A. Jackson - When We Met

Once he was gone, I worked faster on the vintage tees table so that I could leave more quickly. The less time I had to spend with Blake, the better.

Smoothing out a Beatles T-shirt, I folded back both sleeves before creasing the sides in the exact way my grandmother had taught me years ago. I was raised in her home after my mother had become pregnant with me and left her fashion career behind.

I’d practically memorized all of my mother’s portfolios, and the looks she’d created for the models in those shoots had been timeless. When the craze was low-riding pants, she’d put them in men’s high-waist trousers—and pulled it off. I planned on following in her footsteps. It was what was expected of me.

Luckily we shared the same passion for style. If we didn’t, I’d feel way more pressure from her than I already did to pick up where she’d left off.

I loved working at Threads and was thrilled that my professor approved it as internship credit. I needed the cash; plus it helped me keep my finger on the pulse of the industry. And Threads offered a little of everything I loved—new styles mixed with trends that stood the test of time.

Those freshmen who’d blown through here earlier didn’t appreciate vintage for what it was—they thought it was just a fad. But sporting a sixties Chanel skirt and handbag was like creating fresh art in my book. Thankfully my mother and I wore the same size. She had retained her closet full of originals from back in her heyday as a wardrobe stylist in New York.

I’d never met my father, but given the hushed conversations over the past several years between the strong and independent women in my life, I thought that he was a deadbeat. My mother didn’t feel men were a necessity, and I couldn’t agree more. They were fun to make out with and hook up with. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even experienced that hookup part in more than a year, but I could live with that. I was way too busy anyway.

Plus my mother would’ve gotten on my case about having a boyfriend before I finished my degree. She liked to stick her nose in every facet of my life in order to keep me on the right path. Which was sometimes her path. But I only had to suffer through it for another year of school before I moved to New York City to stretch my own wings.

I couldn’t stand to leave the front tables disheveled. So I finished that task before I sorted through cash register receipts one last time. Soon I’d be walking back to the campus housing I shared with my three roommates to study for a merchandising test. One of the girls would have a boyfriend over—they usually did—even though the same time last year, we all had been unattached. Now I was like the third wheel, depending on who was home. But I was cool with that. Between classes and work I didn’t have time for extracurricular activities.

I heard a key turn in the lock and Jaclyn breezed through the door. “Hi, hon. Did Blake show up yet?”

“He’s around the corner getting coffee,” I said, heading toward the fitting room. “I didn’t realize you were coming back tonight.”

“Last-minute idea,” she said.

I began picking up discarded pieces of clothing off the floor and placing them on hangers.

“Chloe, I e-mailed Professor Jenkins with an idea for your final project today,” Jaclyn said, handing me the last two hangers off the rack. “She was completely on board.”

“What is it?” I gulped.

Jaclyn was the coolest boss, but she was also very demanding.

I hung the dresses on a nearby display and then we both headed toward the counter.

From beneath the register, I pulled out the fresh pack of Post-its with a stilettos watermark that I’d just purchased, so I could be ready for her. I was a meticulous list maker; it was the only way I knew how to keep organized.

“You know how we have that Made in the Arbor street sale coming up next month?” she said.

The event happened every spring and drew in huge crowds not only from this part of town but also from the surrounding counties. I rummaged around for my new packet of red ballpoint pens. I could tell this was going to be important.

“Of course. I just printed off more fliers.” Which reminded me. I pulled out another list and crossed off print fliers with a black Sharpie. So satisfying.

“I have an idea I’ve been considering for a long time,” Jaclyn said, tapping her finger to her chin. “I own a space around the corner on Liberty Street.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I haven’t done anything with it yet and I’ve decided this event is the perfect opportunity.”

Pen poised on my new sticky pad, I said, “I’m listening.”

“I want to create a pop-up shop.”

My lips parted and my heart rate accelerated. Music to my anal-retentive ears.

Before I could form coherent words, Jaclyn continued. “I want you to build the set for the sale and open the shop as if it were your own that day.”

I felt a cross between excitement and utter fear of failure. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” she said, looking me in the eye. “I trust you, Chloe. You’re independent, hardworking, and in a short year you’ll be knee deep in your own career somewhere. I have complete faith in you.”

“I appreciate that.” My head felt all spinny from the compliments. My mother would love hearing about this bit of news as well. Maybe it’d keep her lip zipped for a while. She was constantly asking if I’d gotten in touch with her old contacts from the business.

“So . . . what did you mean by building the set?” I asked Jaclyn. “Like go buy shelves and set them up?”

“Not exactly,” she said, looking over the receipts I’d bundled together. “That’s why I invited Blake here.”

My stomach clenched. It was so infuriating that I could never think straight whenever I heard that name. I tried not to sound too panicked. “Because . . . Blake . . . ?”

“Opening a new space costs money and I’m still deciding if Liberty Street would be a good location for a store. So I’ve asked Blake to help you out.” She paused to look at me. I kept my expression neutral. “He used to be a theater and design major here at the university. Now he works construction during the day. He’ll be able to get wood at cost from the lumberyard and then he’ll consult with you on how to build it. Sound reasonable to you?”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing back my disdain. “Of course.”

I didn’t mention that I’d heard the rumors about Blake—that he couldn’t hack his classes, so he dropped out of college. The girls in the Art and Design Building had certainly talked about it enough, with the way they had been constantly drooling over him when he was around.

After Blake fell off the radar, a part of me wanted to ask Jaclyn what had happened to him, why he quit school, but I knew it wasn’t my place. She’d be hard-pressed to tell me anything about her nephew, I was sure.

“I expect you to be very involved in the building side of the project, as well as the design. You’re very creative and I know the space will look amazing,” she said, and then her eyes scaled down to my black pumps. “But you’ll probably also have to stain and sand wood.”

“Got it.” I followed her gaze as she took in my outfit. I had on my favorite pair of Manolos that I scored for a sweet price off eBay.

“Do you own a pair of sneakers, Miss Fashionista?” Jaclyn appreciated my fashion sense and wore some expensive pieces of her own.

I shook my head as she reached behind the counter and pulled out a box. “Size eight, right?”

She opened the carton that contained a brand-new pair of pink Converse Chucks, like the ones we had arranged in our front window display. Pink was definitely my favorite color, but I still wasn’t keen on the idea of wearing them—they were sneakers after all, and I didn’t do sneakers.

She handed the box over. “These are on me. You’ll need them.”

I fingered the laces, suddenly feeling out of character. “Thanks.”

Working in close quarters with somebody who irritated the hell out of me and wearing casual clothes? Brilliant.

“You’ll be graded on creativity, organization, and overall visual presentation.”

I nodded, jotting those points down. I wondered just how in the heck I was going to pull this off with someone like Blake, who didn’t seem to put much stake in a career or grades. He had the potential to ruin this project for me.

“You two will probably work well together,” Jaclyn said, obviously never noticing how much we tried ignoring one another. “Maybe even become friends. He could probably use one right about now.”

My eyebrows shot up and when I looked at her she was lost in deep thought.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, honey,” she said, sighing. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She walked toward the back room, leaving me reeling.

“And don’t worry, I’ll speak to your mother about all of this, too.” Jaclyn and my mother had attended the university together, though I wouldn’t call them friends. “Since she’s on the Chamber of Commerce Committee.”

Blake

I rolled my neck side to side, waiting for my turn in line at Common Grounds. My muscles were definitely feeling it today from pounding nails into a frame. Physically, construction was one of the hardest jobs I’d ever had and probably one of the most underappreciated. Hell, we were building people’s homes. Their foundations. Their dreams.

Aunt Jaclyn asked me to give her a hand at the store every now and then and I always did, mostly because of Mom. Aunt Jaclyn knew I needed the money and that I’d never take a handout from her or anyone else. I’d taken the year off school so I could work, to help with the mounting rehab bills. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat in order to keep Mom sober.

Besides, Aunt Jaclyn had always been good to me, and this project seemed pretty important to her. I’d have to fit time in after work in the evenings, but that didn’t bother me—it would give me something else to focus on.

I stepped up to the counter. “Iced hazelnut, please.”

The barista was someone I’d hooked up with briefly last year and she smiled coyly at me now.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Good, thanks.”

I hadn’t gotten laid in a few weeks, but honestly, I had more important things on my mind. When I reached for my coffee, her fingers slipped over mine and her eyes told me she’d be up for more of the same if I were willing. But I pulled away before giving her the wrong impression. Caring for my mom was enough female interaction for right now.

I walked back to my aunt’s shop, hoping her pretentious employee, Chloe Brighton, had already left for the night. She was cute with that wavy blond hair—a little on the short side for me—and her huge blue eyes. But she didn’t dress like a regular chick her age, in jeans and T-shirts. She was always in a skirt or a dress with stilettos, like she should have been born in a different era or something. The heels always made her shapely legs stand out and that was hot, I’d give her that. But her attitude still ruined it for me.

The only time I’d seen Chloe look totally relaxed and comfortable in her own skin was this one day a few months back when she walked past the construction site of the new housing complex on First Street. Her cheeks were rosy and her mouth was lifted in a half grin—as if there was something happy she’d been thinking about just then. I’d never even seen her expression that peaceful and open, even at the design building at the university.

She had on this tight straight skirt that went to her knees and I could see the outline of her perfectly round ass. Her blouse was fitted and the buttons at the top undone enough that I could just make out the outline of her tits. Hot damn. She looked like some 1940s pinup model.

But the guys quickly got out of hand with their shouts and whistles. She glowered at them and when they began yelling shit about being uptight and needing a good fuck, I came to her defense. Instead of seeming grateful, she glared at me like I was some kind of trailer trash.

Screw her, man.

Since then I’d done a good job of ignoring her anytime she was at my aunt’s shop. Not that it’d been difficult—she’d gone on snubbing me as well.

I spotted Chloe through the front window and groaned. She still hadn’t left for the evening.

As I pulled open the door, Chloe regarded me like I was the nasty dirt beneath her fingernails. She looked at my drink and then her eyes darted to a similar empty cup and straw on the counter. “Is that . . . an iced hazelnut?”