Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (7 page)

Regardless, it really doesn’t matter. I’m just working here to pay the bills, so why do I care if my idea gets shot down?

But I do care
, a little voice inside of me cries, much to my surprise. I wanted them to like my
idea. I wanted to help create the spa experience on Premier Airlines.

I remain silent during the rest of the meeting, still stung by the fact that my idea was so quickly shot down. Hours later, we finally break for lunch. After everyone leaves, I go to the kitchenette next to the conference room to begin the cleanup. I’m putting plates into the dishwasher when Deke clears his throat.

“Avery?”

I turn and find that he’s standing next to me, without a camera. His blue green-eyes are staring intently into mine.

“What do you think of your idea?” he asks quietly, leaning against the cabinets. “In your gut?”

“Oh, why do you care?” I ask, frustrated. I force a coffee mug to fit into a nearly full top rack. “You’re not even here, remember?”

“Forget that. What do you think of your idea?”

For some reason I can’t explain, I tell him the truth. “I thought it was good,” I admit softly. “We could partner with a luxury spa for the products. We could include their brochures in the baskets. And it should be baskets, because it’s classy, like Premier Airlines. It’s what comes to my mind when I picture spa-like traveling . . .” My voice trails off, as the idea will never see the light of day anyway.

“I think your idea is a good one,” he says softly. “I travel a lot, and I know I would like the amenities you mentioned.”

I stare at him, completely stunned. “You would?”

“Yeah. So what are you going to do about it?”

“What am I going to do about it? What can I do about it? It was shot down.”

“Avery, I just watched you talk about it. You’re
inspired
. It’s the first time I’ve seen you having fun at work. You can’t let this idea go now, you can’t.”

My brain is reeling in shock from his words. He’s talking to me like a person instead of a subject. And Deke actually thinks my idea is
good
. He even noticed I was inspired.

“I’d research it,” he says quickly, interrupting my thoughts. “Get some numbers. Put together a sample basket and show it to Craig. You need to make your own opportunities if you want to be happy at work.”

I’m so surprised by his kind words that I don’t even know what to say. But as I gaze into his eyes, I can see that he believes in my idea. He thinks I can do this.

He believes in me
, I realize.
Deke believes in me.

And as I stand here, I begin to believe in me, too.

“Maybe I will,” I say slowly.

“Maybe you should,” he says, smiling gently at me.

And the second he does, my spine begins to tingle. A wonderful, warm tingle that radiates me from head to toe. I find myself smiling back at him, drinking him in with my eyes as I do.

I notice how broad Deke is across the chest, and I instinctively know that if I were to peel that crappy 1991 Chicago Bulls Championship T-shirt off him, I’d find a tanned and sculpted upper body. His shoulders would be muscular from lugging around equipment all day, and his chest would be—

Suddenly I realize what I’m doing and, horrified, I feel a blush flame across my neck and face. What the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about
Deke
shirtless? I should be thinking about Sullivan shirtless. He’s the guy I’m supposed to be interested in, not Deke.

“Uh,” I blurt out, whipping away from him and back to the dishwasher, “I guess I’ll finish up in here and go to lunch.”

“Right,” he says quickly.

I turn around and find that he’s still studying me. Then he abruptly looks away, as if I’ve caught him staring.

I’m being paranoid again
, I reassure myself. Then I wonder if maybe I should take advantage of the mental health services offered in the Premier Airlines insurance plan. They could counsel me on paranoia, because obviously I’m suffering from it.

“I’ll see you after lunch then,” he says, backing out of the kitchenette.

“Right,” I say cheerfully. I throw some soap in the machine, turn it on, and scramble to get out of the room, haunted by my fantasizing about Deke being shirtless.

I scurry back to my cubicle, knowing exactly what I need to do. I’m obviously stressed. Apparently spending all this time on camera is taking a toll on my mental well-being.

I pick up my cell phone and retrieve the number for my favorite day spa in Lincoln Park. I’m making appointments for me and Bree for this Saturday, and then everything in my world will make sense again. A hot stone massage is perfect for a mental reset.

And with peace and tranquility restored in my body, I’ll be back to fantasizing about Sullivan shirtless, just like I’m supposed to.

And scruffy, old T-shirt-wearing Deke will be the
furthest
thing from my mind on Saturday morning.

Just like he’s supposed to be.

Chapter 7

This is supposed to be relaxing.

I’m lying on a massage table, with soothing music being piped into the background. Hot stones are situated on my back, deliciously warming my skin. Meegan, my masseuse, is expertly working my shoulders, and I can inhale the wonderful aroma of lavender and vanilla in the air.

I should be falling asleep. No. I should
be
asleep. I should be drooling on these crisp white linens, as that’s how relaxed I should be.

But every time I close my eyes, I see Deke. I visualize his mysterious blue-green eyes peering into mine. I see him smiling at me in that way that makes my spine tingle.

And then I imagine what he’d look like shirtless.

I instantly flinch.
Damn it!
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I fantasizing about my videographer? I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know if he’s funny or smart or if he prefers salty foods over sweet when he’s got a craving.

I instantly command my brain to shut off thoughts about Deke.
Focus on Sullivan
. But my redirection instantly makes a U-turn back to Deke, which makes me flinch again.

“Avery, relax,” Meegan says softly, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re tensing up your shoulders.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying to shake Deke from my head as Meegan goes back to work. But then again, it’s natural that I’m thinking of Deke this morning. I totally forgot that he has to come over and shoot me this afternoon to capture my non-work life, so that’s why he’s on my mind this morning. Of course I’m thinking of him. It makes perfect sense.

Well, except for the shirtless part but I decide to ignore that little detail for now.

Meegan continues to stroke and knead my back and I do feel much better by the time she finishes. Hmmm. Maybe I could fall asleep for a few minutes. I think I read in a health column once that a quick five-minute nap is quite rejuvenating for—

“Irina will be in shortly to do your eyebrows,” Meegan says, interrupting my thoughts.

I instantly jar out of relaxation mode. I hold the sheet to me as I sit up on the table.

“I don’t want my eyebrows done,” I explain, staring at Meegan in confusion. “Bree is getting the wax. Not me.”

“Oh?” Meegan says, staring down at her clipboard in confusion. “But we have you scheduled for an eyebrow wax, too.” Meegan pauses, her hazel eyes zeroing in on my brows. “Are you
sure
you don’t want one?”

Do I need one that badly? My brows are dark blond, and I think I manage them quite well with tweezers. But Meegan is studying me in a way that strikes fear into my heart. And suddenly I get an image of that old leader of the former U.S.S.R from history class at the University of Illinois. Shit, does she think I look like Brezhnev or something?

“Uh, okay, sure,” I say, nodding. “I’ll have a wax.”

“Great. Irina will be here shortly.”

I nod and slip back into my thick white robe. Then I lay back down on the table. I close my eyes and listen to the music, wondering if waxing my eyebrows is something I should have been doing all along.

There’s a knock on the door, and I open my eyes. A short, stocky woman with a buzzed platinum blond haircut marches into the room.

“I’m Irina,” she says with a thick Russian accent. “I will do the brows. Follow me, please.”

I swallow. “Uh, sure,” I say, studying her as I sit up. Panic forms in me when I notice that she has hardly any eyebrows, except for the ones drawn in with a pencil.

“I want a very natural brow,” I say quickly as Irina leads me down the hall. “And I have very sensitive skin. Please be gentle. I’ve never done this before.”

Irina pauses and stares hard at my eyebrows. “Yes, I can see that,” she says matter-of-factly.

I frown. She didn’t have to be that honest about the state of my brows.

Irina takes me to another room and opens the door. “Lie down,” she commands.

I lie down on a table, and Irina moves over me. She then begins applying the hot wax to my skin, and I nearly jump off the table in pain.

“That’s really hot,” I say.

“It gets the hair off,” she says firmly. She presses something to the wax and then quickly rips it away. Pain sears through my skin.

“Ouch!” I yell, thinking my skin has just been stripped off my face. Then she rips the wax off the underside of my brow, which is even more painful. “Oh! That really hurts!”

Irina pauses for a moment, her face twisting up. “Oh. You have very
seenseetive
skin.”

Fear shoots through me. Why is she saying that? What’s happening to my skin?

Irina quickly does the other eye, and I cry again in response as the molten lava like wax is ripped off above and below my eyebrow. Now my skin feels like it’s on fire.

“I want to see it,” I say firmly, looking around for a mirror.

Irina starts to go a little pale. “Uh . . . Maybe you should wait a few minutes. Your skin . . . well . . . it’s a little
pink
.”

I sit up on the table. “I want a mirror.”

Irina frowns and passes me a hand mirror. I put it up and gasp in complete horror as soon as I see my reflection. Pink? Pink? No. My skin is
red.
Like someone strapped big goggles around my eyebrows and spray painted the skin around them bright red. I look like I have a chemical burn. Oh my God. I look awful. Beyond awful.

And Deke will be shooting me in less than two hours.

“Please tell me it looks better,” I beg Bree.

We’re back at my apartment, in my bathroom, and I’ve applied tons of aloe vera gel to the skin around my eyebrows in a desperate attempt to take out the redness.

“It’s still really red,” Bree says, frowning. “I can’t believe she overheated the wax like that. I’ve never seen anyone so burned after an eyebrow waxing.”

“Damn it,” I snap, whirling away from the mirror. “I can’t make Deke reschedule. We’re already behind on my personal life shooting. But I can’t go on camera like this.”

And applying makeup to cover it isn’t an option, as I have nothing but raw skin around my eyebrows.

Bree bites her lip, and I know she’s trying to think of a solution.

“Maybe you can tell him you’re sick,” she says. “That you have a viral infection or something contagious.”

I consider that idea. But then I remember how Deke blew off shooting the night Bree was having her Alex meltdown, and I don’t feel right bailing on him at the last minute today.

“No,” I say, sighing heavily. “I can’t.”

I turn away from my sink in defeat, thinking I’ll be comic fodder for all of America with my neon, cherry-red eyebrow burn. But then my eyes fall on my purse, which I have tossed on my bed, and peeking out of my bag are my precious oversized Roberto Cavalli sunglasses.

“That’s it,” I say, seeing the obvious solution in front of me.

“What?” Bree asks, wrinkling her brow.

I move over to my purse. I triumphantly put on my sunglasses and turn around to face Bree.

“I think I’m going to have Mr. Ryan do an outdoor shoot today. One of me strolling through Lincoln Park on a hot summer day,” I explain, grinning at Bree. “And I wouldn’t be appropriately attired for that setting without my fabulous oversized sunglasses, now would I?”

Show time.

I put on my sunglasses as Deke knocks on my door. I’ve changed into a gorgeous ZAC by Zac Posen summery skirt, one that is yellow with a beautiful floral pattern on it and has a ruffle hem. I’ve paired it with a white ribbed tank top, and I feel soft and pretty in it.

And with my eyebrow wax burn hidden by my fabulous oversized sunglasses, no one will ever know that my skin is completely fried to a crisp behind them.

I open the door and smile at Deke. “Hello,” I say cheerfully.

He furrows his brow as he stares at my sunglasses. “Uh, hi,” he says slowly, still studying me. “Is there a glare in your apartment or something?”

I keep the smile plastered on my face as I let him inside. “No, of course not. But I thought you could shoot me walking around my neighborhood this afternoon. Because I love to do that on Saturdays. I love shopping in Lincoln Park, and I thought you could shoot me doing that today.”

Deke puts his gear down on the floor, his blue-green eyes lasering in on me.

“Okay. But I want to do another one-on-one interview session with you first,” he says.    

Damn it
. I anxiously tug on the beaded necklace around my neck.

“Uh, sure,” I say. I lug over a barstool to the living room, as I know I will sit on it in front of a backdrop Deke will set up.

He’s still studying me with a furrowed brow as I casually stand in the living room with my sunglasses on.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” he asks.

“Because we’re going outside,” I say simply, sitting down on the stool and crossing my legs.

“Yeah, but not now.”

“So I’m prepared,” I say defiantly, wishing he’d quit staring at me. “Boy Scouts aren’t the only ones who prepare, you know.”

I can tell by the inquisitive expression on his face he’s not buying that for one second.

“So you’re prepared,” Deke says slowly, moving closer to me. “I’ll give you a bonus point for that, but for the time being I want you to take off your sunglasses. I can’t shoot you indoors with them on. It’ll look stupid.”

I wince. “I really don’t want to.”

“Why not? What are you hiding behind those ridiculous glasses?”

“They’re not ridiculous. These are
Jackie O
inspired sunglasses,” I snap, irritated. “And she is a
timeless fashion icon
.”

To my amazement, Deke bursts out laughing. A deep from within laugh, one that fills my tiny living room and wraps around me. One I’ve never heard before but already know I want to hear again.

And despite my irritation with him, my heart flutters in response.

“Sorry,
Fashionista
. I stand corrected about your icon-inspired glasses,” he says, grinning at me. “But come on, Avery, off with the glasses. I’m not doing anything until I see your eyes.”

I know I’m defeated. I sigh heavily and slowly remove my sunglasses. Deke’s eyes widen in response.

“What happened to you?”

“I had a sorry wax technician this morning, and she’s left me completely disfigured,” I declare.

He straightens up, his eyes shining brightly. “No. you’re not disfigured. Just seriously burned.” Then he rubs his hand along his jaw and studies me for a moment. “And despite the fact that shooting you parading around your apartment in oversized sunglasses is priceless footage, I’ll offer to postpone shooting until next weekend as a gesture of goodwill.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I really didn’t want to be on camera like this. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Deke says. Then he smiles at me, a really warm smile. One that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners as he does.

Suddenly I notice how his eyes are the color of the Caribbean Sea, a really vivid blue-green. And I’ve never seen a smile as beautiful as the one Deke is showering me with at this moment. That warm, wonderful, radiating feeling floats up my spine again—the feeling that I only get when I look at Deke—and I realize I don’t want him to leave.

“So what are you going to do with the rest of your day?” I ask, honestly wanting to know.

Suddenly the smile fades from his face.

“Avery,” he says gently, “I’m not here, remember? You don’t need to know anything about me. This is all about you.”

I’m stung by his answer. And his answer is not acceptable to me. Not anymore.

“If this is reality TV, then you are here. You do exist,” I say strongly, keeping my eyes on his. “I’ve invited you into my home, let you into my life, yet I know
nothing
about you. But this
is
my reality, and I insist on knowing more about you.”

“It’s not like that. I can’t be involved in your life.”

“Bullshit. You got involved the second you commented on my spa basket idea the other day.”

I watch as a stunned expression passes over Deke’s face. And he can’t say anything because he knows I’m right.

“Why do you
care
who I am?” he asks, sounding completely surprised. “I’m just the videographer.”

I put on my Jackie O sunglasses and stride past Deke to the door. I turn around and stare at him.

“I care because I’m not a thoughtless, stupid little fashionista,” I say quietly. “And I normally wouldn’t invite a complete stranger to invade my personal life. The least you can do, Deke Ryan, is to let me get to know you better over a cup of coffee this afternoon.”

I dramatically open the door. I take a deep breath of air, try to ignore how my heart has suddenly begun to pound inside my chest, and bravely ask my next question.

“So are you coming or not?” I ask quietly.