At a chrome tray, Gwen lifted the cover and her stomach rumbled in delight. Raviolis in tomato-cream sauce were her favorite. On another sideboard were loaves of thickly sliced bread, and an assortment of oils for dipping. This was all Thalia’s doing. And she was excellent at her job.
Gwen made up a healthy plate instead of going back for seconds and thirds which would only draw attention to how much she was eating. She turned to take a seat at the elegant table, but where to sit perplexed her. She really wanted to sit next to Thalia. Her role as a PR executive meant she needed to sit with management. Not gossip with an assistant.
The seat across from Andrew was the most inviting, with the panoramic scenery of Downtown L.A. behind him. As she sat, his carbon eyes locked on hers. Much better view. His dark eyebrows cinched together, sneaking a peek at her plate and the large amount of food. She would expect a man that handsome to snort in derision at how much she liked to eat. But he smiled and gave a slight nod, like her healthy appetite pleased him.
His wet hair was combed back and the shirt he wore was one of the more casual Prada dress shirts, pale yellow with a thin blue pinstripe running through it. No tie. On his plate, a half-eaten hamburger sat next to a pile of fries. He wiped his mouth and winked. He doesn’t like Italian food?
Enrico brushed crumbs from his hands and wiped his mouth. “All right, the show is Friday, but before we discuss who, what, and where on that, Gwendolyn where are we with the events for tomorrow?”
With her mouth open ready to nibble on her first scrumptious steaming ravioli, Gwen panicked seeing all eyes at the table were on her.
“Enrico, let her take one bite,” Andrew interjected. “I’ll start with the responses to some of the ads we ran earlier in the week.” He detailed the results, and mentioned a radio contest to win a chance to meet Salvatore, who rolled his eyes. Andrew finished with the event he and Gwen had planned together: a special preview for L.A. media and fashion bloggers.
“Salvatore, I assume everything made it here okay?” Andrew asked the designer.
“My team is going through the trunks now.” He took a huge bite of bread. “I am not worried.”
“I think we should include more of the ready-to-wear samples for the preview tomorrow,” Gwen added.
“Good call.” Andrew nodded. “L.A. is not New York.”
Gwen wiped the corners of her mouth. “I can go over the other events if you’re ready.”
“Yes, bella.” Salvatore snuck a look at Andrew. “I am yours to command this week.”
“It’s not really like that. This collection is your vision. It’s not just blouses, trousers, and dresses.
It’s you, Salvatore. You’ve put who you are into these clothes. You deserve to be celebrated.”
“Salvatore likes to be adorato, ” Andrew quipped.
“Why shouldn’t I be worshipped?” He leaned forward waving a fork.
Here we go. Gwen forced down a few more raviolis while her rams banged horns.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ndrew watched Gwen leave the private dining room while typing into her phone. She’d Areceived her marching orders from Enrico and whoosh, off she went. Without even saying goodbye. He thought she would need hand-holding.
Nope.
The following day, she kept busy carting Salvatore around. At least she answered his texts. His own day was also busy, meeting with corporate retailers and investors.
Things had calmed down enough that maybe he could take her out to dinner—to properly thank her for all she’d done for the show and their brand. Before he could ask her, he received a text from Enrico asking to meet him in the Mixing Room for a drink.
Barely seeing Gwen yesterday because of the flight, and not seeing her most of today, Andrew suffered an emptiness he hadn’t expected. Not having her around made him antsy and anxious. He missed her.
Andrew stopped feeling like a widower in that startling moment. He had licked his wounds, and now they were clean, ready to heal. Gwen did that. He had locked his emotions away. Like live wires, if exposed they were dangerous to be around.
He wanted to move his life forward and he wouldn’t enter another relationship closed down and hidden. That’s not what someone like Gwen deserved.
It’d been Gwen from the moment he first saw her. Then a month ago, she’d been brought back to him. She’d yanked him from the shell he’d been in and enticed him to laugh again, feel like it’s okay to love again. She was entitled to see the man he used to be.
For so long he considered a relationship between co-workers unwise. That was before he’d found someone worth the risk.
Now Andrew just needed to get to her before Salvatore drowned her with his over-the-top charm.
GWEN HAD KEPT IN TOUCH with Andrew all day, via texts. While getting Salvatore off to an interview that morning, she’d received the first message from Andrew: And where are you right now?
She playfully responded: Wishing I were dead .
Ha! Another Salvatore interview?
He just drags them out.
Adorato. I warned you.
I see what you mean.
Good.
Back in her suite, Gwen fell onto the elaborately made up bed where she squirmed and stretched.
It felt so comfortable. So much better than the old, lumpy floor-mattress she had at home.
She had been on the go from sunrise, missed a gorgeous California sunset, and now was ready to call it a night. Whatever the time actually was.
She was exhausted and delighted to close her eyes. Happy. Until she heard a knock at her door.
Grrr. A spark shot through her though, hoping it was Andrew.
Gwen leapt off the bed in eager anticipation.
ANDREW ENTERED THE Mixing Room and his senses were thrown into overload. He’d been deep inside himself, thinking and musing, but now all the people, all the voices, the televisions above the bar made him feel open and exposed.
Hopefully Enrico would be quick, Andrew had enough of the roadblocks and interruptions. As soon as this meeting ended, Andrew planned to see Gwen.
Enrico waved from a bulky leather sofa in the corner. The second Andrew sat down, a tall server, almost taller than him, approached to take his drink order.
“Nothing for me,” he said politely.
Kissing Gwen shouldn’t be under the influence of alcohol. That thought stilled him cold. Had he planned to kiss her? Tonight?
“He’ll have what I’m having,” Enrico said waving a short crystal glass filled with what looked like and smelled like vodka. A lime wedge had sunk to the bottom because he’d finished his drink.
“And bring me another.”
Andrew crossed his long legs, still shaken. “So, what’s up?”
“I have no way to ease into this, Andrew. I need you to go back to Milan.” His boss sounded stern, but a twang of guilt lingered in his accented voice. “I am not happy with how Marcello is progressing. If the creative director starts noticing...” He tipped his glass back.
Marcello had been Enrico’s hire. The Milan brand manager typically reported to Stefania, the creative director in Italy. In a power-play, Enrico convinced Stefania to have Marcello and his team report to the New York Marketing group. If Marcello failed, it would be on Enrico.
Andrew hadn’t made it any better. He’d trained Marcello while still in the throes of heartbreak and despair. The responsibility loosely rested in his lap as well.