“Fashion is philosophy for people who hate reading.” He smiled, a small, crooked thing. “But you’re right. ‘Surrender’ it is.”
“My place. Saturday. 8 PM. Wear something that doesn’t look like a rumpled napkin.”
His reply was instant.
She laughed out loud. Then she wrote the thing she’d been afraid to admit.
And then there was Leo.
She smiled, tossed the dress on the chair, and for the first time in years, broke her own rule.
“I have a rule. No coworkers.”
Victoria Nova had a rule: never date a coworker. It was a good rule, forged in the fire of a previous disaster involving IT, a misinterpreted meme, and the lingering smell of burnt microwave popcorn. She lived by it, especially now, as the newly appointed Style Director at Silhouette , Manhattan’s most cutthroat digital fashion magazine.
Their faces were close. She could smell his detergent—something clean, like cedar and rain. Her gaze flicked, involuntarily, to his mouth. Then, lower, to the way his linen shirt pulled across his chest. Then, absurdly, back to her own blouse. She felt the weight of her own body, the silk against her skin, the whisper of the gold chain. LoveHerBoobs - Victoria Nova - Coworker Fun Tim...
A long pause. Then: “Monday. The emerald green mockneck. You paired it with that ridiculously oversized tortoiseshell hair clip. It was 10 AM and you already looked like you’d conquered a small country.”
“Rules are just fear wearing a blazer,” he replied. “And for the record, my favorite thing you wear isn’t an outfit. It’s the way you stand when you think no one’s watching. Straight spine, chin up, like you’re holding the whole world at arm’s length. I’d like to see what happens when you let it get close.” “Fashion is philosophy for people who hate reading