6. Elise

CHAPTER 6

Elise

We need to talk.

Who is this?

Blake

He can’t be serious. Is he actually serious? He left me standing by the elevator with no panties and no explanation as to what happened between us and then he sends me a text with the exact same words he spoke to me when he pulled me on the elevator? Maybe he is trying to be funny, and he just has a dry sense of humor. He obviously got my number from someone so he put effort into reaching me, which is even stranger given he left me standing outside the elevator after basically destroying me with his fingers.

He could have asked for my number then.

I don’t respond.

Because, one, I’m busy creating social media posts for my online pinup dress business I’m trying to expand, and when I have more than one thing going on, I get flustered and lose focus.

Two, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?

And three, I already have one very cute firefighter texting me and my former boss's boss popping up out of the blue.

Both of them seem very clear in their interest, unlike a certain grumpy goalie.

Who was an amazingly fantastic kisser.

With very large hands and talented fingers.

I haven’t had fireman or billionaire fingers making me happy…yet…so Blake does have a couple points up on Aidan and Simon, I’ll admit.

Damn it. I don’t want to think about Blake when it’s much more fun to think about Aidan, who has been texting me and chatting in a very normal getting-to-know-you kind of way.

Simon is a little scary to think about, but in a good way. I could really fall for him, given half a chance. Hell, I already have. I had months and months of random encounters with him where I saw he was charming and funny and very flirty. Running into him was a shock that I’m still feeling butterflies over.

My phone dings again.

Can we? Talk?

I huff in impatience.

I don’t know, Blake, can we?

I slap my phone down on my nightstand and survey my next outfit option I’ve flung across my bed. It’s a hunter green tulip skirt that I’m pairing with a mustard halter top and a mustard cardigan that has tiny white and brown foxes on it. I get dressed quickly, belting it with a chunky black and gold waist-cincher-style belt. I study myself in the mirror, fixing my cleavage and smoothing out my hair. I’m skipping the shapewear because this halter wouldn’t work with a full bodysuit and Blake left the elevator with my bottoms in his suit pocket. He’s probably tossed them out, which is annoying because they cost sixty bucks and I’m constantly on a tight budget.

Designing my classic pinup clothing and making it myself is time consuming. It sells really well at my vendor table at competitive shows, but I’m still working to gain traction on social media. It takes time to gain a devoted following, but I’m optimistic about the growth. As it is, I’m always pressed for time because of my shifts at the bakery and sewing everything myself. My pieces are one and done. Nothing mass produced. Some are custom ordered to size. But generally, I do plus size and model it myself.

Last month, I did a special line of petite pinups and I forced Luna to model them for me. She was initially reluctant, but then her boyfriends all got so hot for the idea, it was an easier sell than I expected. After this current rotation goes up, I’ve promised Lydia, who is a senior in high school and also works at the bakery, that I’ll do a Retro Teen line with shorter skirts.

My bedroom looks like Black Friday at Walmart. There are clothes and shoes thrown everywhere and the bed isn’t made. I have a sweet tea problem and there are half-filled tumblers on both nightstands and my dressers. Last night’s dinner—pizza in bed while watching Netflix and texting with Aidan—is on the floor. My vanity is strewn with brushes and lashes and balled up tissues. I’ve always been like this, and it doesn’t bother me. If anything, there is something comforting to me about knowing where all my stuff is. If everything is neatly tucked away in drawers, I forget I have it and don’t use it.

Every few days, I do a garbage sweep and dust and vacuum, so nothing is dirty. It’s just colorful chaos. But I know it bothers other people. That’s been drummed into me my whole life.

My father tried to punish me into tidiness as a child but it didn’t work and he still takes it as some kind of personal failure. I missed many a Friday family movie night because I couldn’t join in until my room was clean. I never understood what was the big deal, and we had lots of fights about it. He and my mother used to fight about it too, because my mother wanted me to go on ADHD medication and my father didn’t. She would argue how could he expect me to focus if he wouldn’t allow me the prescription that could help? She wasn’t wrong and to this day, he and I don’t have the greatest relationship. They’re also divorced.

My mom is awesome and supportive of me wanting to pursue a creative career.

I touch up my lipstick and head downstairs in my heels. Navigating stairs in platforms is good practice for appearing glamorous and confident both in dealing with clients and participating in pinup competitions. I started doing them just as a confidence boost and to meet other women who share my love of vintage clothing, then I realized they spark my creativity. Trying to create fashion to match a contest’s theme like “spring” is a fun challenge. For that particular contest, I did spring cleaning, with a yellow swing skirt, a blouse and floral apron, and yellow rubber gloves. I pinned my hair up with a dusting rag and wore pearls. It was meant to be a take on the so-called ideal of the fifties housewife and I took first place.

Lydia jumps up when I enter Books and Buns, ready to take over my phone. I hand it to her. Shooting vintage style clothing in the bakery is a match made in pink heaven normally, but the mustard sweater is going to clash, so I tell her, “Let’s go to the bookshelves.” I’ve grabbed a pair of fashion cat eye glasses.

“Oooh, sexy librarian,” she says. “I love it. This is what I want to look like next year in college.”

Lydia is literally the physical opposite of me in every way. She’s thin, has straight hair, no hips or boobs, and olive skin. But pinup is a state of mind. It’s about embracing the feminine and she loves to wear dresses, so I give her an encouraging smile. “You’re going to kill it at Ohio State.”

“I’m actually terrified,” she says cheerfully, opening my camera on my phone. “You have a text, by the way.”

“From Aidan?” I ask as I test a few leans and poses in front of the bookshelves.

Aidan’s texts have been cute facts about himself and random questions for me, like do I like chocolate chip versus peanut butter cookies and am I a beer or wine girl? I now know he was raised by a single mom and hates sushi, among other things.

“No. Blake.”

I groan. Of course it’s Blake. He’s not a man you get rid of by ignoring.

She swipes the text away.

“What did it say?” I ask, in spite of myself.

“I didn’t read it. That would be rude.”

“But you saw his name. You must have seen the message, too.”

“Partially.” Lydia blinks at me. “Are you ready?”

She’s going to fucking make me ask outright or grab the phone from her. “What did it partially say?” I ask, striving for nonchalance.

I don’t even know why I care. He clearly only kissed me—among other things—in some effort to prove he was better than Justin Travers. He just wanted to win, because competitiveness is in his blood. Hell, it was probably some sort of weird superstition. Part of a new year ritual. He certainly seems to have all kinds of quirks on the ice from tapping his stick three times before the puck drops to lifting up his shirt and adjusting his pads every time a puck gets past him. Not that I’ve studied him or anything. He’s just obviously very set in his ways.

“It said, “Just talk. I won’t touch you,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh goodie, that sounds so enticing. Just text him back and tell him to come to the bakery tomorrow morning. I’m not doing this stupid texting back and forth thing.”

“You want me to text him back for you?” Lydia looks horrified.

“Yes, as me. Just what I said. Come to the bakery tomorrow morning. Nothing else.”

“Okay.” Her fingers fly over my phone. “Do I say you’re not doing the stupid texting thing?”

“No, just to come to the bakery.”

“I feel like I’m cheating on Brady,” she grumbles. “This is weird.”

Luna, who was removing pastries from the case for the night since it’s closing, instantly yells out, “ You’re cheating on Brady ?”

Lydia’s face goes pale. “No! Of course not!”

As much as Luna likes Lydia, Brady is her boyfriend’s kid. Fortunately, I can stop her head from exploding. “I told her to text Blake back as me and she’s feeling weird about it. No one is cheating, no one wants to cheat. Calm down.”

“Oh.” Luna winces. “Sorry, Lydia.” Then she seems to register what I said. “Wait, Blake Wilder is texting you? That’s exciting.”

“Is it?”

I told Luna about our great elevator escape and what happened in the dark prior to the fire department’s arrival, and she was almost as disappointed as I was that he didn’t go back up to the party with me.

“Isn’t it?” she asks, eyebrows raising.

I give a noncommittal shrug and direct Lydia to start taking pictures. I run through a series of poses while she grabs the shots.

“How do those look?”

Lydia shows me my phone. As I’m swiping through the images, Luna appears behind us and checks them out.

“Elise, you are seriously so photogenic, oh my God. You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” They’re not bad. I’m actually pretty pleased with the way the skirt is falling and the lighting.

A text pops up from Blake.

I’ll be there at 7.

“Seven?” I exclaim. “What is he, my grandfather? Who the hell is up at seven when they work at night?”

“The Racketeers don’t play tomorrow,” Luna tells me. “They have practice at noon. It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’ll be working by seven.”

She’s right, but I’m determined to be annoyed with Blake for any and every possible reason I can be. I swipe the text away. “Let me go change.”

It takes me ten minutes to change into a red wiggle dress that hugs every ample curve I have. I strap on black Mary Jane style platforms and attach a black fascinator to my curls. It’s tempting to put on a statement necklace, but I don’t want to distract from the dress, which can make any woman in existence feel like a certified bombshell.

I head back downstairs.