One More Chance

Now I knew it wasn’t.

“It would be an honor to discuss something like that,” I said.

“Good. We had a scout come into your store the other day, and he made mention of some designs he really enjoyed.”

“Jacques. I remember him.”

“You knew who our scout was?”

I grinned at the woman who touted herself as the head of design for Bloomingdale’s.

“Wouldn’t you know a scout when you saw them?” I asked.

“Fair enough,” she said, grinning.

“Which designs did he like?”

She turned a small list around for me to see, and I looked it over. Most of them were my dresses and a few pairs of my boots, which didn’t shock me at all. Those were some of my highest-selling pieces, and I smiled as I pushed the ledger back over to her. I had to play this right and not seem too eager. After all, I was doing just fine on my own. Though something like this could be huge for me and my career, I couldn’t let them know that they held the future of my brand in their hands.

It gave them too much negotiating power.

“What are you looking to do? Who are you looking to market to?” I asked.

“Our vision is summer for the busy woman. All these other stores sell bikinis and flip-flops and all sorts of skimpy wear for women during the summer. Almost nothing is tailored to the woman who still works. I mean, a working woman wants to be fashionable even though it’s eighty-five degrees outside and she’s sweating down her thighs.”

The two men at her side grimaced, and I quirked an eyebrow.

“Got an issue with a woman sweating, boys?” I asked.

“They have an issue with a lot of things. Ignore them.”

“With all due respect, ignoring men when they react like that is exactly what fuels the behavior. Gentlemen, allow me to educate you on a woman’s body. We grow body hair on our legs, under our arms, and between our legs. We also eat, pass gas, go to the bathroom, and sweat—just like you do.”

The woman across the table from me grinned as the guys fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Any questions?” I asked.

“Only one,” the woman said.

“Then hit me with it.”

“When can we start collaborating?”

I walked out of that meeting with several others booked to meet with different people. I was officially one step closer to closing a deal with fucking Bloomingdale’s for my own line of clothes! I was on cloud nine. Nothing could spoil my day. Nothing could wipe my smile from my face.

Until Tyler called.

As I got into my car, I thought about ignoring it. But something in the pit of my gut told me not to do that. I answered the phone call and pressed it to my ear, then drew in a deep breath to prepare myself.

“Hey there, Tyler. Everything okay?”

“How did you know?”

The defeated sound of his voice made my heart hurt. I knew why he was calling. The entire town was already talking about it.

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Could we get together over lunch? I really need to talk.”

“Of course we can. Where would you like to meet?”

“Wherever’s closest to you. I don’t really care.”

“I’m staring at Gianno’s.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

I drove down the block and parked. After going inside, I got us a booth in the back, hoping no one would hear the conversation we were about to have. Or see us for that matter. The last thing I needed was anyone putting two and two together, then spreading things around town that didn’t need to be spread.

Like how Brody looked shockingly like Tyler.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Tyler said.

He looked so defeated when he sat down, and my heart went out to him.

“I ordered us a glass of white wine with some chips and dip to start.”

“Thanks,” he said breathlessly.

“So, what’s going on?”

“My mother pulled another one of her stunts again. At a party thrown for me to network for my new business no less.”

“What happened?”

“She stumbled and fell in the kitchen and dropped her wine glass. It shattered everywhere and she cut herself pretty badly.”

“Wait, what? I didn’t know she—never mind.”

Our wine and appetizer were set on the table as Tyler’s eyes connected with mine.

“Ana, what did you hear?”

Silence.

“Come on, out with it.”

“I may or may not have heard something from my mother about it this morning,” I said.

“Of course you did. What did she have to say?”

“All she said was that your mother got so drunk you had to toss her over your shoulder and carry her up to bed. But I didn’t know she was hurt. Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not okay. She’s a drunk and my father doesn’t give a shit about it.”

“I meant physically, Tyler. Come on.”

“Were you even going to tell me you knew?”

“Not when you needed to vent about it, no,” I said.