Romancing the Running Back (11 page)

Tulle and silk and satin, oh my. Anya was surrounded by all things sparkly, shiny, and glittery. The cast-offs of Cynthia’s collection had been piling up, but she was finally ready to take a stab at it. She’d spent the first hour deciding how to organize the small corner of the storage space Cynthia had blocked off for her. Items that couldn’t be used for Chance to Dance would simply go back into the pile for donations to a charitable organization to resell. That had been easy enough. The real problem came with figuring out how to work the system so she wasn’t overwhelmed. Dresses designed for prom and homecoming weren’t exactly small in and of themselves.

“Cynthia?”

“No, just Anya,” she called back, attempting to lift the gown she’d just taken off the rack. It weighed at least fifteen pounds, threw her balance off center and obstructed her view to the door. “Did you need something?”

“No, I . . . do you need help?”

“Could you just . . . with the . . . okay, there we go.” As the weight lifted, she smiled at her savior. One of Cynthia’s employees, dressed all in black, as required by their dress code. The young woman was probably close to her age. “Hi. Anya Fisher.” She held out a hand to shake.

“Monica. We’re slammed out there right now. I know you’re not technically working here but—”

“I can pitch in. Just show me where.”

Monica led her out to the front where, she was pleased to note, they were definitely busy. “Busiest I’ve ever seen the shop.”

“I know. A woman came in last week, did a little shopping, raved about it, and left. Nothing unusual,” Monica whispered as she led Anya toward a corner. “Then other ladies started coming in, saying someone named Kristen recommended the shop.”

“Kristen.” Anya grinned. “I told her to come in. I’m glad she liked it.”

“Loved it, from the way she’s been sending women over here. And not just buying stuff, but consigning, too. I thought you could help us out so both April and I could work the floor and not be stuck back here sorting.”

“Absolutely. Give me the quick tutorial and I’ll get on it and stay out of your way.”

After a five-minute explanation, Anya figured she had it in hand. And if she goofed, well, she was doing the best she could, and it didn’t have to do with customers. She sorted, pulling out the most obvious rejects to place in the donations pile. It wasn’t perfect, but she’d removed some bulk from the work for April and Monica for later. And it did her heart good to see the ladies shopping.

“Excuse me?”

Anya kept working, then, when someone coughed politely, she realized they meant her. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She held up a
pair of two-seasons-gone Jimmy Choo heels in near-mint condition. “Engrossed in the work.”

“I can’t blame you. Fabulous shoes,” the woman said, nodding at the Choos. “I doubt those are a nine.”

“Seven and a half,” Anya said apologetically.

“Do you work here?”

“Oh, uh . . .” She bit her lip, looking for either saleswoman, but they were both engrossed with other customers. “I can do my best to help you. What are you looking for?”

“That’s just it, I’m afraid. I’m not sure.” With a hefty sigh, the woman indicated with a pearl-encrusted wrist for Anya to come out from around the corner to assist. Anya would have placed the woman in her mid-fifties, but she wore it well. “I’m looking for a gift for my daughter-in-law. She’s very into fashion, but she doesn’t like to buy this year’s clothing. Says everyone else already has them, and wants something unique.”

“She’s smart. Is this a gift? Or something else?”

“It’s for a wedding. My daughter is getting married, and my daughter-in-law works about sixty hours a week. Attorney,” she said in a hushed tone, as if it were a secret she were related to a woman with a solid career. “She asked if I could steer her the right way, but everything I’ve shown her from the stores I shop with has been turned down. I’m about to give up and let her wear a bathrobe at this point.”

“Sounds serious. Okay, sizes first.” The woman gave her the sizes. “And then the time of the wedding.”

The woman looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, I see. It’s an afternoon affair. Appetizers and cocktails. Nothing fancy.”

Nothing fancy
to a woman who wore Chanel and pearls to shop meant a very different thing than if, say, Cassie had said it. “Okay, and do we want to complement the wedding colors, as she’s related to the bride and will likely be in some photos? Or go completely rogue and do what she’ll like?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” The older woman tapped a finger to the corner of her mouth. “Let’s complement. The bridesmaids are wearing plum, of all things. Not purple,” she added, rolling her eyes. “Plum.”

Plum. “We don’t want her to match, or clash. So . . .” She stopped by a rack of cocktail dresses and began leafing through. “Let’s try peacock-blue first.” She held up a dress with a sweetheart neckline, sheer straps and a hem that would end right at the knees. “She won’t blend in the background, but she’ll look lovely and classic in this one without competing for the focus in photos.”

“Well, look at this,” the other woman murmured, reaching out to trace the neckline gently. It didn’t escape Anya’s notice the customer used that moment to inspect the designer’s label—McQueen—at the same time. “This would look lovely with her dark hair. Do you hold?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Anya said with a sorrowful expression. She knew that much from having been in the store before. “Items are snatched up so quickly around here, we aren’t able to. You could take a photo of it and send it to her. I can keep it with us until she texts you back.”

“Dear, I’m sure what you said would make a great deal of sense to someone else of your generation, but to me that was simply gibberish.”

That made her grin. “Do you happen to have your daughter-in-law’s cell phone number?”

Anya watched as the woman reached into her clutch and pulled out a small address book. She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“I have it right here.”

“I can send her a photo, if you’re okay with that. And while we wait, we can find a few other options.”

“Oh, perfect.” The woman clasped one of her hands. “You should do this for a living . . . well, I suppose you do.”

“I’m not actually an employee with Cynthia’s, just helping out today.” But she added casually while they scanned the offerings, “I
am
a personal shopping consultant, though. I just moved to the area and I’ve been working with Cynthia a bit on side projects.”

“I should get your card for my daughter and my daughter-in-law. They both hate shopping with me. Apparently I’m too stuffy,” she added in a hushed tone. “Set in my ways, more like. I know what looks good and I stick with it.”

“Good for you,” Anya said with a grin. “How about this light lilac? Far enough from plum so she won’t be mistaken for a member of the wedding party, but a lovely compliment to the color palate.”

The customer surveyed the next offering for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I will definitely be needing your card, young lady.”

*   *   *

Later that evening, Anya sat in her small living room composing an email to her mother and stepmother about shipping her things from Atlanta. She was one of the fortunate few, she’d come to realize, whose divorced parents remained on friendly terms. Even smaller was the number of mothers and stepmothers who got along and had no problems coming together for major family events. She could include them both in group texts or emails and nobody’s feelings were ever hurt. It was a modern miracle.

She groaned when her legs started to tingle beneath her, from the odd way she had them curled up. She would have preferred a desk, or even a coffee table to prop her feet up on. But alas, beggars couldn’t be choosers. And with the money she was setting aside for shipping her things from her Atlanta apartment to here, she couldn’t really afford to run out and buy a lot of additional supplies.

You know, other than the koala-fart towels and silverware. She felt the smile creep over her face before she could stop it.

Her phone rang, and she considered it a sign from God she needed a break. Considered it a double-sign when it was Cassie’s face on her phone before she swiped to answer. “Hey, girl.”

“I hate that I can’t just walk upstairs and knock on your door to talk to you,” Cassie complained.

“But think of all the wild sex you can have anywhere in the house without worrying if I’m coming home early.”

Cassie paused. “There is that.”

“Sex maniac.” Anya laughed. “What’s up?”

“Stephen and Mags are coming over.”

“Together?” Excited, she straightened in her seat. “Like, on purpose? This isn’t another one of your matchmaking schemes, right?”

“I said I was sorry and I would stop throwing you and Josiah together.” Cassie’s voice screamed of exasperation. “Let me off the hook, okay? Come over and hang out. We’re watching a movie and popping some popcorn and getting feisty with some root-beer floats.”

“Wow, living large.” She started to put her laptop aside. “Will Josiah be coming?”

There was another brief pause. “Why?”

“Just needed to know if I had to sharpen my claws before I came over,” Anya said lightly, looking for her flip-flops.

“You two are insane. No, he’s not. Come hang out with us. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Twenty minutes later, she was seated on the sofa with Cassie, a mug of ice cream and root beer in her hands with a long spoon sticking out. “This is, by far, the weirdest impromptu get-together menu ever.”

“Hardly. Remember that time in college when we were running out of cash but wanted to invite those cute guys from the student bookstore over?”

Anya snickered. “So you brought out some frozen pizza dough and threw whatever we had on there, along with a jar of cheap spaghetti sauce?”

“And when they took a bite and looked disgusted,” Cassie said, laughing now, “you told them it was European and then they felt bad and ate it anyway?”

Anya chuckled. “That was terrible of me.”

“No it wasn’t. They weren’t very bright. Hey, answer that,” she yelled at Trey while she flipped through a bridal magazine. “Thank you for the bouquet, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s a very small example of yours, with a slightly different ribbon. I liked the florist. You will, too. Oh!” She pointed to a pair of shoes in the magazine. “Something to think about.”

“Those are heels. Me no likey heels.” Cassie held out her own foot—clad in a simple gray slipper—for proof. “I agreed to a bigger dress than I originally intended.”

“If it were up to you, you’d show up in one of your nerd outfits.”

“My nerd outfits are fun and whimsical. Right, Trey?” she asked as he walked in.

“You got it, baby,” he answered automatically, bending over the back of the sofa to kiss her before heading back to the kitchen. “Anya, you remember Matt, right?”

Anya looked up, and up some more, to find Matthew staring down at her, a grin on his dark face. “Absolutely. Hey, stud, what’s up?”

Cassie snorted a laugh.

“Nothing much, gorgeous. Came over to celebrate the love and devotion of my newest partner in crime on the field.” When Anya blanked, Matt explained, “I’m on defense, with Stephen. Before he was on offense. So now we’re more brothers in arms.”

“Oh, I understand,” she said, nodding, still completely blank. Cassie pinched her foot as if to say,
I know you’re lying
. “Well, grab a float.”

“Here are the lovebirds now,” Trey said as Stephen and Mags walked in, holding hands.

Anya leaned over the back of the sofa to watch. They were so cute together. Stephen had slimmed down quite a bit after giving up alcohol, but he was still a big, tall guy. And Mags wasn’t tiny, but she was just this side of it. You would think they should be a mismatched set. But together . . . they fit. They really did. It was adorable to see Stephen, always so boisterous and funny, be quietly in love, and have the support in person that he really needed to keep his life on the straight path.

Mags waved, then disengaged and came to sit with Cassie and Anya on the sofa. Cassie gave her a side hug. “I can’t believe it,” Mags said, as if still in a daze about the whole thing.

“I can. He was miserable without you, and the reverse was true, too. Of course you two were supposed to be together, duh.”

“I’m moving back in,” Mags said quietly. “Feels so surreal. Like everything before was, well . . . pretend, and this is so real.”

Cassie made a small choking sound, and Mags glared at her. Anya was totally lost, but nothing new there when a bunch of football players were involved.

“Let’s talk about the bachelorette party,” Anya suggested as the guys congregated in the kitchen, mixing what apparently was going to be a disgusting version of a root-beer float. “We’re still on for the . . . uh . . . week where they don’t play the football game.”

Mags giggled. Cassie looked up at the ceiling as if to say
this is what you give me to work with?
“Bye week. It’s called a bye week.”

“Whatever. That thing.”

Cassie moaned pitifully.

“Three weeks from this weekend’s game—”

“Which is game three,” Mags supplied helpfully.

“Right. That. Three weeks from this weekend, we will be hanging out at the presidential suite, doing our thing for the whole weekend.” She slid a guilty look toward Mags and lowered her voice. “Will Stephen be all right? I don’t know how we can have a completely dry party, but—”

“He will be fine,” she said firmly. “He’s got me, and he’s got a plan, and we can duck out early to have our own party if things are getting tough.” She grinned, looking very pleased with herself. “I can say that, because we’re together again.”

All three girls squealed and hugged, and the men behind them groaned.

*   *   *

Trudging back to their hotel rooms from the conference room, Josiah swiped his key card for the private elevator to take them to their designated floor.

“Tired.” Trey rolled his neck, cupping it with one hand and massaging. “I’m getting too old for this.”