Grosgrain and Taffeta by A.L. Anderson

Author:A.L. Anderson [Anderson, A.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-03-24T23:00:00+00:00

8.

Jesus. Cris threw his thimble at the wall. It pinged as it rebounded and skittered across the linoleum floor; an entirely unsatisfactory noise. Cris’s muscles were screaming, he had a tension headache, and his body yearned for Decker in a way he’d never experienced before. He wanted to be wrapped in the man’s arms again, instead of sitting alone in an empty workroom, trying to make a jacket at the last minute because he was a fucking idiot who thought he could take a menswear range with a corset into a TV show audition. And now he’d fucked up the bound buttonhole on the cuff, cutting too deeply into the seam and creating a gaping hole at the corner. A fucking rookie mistake. Mentally he was still snuggling with Decker on the sofa, waking up from a nap and waiting, wrapped in a quilt, while Decker ran downstairs to pick up hot and sour soup, Szechuan pork, and seafood pan-fried noodles. It had been midnight before Cris had forced himself to finally leave, and even then Decker had insisted on driving him back to Clairemont. They’d made out in the car for half an hour like teenagers before Cris could force himself out of the car, frotting against each other, enjoying the sensation of each other’s hands and mouths on their skin.

It hadn’t helped that Decker had texted him first thing this morning, wanting to know if Cris wanted to drive up to La Jolla and check out the farmers’ market, then go for a walk along the coast at Scripps Park. It took all his discipline to text his regretful apologies. If it had been anything other than this audition… Cris stood and stretched his arms above his head, popping his joints. He still hurt like a bastard from yesterday, too. And now he was so close to finished and he’d gone and fucked up the cuff because his head was off with Decker, and not on what he was doing. That, and twelve hours of focus with only five hours sleep under his belt.

Okay, it wasn’t a disaster. He had more fabric. He could cut another cuff, redo the buttonhole, replace it. He could attach the lining tomorrow after work. Or just take the day off. Sigrid knew how much this chance meant to Cris. He was doing his best at work, but Cris figured Sigrid had an inkling that Piaffe wasn’t fulfilling him as much as it had in the beginning.

The day-to-day job just wasn’t as interesting as the interview. Piaffe made bespoke riding clothes, mostly for serious competitors – the people trying to make the Olympic team who knew that having enough movement in the sleeve made the difference between communicating with your horse or putting him off his stride. They made tailcoats for dressage riders, and jodhpurs, women’s shirts and fancy stocks. They had a few other bespoke clients: suits for Desmond Kgoroge, an investment banker who came in at a smidgeon under seven foot,

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