He grinned. “I tell her that every Sunday. She says she’s holding out for me to get married and have babies before she’s officially proud. It’s the Cuban in her. Are you married, Ally?” he asked, giving me a sinfully flirtatious wink.

“Let’s get back to what pieces you foresee using in the spread,” Dominic announced, steering the conversation back on course. When Christian led the way into another room, Dominic handed me his phone again. “Maybe if you take some pictures, you’ll be too busy to drool over the designer,” he growled.

I smiled up at him just to annoy him. “Doubtful, Dom. Very doubtful.”