“Los Angeles,” I correct him again.
“—and made a name for yourself. Aren’t you some big-shot fashion designer now? That’s what everyone’s saying. What’s-her-name follows you on Instagram, sees all your fancy posts and shit, and shows everyone around town. I mean, damn, man. That’s way more than any of us here in Spruce can brag about.”
Despite my best efforts to keep my cool, I find the flames of my pride stirred up and my heart fluttering in the strangest way.
It feels unexpectedly good to hear what he just said.
“I …” My voice cracks, betraying my confidence. “I wouldn’t say I’m a ‘big-shot’ quite yet. I mean, I’m still working my way up the fashion ladder. It’s a long climb ‘til the right celeb notices you and wants you to design their next red carpet look.”
“Why work up the ladder at all? Shoot, just cut your own path to fame. Isn’t that how the best-of-the-best do it?”
I stare at him. I could stare at his eyes for hours, if it wouldn’t become creepy after ten seconds.
And suddenly I remind myself who I’m talking to. “And why, pray tell, am I supposed to take advice from you?” I spit back. “You don’t know the first thing about the fashion industry.”
“Well, to be fair, I was made to sit through half a season of Project Runway. I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”
I stop myself mid-laugh and shake my head. “I hardly think that qualifies you to give advice to a pro.”
“Oh, so you’re a pro now?” he eggs me on.
“With the right materials and my LA studio, I can cut you the perfect tailored jacket in less than four hours,” I snap right back, feeling smart. “It would taper exquisitely to your lean and athletic figure, show off your bod, and make you look like a million bucks.”
“My … lean and athletic figure?”
I stop talking at once, my mouth left parted with my next words not coming out.
I was spouting off so quickly, I didn’t even realize what I said.
Chad apparently isn’t done playfully throwing my words back at me. “Show off … my bod?”
If I wasn’t blushing before, I am now. “Well, yes, of course. I’d have to be blind not to notice that you—” A nervous swallow cuts off my words. “—that you have clearly not let yourself go over the last ten years.”
Chad smirks. I think he enjoys compliments.
“So is that it?” he asks. “You were expecting me to be a tubby, bearded, deadbeat goblin?”
“I don’t know what I expected.”
“Well, I hope that it surprises you … in a good way.” Chad’s eyes skip down my body. He tilts his head. “You ain’t lookin’ so bad yourself, Lance.”
I resist squirming at the way he’s looking at me. Jesus Christ, what the hell is happening? “Yeah, well, in LA, you have to—”
“And I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he adds as his gaze returns to my head. He nods admiringly. “You’ve got a real style goin’ on, that much I can see.”
I think his flattery is supposed to make me feel at ease.
I think he’s trying to make an effort.
Yet at the sound of his kind words, my lips slowly flat-line, until soon I’ve got nothing left on my face but a glower.
Chad notices. “Hey, I’m just sayin’ it how I see it. You look like you’ve taken care of yourself. I’m happy about that, and I’m …” He shrugs, flops his hat back on his head, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m happy for you, Lance.”
“So you think your pretty words make up for everything?” I ask him, dry as a bone. “Flattering my hair?”
His hat casts most of his face in shadow once again, but it sits further back now so that I can make out just his lips—and a gleam of his eyes, fixed on me. I watch him purse his lips in frustration.
Chad lifts his chin—bringing his whole face out of shadow—and he gives me a simple, soft-spoken, “No.”
I stare at him, uncertain.
The gymnasium doors swing open right then, and two guys appear: Owen and Jeremiah, two of the three I ran into at the bar-slash-restaurant earlier this evening. They freeze when they find the two of us standing here on the walkway near the door. Neither of them say anything.
Chad turns his head to them. “The heck you boys want?”
Jeremiah starts to say something, then stops. Owen clears his throat and says, “Well, hey, looks like you guys found each other. We, uh … ran into him at Tumbleweeds, earlier. We stopped in for a drink with Kirk. Hi, Lance.”
I give them a stiff, silent nod, then cross my arms even tighter across my chest.
“You comin’ back inside?” asks Jeremiah. “Robby isn’t comin’. He texted me. Something to do with Nessie.”