He sipped his scotch and definitely did not think about lifting her hand to his lips to finish the job. Reclaiming her glass, she examined the liquid in the dim lighting of the office.
He leaned back against the sofa, laid an arm along the back—dangerously close to her—and opted for the road less traveled in his world: small talk. “So. Kimber Reynolds.”
At the sound of his voice, her cheeks stained a pretty shade of pink. She sent him a confused smile. He smiled back. Couldn’t help it. The look on her face was that of a woman who liked him. And he liked that. A lot more than he should.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to since you were sixteen years old.” He leaned back on the sofa, content to let her talk while he watched her unabashedly.
Contrarily, she couldn’t keep her eyes in one place. They jerked from the bookshelves behind his head to the window, to the glass in her hand. “Um. Wow. That’s a lot of years to summarize.” A breathy laugh escaped her lips. “I um, graduated high school.” She tapped the bottom of her glass with her fingernails. “I did not go straight to college, but by the time I did, I moved so I could attend the Fashion Institute in New York.”
He lifted his brows. She’d lived in New York.
She nodded. “Impressive, right?”
“Very.” How unusual that she’d have an interest in a field so similar to Lissa’s. He wondered if they’d ever crossed paths. “So you wanted to be a big, famous designer with your own runway shows?”
She chewed the corner of her lip. “I did… until I worked for Karl Kingsley.”
Lissa had done a show with Kingsley a few years back. She’d told him the nickname the models had for him. He wondered if that had been a universal moniker. “The Royal Shithead?” he asked.
Kimber laughed, a brief look of surprise crossing her face. Like she hadn’t expected him to be crass. He liked that he’d surprised her. He liked her, period.
“That’s him. Anyway, I got fired. From an unpaid internship. I was standing too close to a model who was spouting off at him and he fired her from the show, and me, and a seamstress who happened to be in the line of fire as well.” She swirled her finger around the edge of her glass, the motion oddly erotic. “After that, I had… problems attaining another internship in New York. I spoke with the seamstress, who was my friend, and she’d had the same issues. We thought Kingsley had blacklisted us somehow. He has a lot of pull in the industry.”
As most old guys who became relics did. Her story reminded him of the job he’d taken straight out of college. Brett Carmichael. The guy acted as if he’d owned the moon rather than RedAd, and when Landon had left to strike out on his own, Brett had attempted to smear Landon’s reputation with his customers. Thankfully, he’d failed. Landon knew because many of those customers had come to him, leaving Brett’s antiquated design where it belonged. In the past.
“I moved to Chicago with my friend Gloria,” she continued. “Evan’s agent”—she glanced at him to make sure he knew her by name. He nodded. “And then I worked in department stores on Michigan Avenue until about a year ago when I opened Hobo Chic.”
“A vintage clothing store. Angel mentioned it.”
“Did she also mention I made the tragic error of partnering with my ex-boyfriend to buy it?” She blinked, almost as if she was stunned that the words had come out of her mouth.
He was getting the idea she didn’t do much planning… for anything. The words she spoke, her actions. He probably had that attribute to thank for her being here.
She waved a hand through the air, the subject along with it. “Anyway. Water. Bridge. What about you? What did you do after college?”
He pressed his lips together. He’d desperately tried to reconnect with Rachel the moment he’d set foot back on campus. She’d gone to live with her aunt in Texas. She’d never contacted him again. Ever. After they’d dated for a year and a half and made a baby she’d aborted.
“That’s a long and boring story,” he lied. Forcing a smile onto his face was like nailing Jell-O to a tree, but he managed. “I take it you’re not a scotch drinker.” He pointed to the glass and she stilled her circling finger.
“What gave me away?” She tilted the glass to examine it again. “What do I do? Swirl it, smell it?”
“Drink it.” Lifting his glass, he demonstrated by pulling in a mouthful of the amber liquid. He swallowed, savoring the burn in his throat. Finally, he was starting to relax. He could feel himself sink into a slight buzz, in part thanks to his skipping dinner. He enjoyed the sensation of his shoulders dropping from beneath his ears for the first time in eleven hours.